It had been three years since Ferdinand had seen Arabella, and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest from the excitement.
Yet, he struggled to control himself, fighting not to show a hint of emotion on his face. His features were sharp and deep, and the three years in prison had made his muscles much sturdier. He had shaved his head, and somehow, he looked even more appealing than when he was the charming young master with a perfect face and a carefree demeanor.
Arabella, however, hadn't changed much. She wasn't enchanting or coy, but her pale, delicate skin gave her an air of understated refinement.
Rarely did she wear tactical gear, and with her usual faint smile at the corner of her lips, she leisurely wiped the blood from her hands with a handkerchief.
Just moments ago, she had slit a prison guard's throat with a single, swift stroke. Blood had sprayed everywhere, a sight both horrifying and shocking.
Arabella spoke, her voice soft and languid, never rising in pitch, her words flowing like water, calm and measured. It was the complete opposite of the fierce, blood-soaked, storm-bringing image the world had painted of her.
"Did you have fun these three years?"
Ferdinand wanted to answer her: "What the hell fun? Three years without seeing you, damn, I've been wanting you so badly, it's driving me crazy."
But he dared not speak these words, both out of inability and sheer fear.
In front of Arabella, all recklessness turned into illusions; no one dared show even a hint of disrespect.
It wasn't due to any sacred restraint or lofty virtue of hers; she was simply too dark, too terrifying, too powerful, beyond anyone's control.
"Just about made it. If you hadn't come, I'd have made my own escape." He half-joked with a playful complaint, his eyes gleaming, awaiting an explanation from Arabella.
Arabella merely deepened her smile, tossing the wiped cloth onto Ferdinand and laughing, "You—having too much fun to remember home."
He grabbed the handkerchief, the smell of blood filling his nose. Yet, he couldn't bear to discard it and tucked it into his pocket. It was Arabella's handkerchief.
"Strange, where's Raven?" Ferdinand steadied himself, surprised that Raven, the ever-present follower, wasn't around.
No wonder Arabella had acted herself; normally, with Raven around, she hadn't needed to lift a hand in years.
"Be sure to thank him when you're back. He's been drawing the fire for you."
Ferdinand snorted. As if he'd thank a dog who only obeyed its master.
Their escape went smoothly, a clear product of Arabella's careful planning. Known from a young age, her reputation wasn't just from sheer might; she had a brilliant mind, mastering both combat and strategy, though her path was far from righteous.
Upon leaving the car, Ferdinand spotted Raven. That monster, even as a target, was one that would strike back.
"You all go ahead," Arabella said, casually taking off her tight jacket to reveal just an undershirt, then pulling on a plain T-shirt.
A circle of tall, burly men stood around, and Arabella changed her clothes in plain view, yet none dared to direct their gaze at her.
Only Ferdinand, bold as ever, stole glances at her, his eyes burning with desire, his heart pounding like a drum.
"You're not coming with us?" Ferdinand exploded at her words.
Fully dressed, Arabella waved her hand, smiling back as she said, "Going to play with my dog."
Dog? Likely a dog of the bed.
A surge of anger exploded within Ferdinand.
With no outlet for his anger, Ferdinand pointed at Raven and scolded, "She's in so much danger alone; why aren't you following her?"
Without Arabella around, Raven's icy gaze and expression were like a frozen statue, utterly indifferent.
Sometimes, Ferdinand felt that being her friend was far less rewarding than being her bed's "dog."
Reginald emerged from the hospital room in the dead of night, his tall frame slightly hunched, exhaustion evident in his posture. Yet, what couldn't be hidden was the sharp, unyielding coldness that emanated from him.
The shopping center explosion was a tragedy, but fortunately with few casualties. His parents sustained only minor scrapes, a fortune among fortunes.
Following orders, he brought in local troops and personally arranged for the wounded. After leaving the hospital, he still had to return to the command center.
Due to the explosion, the hospital was in chaos, a cacophony of voices, with medical staff rushing about and grieving families weeping wherever one looked.
The elevator moved up and down, a tide of people flowing in and out.
When Reginald got off the elevator, a chilling sensation of being watched crept over him. Alert, he searched, but found nothing amiss.
Like needles against his back, the sensation made him deeply uneasy.
He stepped out of the hospital and got into the car. The discomfort he had felt earlier in the elevator suddenly vanished, and he let out a long, relieved breath.
Covering his eyes with his hand, for a brief moment, he truly thought it was Arabella.
On second thought, it seemed impossible. For someone like her, rescuing Ferdinand was already a stretch—would she risk coming back… to find him?
Danger's shadow enveloped him in an instant. Before he realized, he was held by the throat, any movement a ticket to the hell.
Arabella's head emerged slightly from the shadows, tilting as she sneered, "Years apart, and it seems General Falmouth's skills haven't improved."
In that moment, a torrent of emotions surged within him. He didn't know how to respond, nor what expression to wear in front of her.
Hatred? Love? Or fear?
For three years, he wondered daily—would he see her again in this life or never at all?
"You—" Reginald's voice was icy, his gaze even colder, glaring sharply at her through the rearview mirror.
Three years apart! To see her again, his heart shattered like a crumbling mountain, trampled by a thousand hooves, shaking him to the brink of collapse.
Arabella's voice was soft, almost coaxing, "Shall we go to your place?"
Madness! Arabella was just as insane as ever!
Reginald gripped the steering wheel tightly—should he go down with her?
"You're about to burst, aren't you? Aren't you going to go back and release some of that?" Arabella's other hand reached between his legs.
Hard as iron, his reaction was instantaneous, her three-year training practically embedded in his bones.
Reginald gritted his teeth. "Ara—bella."
"Yes, I'm right here." Arabella replied naturally, patting Reginald's stiffness as if handling the handbrake, laughingly saying, "Let's go."
Reginald stayed motionless, his mind racing to devise a way to defeat her.
"I heard your parents are in this hospital. I've still got some unused explosives—"
Before Arabella finished, the car started and sped away.
While on the road, Arabella unfastened Reginald's belt. With his military pants half-open, she reached in from outside with one hand, gripping that substantial, club-like part, stroking it with relish.
The headlights of oncoming cars intermittently flash, their light flickering like a dance of shadows. Reginald sits upright in the driver's seat, his face as cold as frost, while beneath him lies a sullenness as deep as a mire. Blood surged downward, and with Arabella's touch, Reginald felt no shame at all.
Once they were indoors, Reginald didn't turn on the light. Being able to see in the dark was a basic training requirement, and he knew Arabella was even more skilled than he was, making it entirely unnecessary.
The gun at his waist was now in Arabella's hand, but there was still another one in the room. Reginald's mind was in turmoil, imagining all the ways a shootout with Arabella might play out.
But Arabella's voice interrupted his scattered thoughts. She walked confidently to the center of the living room, pulled out a chair and sat down, tossing the gun onto the dining table. Her legs splayed casually as she spoke nonchalantly, "Kneel down."
Her tone was soft, without any harshness, not a command, yet it made Reginald tremble all over.
Those two words—he had heard them too many times in the past. Now, hearing them again, his body couldn't help but tremble, shake, weaken, and heat up.
