If someone asked Arabella what she liked, she didn't have any particular preferences.
She made large sums of money for large quantities of weapons; she obtained these weapons to have her own armed forces; and she needed her own power to return to Scalien. But her reason for returning wasn't revenge—it was to retrieve Cyrus's corpse.
Round and round, it seemed that what she really wanted was Cyrus's body.
Once she had Cyrus's body, her life seemed to be complete.
Completeness didn't mean the end, and she didn't want to die.
No one in their right mind, living well, would want to die.
Though she knew that there would always be new talents to take the stage, that one day, when she grew old, exhausted, and powerless, dying in the streets might be the best she could hope for, she still didn't want to die easily. She only wanted to live, to survive—one more day, one more chance to gain.
One day, she would no longer want to fight for her life, or perhaps grow weary from the endless battles.
Arabella felt that day would be the end of her life.
But for now, she still had to be strong enough. Her interests were paramount, and on the path ahead, she had to carry the momentum of a lord of death.
If one were to delve deeply into Arabella's feelings for Cyrus, it would be more like a longing than a desire.
She lacked emotional capacity; she was not capable of loving anyone.
She didn't understand how to express emotions; she simply believed that Cyrus was hers, and she couldn't afford to lose him.
Raven took out the birthday gift he had prepared and presented it to her with great seriousness.
Arabella found it amusing, looking at the handmade, sleekly tailored, intricately crafted high-end dress in her hands, as if she had received a toy out of place.
She silently looked up at Raven. Her pupils, deep but gleaming in the night, seemed to draw him into the seemingly dreamlike trap.
Arabella curled her fingers, gesturing for Raven to come closer. Raven obediently bent down, bringing his head close to her face.
She reached out and ruffled the hair atop his head, then, with a playful smile, Arabella hooked her arm around his neck and tiptoed to place a soft kiss on his lips. Just as she was about to pull away, Raven's hand shot out. But Arabella's reaction was swift—before his hand could even fully move, she had already captured both his wrists with a firm grip.
Raven raised an eyebrow, offering no explanation. Instead, he used Arabella's strength to pull her into his arms, as if to meld her into his body.
He leaned down and kissed her.
The kiss was fiery, tinged with a hint of dominance, swiftly claiming her lips and tongue as though it sought to strip away her very skin and bones, devouring her piece by piece.
Arabella's gaze instantly deepened, her eyes tinged with the lingering scent of alcohol. She lowered her gaze to meet his, the light scattering in her eyes, making them shine like a galaxy of stars.
"Arabella, I love you."
Now, when Arabella heard Raven's confession of love, it no longer struck her as bizarre. Instead, she found herself thinking from a different angle—saying he loved her was far better than saying he hated her.
Thus, she quickly responded to Raven's kiss with passion, her brows curving slightly, a rare touch of emotion in her expression.
*
George received news that a foreign heir from Manos had indeed arrived in the capital recently, bringing with him a large sum of money from abroad.
A coup had occurred in the Manos last year, and now the country was engulfed in a civil war between the north and south. The wealthy had fled the country, seeking refuge in neighboring nations to escape the conflict.
This nobleman, named Leonard, had a mother who had married from Doma, and therefore had relatives from her side in that region.
This wealthy young man, upon arriving, quickly forged connections with the powerful and rich, clearly intending to settle down and rebuild his fortunes here.
None of these actions were surprising. In times of war and turmoil, when the people struggled to survive, the wealthy cared only for their own lives. They harbored no attachment to their homeland, nor any sense of duty to defend the nation. Wherever they could make a profit, they would go.
George never cared about such people—opportunists were beneath him. However, he was intrigued when he heard reports that this wealthy young man had brought his family with him. His wife remained hidden, never showing her face.
The delicate young wife from a foreign land immediately made George think of the woman who stirred such unease in his heart.
Her appearance, and her behavior of mixing with the aristocracy and infiltrating royal gatherings, seemed very familiar.
On one hand, George felt excited that he might have found his target. On the other hand, when he thought of her being married, his excitement was mixed with a deep, simmering frustration—a jealousy of the fact that the prey he desired had already been claimed by someone else.
But when he closed his eyes and thought back to that night, when the woman unconsciously lifted her gaze, the strange, distorted lights fell upon her face. Her smile was devoid of warmth, yet her posture was calm and composed, like that of a dark ruler capable of devouring everything.
Just thinking about it made George feel his blood boil, as if an electric current had coursed through him, stimulating his senses.
No matter who she was or what her identity was, once he had set his eyes on her, he was determined to find a way to make her his.
"Make arrangements—give that young noble the chance to attend the royal banquet, but ensure that he brings his family along. And remember, everything must be done discreetly."
He was vaguely aware, always feeling that the kind of woman he desired was far from the delicate, pampered type. Yet when it came to being entangled with Arabella, he truly couldn't, for the life of him, imagine it reaching that level.
For Arabella, who was feared worldwide, most people had a fixed perception of her as a ruthless figure, perhaps a woman who didn't even seem like a woman—brash, physically strong, and like a manly figure.
The main issue lay in the photo of Arabella taken on the battlefield—it was so blurry and indistinct that it was impossible to tell whether the figure was male or female. All that could be vaguely made out was a slender, petite frame.
*
Bramwell was somewhat surprised when he received the news. He should have been happy to successfully and quickly infiltrate the high society, but after looking over the invitation requirements for the banquet, he furrowed his brow and instinctively didn't want Arabella to make a public appearance.
At that time, when it came to Arabella's identity, Bramwell had his own calculations. In truth, Arabella had always been low-key, disliking the spotlight. She could easily pose as an assistant or a household servant, cleverly staying by Bramwell's side without drawing attention.
But even if these identities were false, he couldn't bear to let Arabella suffer. In his heart, she was his wife, the dream of his lifetime.
He assigned Arabella this identity, and she didn't object when she heard it.
These small, detailed thoughts would never catch Arabella's eye. However, when he made this arrangement, the men standing nearby exchanged knowing glances with him.
Let them look. He had his little plans, but didn't the others have their own?
After successfully putting his plan into action, Bramwell couldn't help but feel a sense of self-satisfaction, pride swelling within him.
Little did he expect, not long after, he would regret it. His wife's identity was simply too eye-catching. In a place like this, where a group of powerful elites were still playing some twisted wife-swapping game, all dressed up in their fine clothes, but beneath it all, they were nothing more than beasts in human form.
Thus, he always found various excuses to prevent Arabella from appearing, as the time wasn't yet right. Arabella wasn't in a hurry either and allowed Bramwell to develop things on his own.
But now, this formal royal banquet, being granted such an honor, was the best result from all the groundwork laid in the past.
When Bramwell came with the news to find Arabella, she was snacking on biscuit.
It was a specialty from Doma, a small nut in biscuit that tasted quite fragrant.
She had no proper posture, lazily resting her legs on another chair. In one hand, she held a biscuit, and on the table lay a pile of empty wrappers. Her face still wore a smile, the kind she gave to anyone, but there was no sincerity behind it. The smile barely concealed the underlying hostility, hidden beneath a veneer of gentle warmth.
Bramwell looked down at her, and through her simple shirt, he could see her exposed collarbones, marked with ambiguous traces that extended from her neck down to her chest, barely noticeable. It was clear that she had spent a passionate night with someone, leaving behind such marks.
There was no attempt to hide it. Arabella's concern for her body was probably less than her regard for the bullet in the chamber of her gun.
Bramwell's features were strikingly sculpted and deep, each one exuding a refreshing, sunlit aura. In contrast to the overly striking beauty of Taras's eyes, Bramwell's gaze had a soft, dulled quality.
He was not like Raven, whose sharp edges and imposing presence dominated the room. Bramwell carried an air of gentle nobility, rounded and inclusive, like deep, tranquil waters.
Desire ignited quickly, like a boiling kettle on the verge of collapse, bursting open with a rush. The scalding heat made Bramwell instinctively recoil, pulling back as if burned.
He unconsciously lowered his head and leaned in toward Arabella, appearing respectful and obedient, but secretly swallowing a mouthful of saliva.
Arabella didn't care about being looked at; even if she were naked, it wouldn't show the slightest hint of shame. She wasn't interested in flirting but simply wanted to relieve her physical desires, and at the same time, indulge in her preferred type.
So talking to Arabella about love and emotions was all nonsense.
"Well done, quick good job." Arabella chuckled lightly, her voice carrying a hint of pleasure, responding to the invitation with an appreciative tone.
"But—if you appear in person, won't it expose you?"
"Now you're worried that my identity might be too conspicuous?" Arabella mocked. "Alright, with Caracal here, just change your face. It's the perfect time, neither real nor fake, to go unnoticed."
Bramwell was relieved to hear this.
He had truly forgotten about this ghost-like presence.
