Steam curled loosely into the air of the large marble bathroom. A subtle mix of sandalwood, lavender, and bergamot hung above the softly rippling water. The tub, sculpted of smooth stone, shone in the soft glow of floating magic-lamps, whose golden light cast shifting shapes across Leon’s naked chest.
He sat immersed to his collarbone, stretched-out limbs under the surface, his head leaned back against the chilled rim of the tub.
The water was just a little too warm—just as he liked it. The warmth nipped at his exhausted muscles, leisurely unwinding the knot of tension knotted in his shoulders and spine from the long, action-packed day.
It had started with a proper, but more and more charged yet breathtaking morning meeting with Nova, then an anxious afternoon reception with the king. And then the surprise meeting with the king’s new secretary—or at least his pretend lover—the seductive Natasha. Later, in the palace garden, Leon had more or less run into Queen Sona, the girl he had grown up with and whom the previous Leon had secretly cherished for years. That meeting had left a peculiar, lingering heat in his chest-heavy, yet somehow reassuring.
And as if the day hadn’t played enough tricks on his feelings already, he’d come home in the early evening to blunder into one of those odd, lovely coincidences: a close call with one of his servants.
He had encountered a lot of lovely ladies today, but no matter the charm and beauty threaded through every moment, something inside of him remained fatigued.
A soft sigh left his lips.
His eyes half-closed, Leon allowed the heat to envelop him in quiet. The only sound was the quiet slosh of water in the stillness.
Time slipped away like a dream.
At last, after a protracted soak, his eyelids fluttered open. He stepped out of the bath, water sluicing down his chiseled body. Water droplets clung to his skin, following the curves of his chest and the ridges of his abdomen as he strode through the residual haze of steam.
Reaching for the soft black towel within reach, he started to dry himself with slow, experienced movements—beginning at his neck, then working down across his wide shoulders and chest. Each movement was slow, almost languid, like a lion stretching after slumber.
When dry, he wrapped a second thick towel loosely about his waist, leaving it hanging low on his hips.
His wet black hair stuck to the brow and the back of his neck. He pushed it back with one hand, ruffling the strands of hair into a rumpled aura of languor. The rest of the droplets glistened in the light of the golden sconces as he emerged from the bath room into the peaceful warmth of his room.
The room greeted him with subdued warmth. Pale light streamed in through high arched windows, falling softly upon the waxed floor. Stepping inside, his bare feet hardly touched the thick rugs, and his eyes wandered toward the window.
Outside, the sun dissolved into the horizon, leaving the sky a violet and burning orange. There was a peaceful stillness in the air, as if the passage of time itself had stopped to appreciate the beauty of the dusk.
He made his way across the room and softly opened the window.
A refreshing, cooling gust swept in, touching against his wet skin and eliciting a subtle shiver from his spine. He breathed out slowly through his nose, eyelids fluttering closed for an instant as the wind caressed his naked form. The dampness clung to him caught the light, accentuating the understated strength in his physique.
With a gentle toss of his head, drops of water splattered from his raven hair, sparkling in the air like tiny stars. Then he walked towards the great wardrobe, slowly.
The dark wood groaned a little as he flung it open. Within, all was carefully put away—fine silks and satins, specially made robes, smooth white shirts folded neatly, and coats and trousers pressed and hung with care. A maid’s hand, unmistakably.
He chose a plain but refined attire—tight black pants and a flowing, light white shirt with an open collar.
With smooth familiarity, he went back to the bed and arranged the clothes neatly on top of his bed, smoothing the material with one hand. Next was the towel around his neck. He yanked it off, drying the remaining hint of moisture out of his hair before throwing it to one side. His fingers shifted to the knot at his waist.
With one fluid movement, he unfolded the towel and allowed it to drop—gently, as if in a whisper—onto the bed.
Naked now, in the still light, his body rose unashamed and tall. The gentle light followed the lines of his form—broad shoulders, strong chest, slim waist. His skin was warm, still wet, radiating softly with the faint glow of muscles beneath that moved whenever he moved. His dick lay between his thighs, loose but decidedly weighty, a promise of quiet strength and length even at rest.
He leaned forward a little to grasp the trousers.
The door behind him groaned open.
His hand, suspended in mid-reach, stopped as he turned his head slowly in the direction of the sound. The door opened with a creaking groan, and in the frame stood a woman, her figure backlit by the warm light of the corridor.
She stepped inside in midsentence. "Lord Leon, your snack and tea are—"
Her words on her lips.
Her long jet-black hair fell down her back, outlining a face that was characterized by elegance and subtle authority—angular cheekbones, square jawline, and sharp black eyes which now widened in shock. She had a crisp white blouse that hugged her full breast, tucked into a short black skirt that emphasized her curvaceous hips. She had bare legs, sculpted and toned, which showed the discipline and strength behind her beauty.
Fey, the mansion’s head maid, stood in the doorway.
Her authoritative stance wavered and came to a halt halfway, as though the air had become heavy where he had just seen her standing before.
Leon’s eyes flashed upward, entertained.
She clearly had been summoned to see him—about tea—but had not anticipated finding her lord standing there in his full nudity.
Her breath caught up in a loud sound.
Her bright black eyes fell—briefly—trailing down his body. His carved physique. The slope of his chest. His sculpted abs and then, inescapably, to his dick.
She did not blink. Did not breathe. Merely looked.
Her mouth opened, but no air escaped.
Leon’s golden eyes sparkled with mirth as he came slowly to his feet, uncoiling. He did not try to cover himself; instead, there was obvious amusement flickering in his eyes. Cocking his head to one side, he examined her face.
Her expression was still stern, soldier-strict—but the flush creeping up her neck told otherwise. She stood tall, poised in stance, but her eyes were still fixed precisely where they shouldn’t.
He smiled weakly, then coughed softly, deliberately.
"Hmm. Fey," he drawled in a low, teasing voice, "if you keep gawking at my manhood like that... I might just take that as an invitation—and pin you down right here."
The silence snapped. Her eyes went wide.
A beat went by. Then another.
Fey blinked frantically — once, then twice — snapping back into reality like a spell shattering.
"I—I apologize, Lord!" she stuttered, retreating a little. "I didn’t mean to— That is— I thought—!"
Leon smiled quietly, obviously amused by her unusual bout of embarrassment. Still utterly unconcerned with modesty, he replied smoothly, "Oh, relax. I’m not offended. Just taken aback the ever-serene and perfect Fey forgot how to knock."
"I did knock," she grumbled under her breath, eyes still attempting to avoid his nude body.
He smiled, allowing the quiet to hang between them for just another beat before asking lazily, "So... what brings you here?"
Standing straight, she pulled what was left of her dignity around her and tried to catch his eye. "The tea and snack are served, my lord. I have come to tell you so."
"Understood." Nodding, he continued to smile. "I’ll be with you soon. Once I am ready."
She spun to go—but she halted as her eyes darted back for a fleeting instant. A slip. Caught.
Leon saw the flicker.
A lazy, mocking smile crept over his face.
"Feyyyyyy." he drawled, laughter dripping from his tone.
She blinked back into awareness, her eyes going wide. His carefree, taunting grin only made her more ashamed.
"I-I’m so sorry, L-Lord Leon," she stuttered, flushing bright crimson. "I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to look, I just—!"
"But you did," Leon said quietly, taking a creeping step closer.
Fey’s eyes flashed up to clash with his—only to veer back down for the third time, irresistibly drawn.
"And you’re still gaping," he taunted, lifting a brow.
She had her mouth open as if to answer, but nothing emerged. Her lips clicked shut again, quivering as she dropped her head, her cheeks roasting with warmth.
"Ah—! I’m sorry, my lord! I-I’ll go now. P-Please come down once you’re dressed..."
She stammered the words in a flustered rush, then turned sharply and shut the door behind her a little too fast.
The soft click echoed.
Leon blinked once, then laughed softly under his breath, raking a hand through his wet hair. "It appears," he said softly to himself, "the universe is very set on matching me up with my maids today."
He looked over at the door with a half-smile.
"Precious," he whispered, shaking his head slowly. "All five of them... lovely and sweet."
A small chuckle escaped his lips before it curled into something deeper—something un readable.
"Perhaps I shall take them into my harem," he went on, voice heavy with lazy charm—until it fell an octave lower. "If they are not disobedient."
The last words were uttered with more weight, silk and iron combined. For a moment, the softness of his golden eyes had gone, to be replaced by a flash of held-in anger.
He looked back towards the door—closed, silent. But where Fey had been standing still lingered the memory of her presence. His face hardened, lips compressed in a tight line, and eyes creased a fraction as if following something much further than the wooden boundary.
He stood there for a long breath.
Then, without saying a word, he turned away— shook his head minimally and reached for his trousers, slipping them on with ease. The white shirt came next, top buttons unfastened, showing the crests of his collarbone and a teasing flash of his chest. He left it hanging loose, contributing to his carefree charm.
Before the mirror, he stood, inspecting his reflection.
With a slow sweep of his fingers, he pushed back his tousled black hair and smirked.
"I swear," he murmured, "I’ve only grown more dangerously handsome."
And it wasn’t vanity—it was simply the truth.
With a final brush of his hand through his hair, he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and turned toward the door.
Downstairs, tea awaited.
And perhaps... so did a little more beautiful trouble