Before Elara could fully recover from the suffocating terror of near-death, Duke Reinhardt leaned down again.
He reached out, using his fingertips to gently wipe away the wretched tear tracks and sweat from Elara's cheeks. The gesture held a twisted sort of "gentleness," perhaps? But this "gentleness" only sent more shivers down Elara's spine! Because she could clearly see that his cold eyes held not a shred of pity, only... the playful scrutiny of a predator before delivering the final mark on its prey.
His fingers finally came to rest on Elara's lips—slightly parted from coughing, stained with tears, looking exceptionally fragile and helpless.
This time, his action was not merely a touch or a test.
As Elara watched in horror, her pupils contracting sharply, he lowered his head. His lips, cold as sculpted ice, once again pressed against her soft lower lip, hard, with irresistible force and the clear intent of claiming ownership, biting down!
Harder than the time in the woods at the hunting ground, more... cruel! Possessing a brutality that seemed to want to tear her apart, devour her whole!
"Ah—!"
A sharp, piercing scream tore from Elara's throat, as if her very soul was being ripped apart by the sudden, intense pain! The rich taste of blood instantly flooded her mouth and nostrils! She could clearly feel her lip break! Warm blood welled up, staining her chin, and staining the Duke's cold lips!
This man! He wasn't human! He was a devil! A monster who took pleasure in torturing others, feeding on their pain!
Elara convulsed in pain, tears streaming down her face like a broken dam. She wanted to struggle, to resist, but under the Duke's absolute power, all her movements seemed futile and laughable. She could only lie there like a sacrifice pinned to an altar, enduring this "brand" from the devil, delivered with the taste of blood!
The Duke seemed extremely satisfied with this "masterpiece" created with blood and pain. He slowly lifted his head, looking down at Elara's small face, now a mask of extreme agony, fear, and tears. He looked at the lip he had bitten open, bleeding freely. A fleeting, almost pathological satisfaction and... excitement? flashed in his cold eyes.
He extended his tongue, with agonizing slowness and chilling elegance, licking away the trace of Elara's blood that had clung to the corner of his own lips. His action held a primal, beast-like cruelty, as if savoring the taste of his prey.
"Now," he looked at Elara's face, completely drained of color, like a ravaged flower after a storm, speaking deliberately, syllable by syllable, in a tone both icy and tinged with a strange "pleasure," "you finally... completely... bear my mark."
He reached out a finger, gently touching her still-bleeding, broken lip again, as if admiring his handiwork.
"Remember this feeling, Object Seven." His voice was cold and cruel, like a viper's hiss. "This is... your master's unique 'gift'. A reminder... so you never forget who you belong to."
Having said this, he seemed to finally exhaust his interest in this "plaything." He stopped looking at Elara, who lay limply on the floor like a broken doll. He stood up, straightened his immaculate black velvet doublet, resuming his aloof, cold, superior posture.
He walked to the door, pulled an inconspicuous cord hanging nearby (likely a servant's bell pull), then left the room, filled with the stench of blood and despair, without looking back.
Elara huddled on the cold floor, the sharp pain on her lip and the thick taste of blood in her mouth a constant reminder of how real, how cruel everything had been. She raised a trembling hand, lightly touching her broken, bleeding lip, sucking in a sharp breath against the pain.
Any absurd fantasies about a "white knight" that had arisen from his "rescues" were now utterly shattered, not even ashes remaining.
She finally understood completely what kind of terrifying demon she had fallen into the hands of. He was powerful, cold, capricious, his possessiveness bordering on the pathological! He didn't care if she lived or died, only if she was "interesting," if she could satisfy his twisted desire for control and... perhaps sadism?
No salvation, no hope, only endless darkness and... this bloody brand, belonging to the devil, seared onto her lips, and into her soul.
Overwhelming despair washed over her like an icy tide, threatening to drown her completely.
Yet, at the very edge of that despair, upon the ruins of her shattered hope, something colder, more frantic, began to sprout like vines crawling from the depths of hell...
Hatred!
Hatred for the betrayers of her past life! Hatred for the demon of her present life, who treated her as a plaything, trampling her dignity!
And... the most bitter hatred for this damned fate!
She couldn't die! She absolutely refused to just give up like this!
Even if it meant dancing with the devil, even if it meant surviving on a knife's edge, she would live!
Live to see those who harmed her pay the price!
Live to find a chance, escape this hell!
Elara's eyes, shimmering through tears and bloodstains, no longer held just fear and despair, but... flashed with an almost crazed, resolute light, like shards of poisoned ice!
The thorn bird, even pierced through the heart, sings its most poignant, most beautiful song before death!
And her song had only just begun!