The morning Victor VonHoff left the family estate was sharp and bitter. Gray clouds pressed low over the black pines. A thin wind carried the smell of frost and iron. Servants hurried across the gravel courtyard, loading the last trunks into the ducal carriage. The vehicle was massive, lacquered midnight black with silver raven crests on every panel, drawn by four huge stallions whose coats gleamed like wet obsidian.
Victor stood at the top of the marble steps. He wore a long charcoal travel coat lined with shadow-silk that seemed to swallow light. His silver hair was pulled back into a tight knot at the nape of his neck. At eighteen he already looked like a man who had seen battles most cadets only read about. His dark eyes scanned the preparations with cold precision.
Beside him stood Agnes.
She was twenty, assigned to him as personal maid four years earlier. Agnes never spoke unless spoken to. She never questioned orders. She simply appeared each morning, posture perfect, gaze lowered, ready to serve. Her hair was pure silver-white, braided into two thick plaits that reached her waist and were tied with small black ribbons. Her eyes were vivid emerald, bright even in weak light, and they always held the same quiet, absolute loyalty when they lifted to his face.
Her uniform was standard for VonHoff household staff: black dress, white apron, black gloves to the elbow, white stockings, low-heeled shoes. But on Agnes the clothes looked almost sinful. The bodice stretched tight across an I-cup chest that rose and fell with each careful breath. The deep square neckline framed creamy cleavage that threatened to spill free with every movement. The corset cinched her waist to an impossible degree before the skirt flared over rounded hips. When she walked, the fabric whispered against her thighs.
Agnes had felt the brush of his shadow gift many times. Light threads of suggestion slid across her mind and she never recoiled. Instead, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted on a soft sigh, as though the intrusion was something she had waited for all her life.
"Master," she said now, voice gentle and melodic, "the carriage is prepared. Your belongings are secure. I have included everything you requested for the journey."
Victor studied her for several seconds. In the novel that he had read in that other life, no loyal maid travelled with the villain to the academy. Agnes did not exist on those pages, she was his creation, his private claim, a mind and body already softened to his will before the true game began.
"You will ride inside with me," he told her. "No separate seat."
Her lashes lowered once in acknowledgment. "As you wish, Master."
He ascended the steps, as Agnes followed exactly two paces behind, heels clicking softly. A footman opened the carriage door and bowed so deeply his forehead nearly grazed the ground. Victor entered first and settled onto the wide rear-facing bench upholstered in burgundy velvet. The interior smelled of polished wood, leather, and the faint smokeless heat of shadow flame braziers set into the walls. A single narrow window let in pale daylight.
Agnes paused at the threshold.
"Inside," Victor said.
She climbed in with careful grace and closed the door. The latch clicked. A moment later the driver snapped the whip. The carriage lurched forward. Hooves struck stone, then settled into the steady rhythm of the Imperial Road.
For the first hour neither spoke.
Victor reclined against the cushions, eyes half closed, watching frost-covered fields slide past the window. Agnes sat opposite, hands folded neatly in her lap, spine straight, gaze fixed on the floorboards between them.
Eventually he shifted.
"Come here."
Agnes rose at once. She smoothed her skirt and crossed the narrow space. When she began to lower herself to the floor in the usual kneeling position, Victor caught her wrist.
"No. Sit."
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she obeyed. She perched on the edge of the bench beside him, close enough that their thighs touched through layers of fabric.
"Closer."
She slid nearer until the warmth of her body pressed against his side. Victor stretched out along the bench, lowering his head until it rested in her lap. Her skirt formed a soft cushion beneath his neck. The faint scent of lavender soap and warm feminine skin drifted down to him.
Agnes froze for a single heartbeat. Then her gloved fingers settled gently in his silver hair. She stroked with exquisite care, fingertips tracing slow paths along his scalp.
"Master… is this comfortable for you?"
"Acceptable," he murmured. "Keep going."
Her touch grew steadier. She combed through the strands, massaged small circles at his temples, smoothed the hair back from his forehead. The carriage rocked gently. Wheels hummed over packed earth. Outside, the world passed in shades of gray and white.
Victor opened his eyes and looked up.
Agnes's cheeks were flushed. Her lips were parted and her breathing had quickened; the heavy swell of her breasts rose and fell faster beneath the straining bodice. From this angle he could see the delicate lace trim of her corset, the way the fabric fought to contain her.
"Undo the top hooks," he said quietly.
Her emerald eyes met his. Wide and searching. No refusal appeared in them only a tiny tremor in her fingers as they rose to the fastenings.
One hook released.
Two.
Three.
The bodice parted. Soft, creamy flesh surged forward, barely held by a thin black lace chemise. Her breasts were magnificent heavy, perfectly rounded, pale as new snow, crowned with delicate rose tips already stiff beneath the sheer material.
Victor reached up. Two fingers slipped beneath the lace edge. He tugged downward.
The chemise surrendered. Her breasts spilled free, swaying gently with the motion of the carriage. Cold air kissed the exposed skin. Tiny goosebumps rose across the full curves.
Agnes bit her lower lip. A soft, muffled sound slipped past her teeth.
Victor cupped one breast. His thumb brushed slowly over the dark peak. Agnes arched into his palm on instinct, pressing herself closer.
"Quiet," he ordered. "Not yet."
He lifted his head just enough to bring his mouth to her. Lips closed around the stiff bud. He sucked slow and deliberate, tongue circling the sensitive tip. Agnes's free hand flew to her mouth. She pressed hard, trying to trap the moan that rose in her throat. The sound came out anyway low, trembling, needy.
Victor sucked harder. Drew the nipple deep. Teeth grazed the tender flesh. Agnes's thighs quivered beneath his head. Her muffled moan vibrated against her palm.
He released the first peak with a soft, wet sound. A thin strand of saliva stretched between his lips and the glistening bud before snapping. He moved to the other breast. Same slow suction. Same flick of tongue. Same gentle scrape of teeth.
This time the moan broke free loud, helpless, ringing in the close space of the carriage.
"Master…!"
The word burst from her like a confession. Her voice cracked on the title, thick with longing and surrender.
Victor smiled against her skin. "Louder next time," he murmured. "I want to hear exactly how much you need me."
He bit down again sharper. Agnes cried out. Her back bowed. Breasts thrust forward into his mouth. Her thighs pressed together instinctively. Hips rocked in tiny, desperate motions.
Victor let his hand slide lower. Fingers found the hem of her skirt. Slipped beneath. Warm, smooth thigh greeted him. Higher. The garter. Then soft curls already damp with arousal.
He parted her folds with two fingers.
Slick heat coated him instantly. She was drenched nectar trickling down the insides of her thighs, soaking the velvet beneath her.
Agnes whimpered. Tried to close her legs on reflex.
"Open," he commanded.
She obeyed at once. Thighs parted wide. Shame burned across her cheeks, but she held the position.
Victor pushed her skirt higher, bunching the fabric around her waist. Black lace panties came into view crotch darkened and clinging to swollen flesh. He hooked a finger under the edge and drew them aside.
Her most intimate place was flushed dark pink, glistening, swollen. The sensitive pearl at the top throbbed visibly. A slow bead of nectar slid downward.
Victor leaned in. Warm breath ghosted over her heated skin.
Agnes tensed. Gloved hands clutched the cushions so hard the velvet creased.
"Master… please…"
He answered with his tongue.
A single slow drag from her entrance to the pearl. Sweet, musky nectar coated his taste buds. Agnes's hips jerked upward. A strangled cry tore from her throat.
He licked again, firmer circling the swollen bud before dipping lower to lap at her opening. Her inner walls fluttered against the intrusion, trying to pull him deeper. More nectar flowed freely, coating his lips, his chin.
Victor groaned low. The vibration hummed against her sensitive flesh.
Agnes shattered.
Her thighs clamped around his head. Back arched off the bench. Breasts bounced with each ragged breath. A high, keening wail escaped her loud, broken, completely devoted.
"Master—!"
He did not relent. Tongue delved deeper. Lips sealed around the pearl and sucked gently. Two fingers slid inside curling against the sensitive patch just within reach.
She came again almost immediately, harder. Inner walls clamped down like warm velvet. Fresh waves of nectar flooded his mouth.
Victor drank every drop.
Only when her cries turned to soft, shattered whimpers when her body collapsed limp and trembling did he finally lift his head.
Her essence glistened on his lips and chin. He licked them clean slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving hers.
Agnes stared down at him. Cheek's scarlet. Eyes glassy with tears and lingering pleasure. Breasts still rose and fell in heavy rhythm. Nipples dark and wet from his mouth. Between her thighs she remained exposed swollen, dripping, marked by his attention.
Victor sat up. Wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.
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