There Azael was laughing, the towel having fallen on the floor. And... he was not naked, he was wearing boxers under the towel.
Isabel's hands fell back from her eyes. She sighed and shook her head. She couldn't believe her Young Master played a prank on her. This was out of character.
But she chuckled a little.
"You truly are different now, Young Master," she said, her professional tone finally breaking completely, revealing a warm exhaustion.
Azael picked up the fallen towel and wrapped it around his waist again. "I am. And I still need help getting dressed. I'm honestly exhausted from the training, Isabel. Just picking out the clothes feels like a workout." He exaggerated the sigh of fatigue.
Isabel hesitated, looking at his handsome face and the sincere weariness in his eyes. The memory of the innocent child she once cared for warred with the current, attractive young man. The simple, non-intimate request for aid won out.
"Alright, Young Master," she conceded, resignation in her voice. "I will help you this once. But please, no more surprises like that."
"Never again," Azael lied, grinning. "I promise."
She walked toward the closet, her posture rigidly professional again. "You need casual clothes, I assume? Something light for the heat of the day?"
"Perfect. You choose. I trust your taste, Isabel." He said casually.
She selected a simple, high-quality white linen shirt and a pair of tailored navy trousers. She returned to him, holding them out.
"Please step out of the towel, Young Master, but keep your underwear on," she instructed, her gaze fixed firmly on his chest and not straying lower.
Azael complied, slipping off the towel. The momentary exhibition didn't seem to shake her professional façade, though her blush deepened slightly.
Isabel first helped him slide into the crisp linen trousers, careful to keep her distance as she smoothed them over his waist. Her fingers briefly brushed the taut muscle of his lower abdomen as she secured the clasp.
Next came the shirt. As she carefully guided his arms into the sleeves, Azael leaned in, his lips close to her ear.
"I have to say, Isabel," he whispered, his voice warm and low. "Your hands are incredibly gentle. Much gentler than my sister's when she's trying to break my bones."
Isabel stiffened, her breath hitching slightly. The strictness returned to her voice, tinged with a nervous tremor. "Young Master, please be still. I need to button this properly."
"They are perfectly shaped too," he continued, ignoring her, letting his eyes linger on the round swell of her chest as she worked on the buttons. "The buttons are having a hard time, aren't they?"
Isabel quickly finished the last button near his neck. She took a swift step back, her stoic composure finally restored, though her cheeks remained flushed.
"Your clothes are fitted, Young Master. Please enjoy your meal," she said, her voice clipped. She gave a quick, respectful bow and turned sharply, moving to leave the room.
"Thank you, Isabel. You've been a wonderful help," Azael called out to her retreating back.
She didn't respond, simply closing the chamber door behind her.
Azael smiled, feeling satisfied. His plan to slowly break down her reserve had successfully begun. He walked to the table and began to eat, energized not just by the food, but by the confirmation of his health and the first steps of his new objective.
'Did she forgot I call her today, saying I need her help and something?...she must be outside' Azael mused and continue to eat.
After finishing his meal, Azael wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up, feeling a renewed vigor coursing through him.
The food had been simple yet nourishing, fresh bread, sliced fruits, cheese, and a light stew but it settled well in his stomach, fueling his next move. He glanced at the empty tray, satisfied, then headed for the door of his chamber.
As he stepped out into the corridor, the cool air of the estate greeted him, carrying faint echoes of distant training clangs from the hall below. There, just a few paces away, stood Isabel.
She was poised as ever, her posture impeccable, hands clasped lightly in front of her skirt. Her glasses caught the soft light from the sconces, and her expression was one of quiet professionalism, though he could detect a subtle lingering of the earlier flush on her cheeks. She had been waiting, just as he had anticipated.
"Young Master," she greeted with a slight bow of her head, her voice steady but carrying that underlying warmth he was starting to coax out more reliably.
"You called for me today for some help. Is there something specific you require?"
Azael smiled, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He had summoned her this morning through a brief note delivered by a servant.
Vague enough to pique her curiosity without revealing too much, but direct in its request for her presence after his training.
It wasn't about the training or the household matters; no, this was personal, tied to the fragments of memories he had inherited from his body's original owner.
There was something only Isabel could help with, a thread from his childhood that he needed to unravel to deepen their bond... and perhaps unlock more about this world's secrets.
"Yes, Isabel. Thank you for coming so promptly." He gestured for her to walk with him, falling into step as they moved down the corridor toward the estate's library wing.
The marble floors echoed their footsteps. His soft boots a counterpoint to the rhythmic click of her heels.
"It's about the old family archives. You remember how, when I was a child, you'd read to me from those dusty tomes? Stories of the ancient bloodlines, the rituals that bound our house to the land?"
He started to talk about old days. He need to get more information.