The bow felt familiar in Rosalee's hand. The smooth curve of the wood, the taut tension of the string, the subtle creak of it bending—it all pulled at distant memories of youth. Lollipop had taken archery in middle school, back in a very different life and body, and while he hadn't been a champion, he was certainly no stranger to the stance or the technique.
But today, Rosalee stood in the Florenzia estate's private archery grounds, a thick hedge wall shielding the area from any onlookers save for one very attentive, very handsome knight captain. They held the bow a touch too awkwardly on purpose, their elbow cocked a little too high, the string drawn slightly off-center. When they loosed the first arrow, it thudded into the grass several feet away from the target.
A small, exasperated laugh escaped Axmel Dorrell's throat.
"You're holding it like a crossbow, Lady Rosalee…"
He said, stepping forward.
"Here."
Rosalee expected a casual correction—a finger to nudge the elbow, a guiding palm to the wrist. What they got instead was Axmel placing himself directly behind them, the solid wall of his body nearly flush with theirs. His hands—large, calloused, warm—wrapped around Rosalee's arms, repositioning them with surprising gentleness for someone with such a rugged build.
"Like this."
He murmured, his breath brushing against the curve of Rosalee's neck.
A shiver ran down Rosalee's spine. They tried not to react, but Axmel's hands didn't stop. One hand glided from elbow to shoulder, then down the slope of Rosalee's back to gently correct their posture. The other rested at their waist, steadying them, fingers pressing lightly into the curve above their hip.
"Relax your grip here…"
Axmel said, sliding his fingers over Rosalee's to adjust the way they held the bowstring.
"Don't fight the tension. Let it guide your aim."
Each correction brought them closer, until Rosalee could feel the knight's firm chest at their back, the subtle shift of breath as he inhaled and exhaled. The air grew thicker. The world narrowed to the weight of his hands, the sound of his voice, the heat bleeding through their clothes.
And then—
'Oh.'
Something pressed against them.
Hard. Solid. Unmistakable.
Right at the curve of their backside.
Rosalee froze.
A very different kind of memory surged forward—nights of teasing clients, of claiming control with every sway of the hip and flicker of the lashes. But this body… this body was softer, untouched in certain ways, and definitely unprepared for the sudden, undeniable pressure of Axmel's arousal.
A jolt of panic stirred beneath their ribs.
'You've got to be kidding me!'
Rosalee thought.
'I'm nervous? In this body? Of all the times—'
The arrow slipped from their fingers prematurely, flying wide and skidding across the grass.
"Ah—"
Axmel stepped back slightly.
"That's alright. First day with a real bow is always rough. You're probably just nervous."
'Nervous?'
Rosalee nearly laughed.
'Try blindsided and entirely too aware of the very large, very excited man behind me.'
Outwardly, Rosalee simply lowered the bow and dipped their head.
"I'm… not feeling well…"
They said softly.
"Perhaps I should rest. I wouldn't want to strain myself."
Axmel's eyes shadowed with concern.
"Of course. Training should never come before health. Take tomorrow off. I'll prepare a new routine for your next session."
Rosalee offered a ghost of a smile, nodded politely, and turned to leave, the bow still lightly clutched in their hands. Each step away from the field left a trail of internal grumbling.
'A banquet of buff, sweaty, obedient men, and I'm too damned flustered to even enjoy it properly? What kind of cosmic punishment is this?'
Behind them, Axmel watched silently. Only once Rosalee had disappeared around the hedge did he let out a slow, ragged breath and glance down at the traitorous bulge beneath his belt.
"…Shit."
The realization hit him like a mace to the chest. He'd been fully hard since the first time he touched Rosalee's waist. He'd been pressing against them the whole time, and they hadn't said a word.
'Had she noticed?'
His face burned with shame.
"No. No more of this…"
He muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
"You're a professional. She's a noble lady. Not some barmaid to ogle like a beast."
Still—he hadn't imagined that warmth, that softness. That subtle, impossible-to-forget curve against him.
Axmel groaned and picked up the bows, hauling them back to the weapon rack.
'Tomorrow…'
He thought bitterly.
'I'm going to a brothel. This cannot happen again.'
But the echo of Rosalee's smile lingered in his mind like a ghost.
---
Rosalee slammed the door shut behind them with a touch more flair than necessary. The graceful, smiling façade they wore at the training grounds melted away as soon as they were alone. Gone was the sweet, demure Second of the Florenzia family—what remained was Lollipop, scheming and flustered in equal measure.
They tossed the dark blouse over the back of the chaise, plucked off their boots, and marched straight to their armoire, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.
"There has to be something in this gods-forsaken mausoleum!"
They muttered, yanking open drawer after drawer.
Folded chemises. Old writing parchment. Gloves. Sewing kits. A cracked mirror. Rosalee searched through them all, barely blinking as dust puffed from long-forgotten corners.
Beneath the bed? Nothing but slippers and a bent hairpin. Under the chaise lounge? A dead rose petal and a single pearl button. Even behind the stack of books in their writing desk—nothing.
They opened a jewelry box and dug around beneath rings and pins, praying some desperate previous occupant had tucked something away in shame or secret indulgence.
"Nothing?"
They breathed, wide-eyed.
"Not even a carved handle? Who was the last owner of this room—a saint? Oh wait, guess that'd be… me? Arrghh, damn you Rose!"
With a growl, they stalked into the bathroom as they plucked a new blouse from off the floor to pull over themselves. The cold marble tiles grounded them slightly as they stepped barefoot to the vanity. They checked the cabinet beneath the basin—only perfumes, oils, and a stack of fresh towels. The drawers along the side were equally dull. Rosalee slammed one shut and leaned back on their heels with a long sigh.
A glimmer caught their eye.
On the far corner of the deep-set soaking tub was a decorative soap dish—one they'd never really looked at closely. Within it lay a small object, something that could've passed for a meditation pendant or a bath charm. They reached for it, tugged it free from where it lay wrapped in a loose coil of aged leather.
The object was… beautiful.
Smooth, polished white jade—oval-shaped, rounded and seamless at one end, tapering into a slight bulb before curving down. A strip of fine, dark leather was looped through a tiny groove carved delicately at the base, making it look like some sort of ceremonial pendant. But Rosalee's experience with real "ceremonial tools" gave them a different idea entirely.
"Well, well, well…"
They said, voice dropping into a sensual purr.
"Hello, you little treasure."
They ran their fingers along the smooth surface. Cold. Dense. Slightly cool to the touch from resting near the tiled wall. They gave it an experimental squeeze and smiled when it remained firm and unmoving.
It wasn't much.
But it was just enough.
Just enough to start the new… necessary training.
Rosalee sat on the cool stone bench beneath the high frosted windows, jade piece in hand, leather loop wrapped loosely around their wrist like a silk ribbon. Their mind ran back to the moment on the archery field—Axmel's warmth behind them, the way his hands molded their body, and that pressure, hot and stiff against the curve of their bottom.
Rosalee closed their eyes.
'Next time…'
They thought.
'I won't be caught so unprepared.'
Their smile curled wider.
"Oh, darling…"
They murmured to the little jade charm.
"You and I are going to be very good friends."
Suddenly, before Rosalee could begin undressing.
Knock, knock, knock—
A heavy knock echoed through the room like a hammer falling onto velvet. Rosalee, still flushed with irritation from having their personal moment so rudely cut short, tucked the cool jade pendant back into the hidden folds of their breeches. They rose slowly, pausing a beat to let the irritation settle behind their ribcage.
By the time they reached the door, their expression had melted into something entirely different—soft and drawn, their lashes heavy, a faint weariness playing at the corners of their lips like a noble lady freshly roused from slumber.
When the door opened, they were greeted by a veritable procession.
Rosalee, lips still slightly parted from their interrupted search, narrowed their scarlet-red eyes at the unexpected cluster of servants crowding the corridor outside their door. Their gaze passed over the trembling maids and footmen who had clearly gathered for spectacle, until it landed on the two figures standing smugly at the center of it all.
Looming in the center of the hallway was none other than the household's head butler—Mr. Thatch Grinnel—a man whose name felt like it was stitched together from discarded syllables of Dickensian nightmares. His tall, spindly frame hunched with age and arrogance alike, greasy gray hair slicked back like rotting moss, and that mustache… Gods above, that long, sad, downward-pointing mustache that curved like quotation marks around his eternally scowling mouth. He truly believed it made him look "dignified," though to Rosalee, he'd only looked like the sort of man who'd poison a dog and call it discipline.
And beside him, like a wilted weed clinging to his shadow, was the ever-petulant garden maid—Mireille—a servant with forgettable features and unforgettable pettiness. Her ash-brown hair braided tightly around her head like a crown of thorns, her dull brown eyes forced wide in a performance of innocence shone now with something she likely thought was righteous sorrow, but she couldn't hide the bitterness twisting her mouth, the pinched corners of her lips betrayed her. She tried—oh, she truly tried—to force teardrops to bloom, but all that came was a glimmer of jealousy poorly disguised beneath false humility.
Rosalee resisted the urge to snort.
Though they stood in front of the head butler, his name hadn't stuck in Rosalee's memory—something stiff and outdated like "Algernon" or "Thatch"—but what did stick was that horrid villain's mustache. Long, pointed, and curved down past the corners of his lips like a poorly groomed weeping willow, it twitched as he exhaled through his nose in disdain.
The rest of the maids and junior servants hovered nearby, eyes bright with curiosity and dread. They hadn't come out of duty. They had come for a show.
"Goodness…"
Rosalee asked, voice soft with faux confusion and a perfect touch of weariness. Their expression—subtly reshaped—shifted into something vulnerable:
Wide red eyes, slight frown, and the barest droop of their shoulders, as though the weight of the entire estate's disdain had finally caught up to them.
Rosalee blinked slowly, sleepily, one hand still resting on the doorknob, as they tilted their head with practiced innocence.
"What's all this?"
They murmured, voice dipped in gentle confusion.
"Is there a fire?"
Thatch's nose twitched as though he had just smelled something rotten—and indeed, he had:
The stink of his own pomposity.
"There's been an incident, Lady Rosalee."
He drawled in that slow, grating tone he reserved for speaking to people he considered unworthy of their titles.
"This maid, Mireille…"
He gestured to Mireille without so much as a glance.
"Has brought a grievous accusation against you."
Rosalee lifted a brow.
"Against me?"
"She claims—"
Mireille stepped forward as she cut in, blinking too often and lips quivering dramatically.
"Lady Rosalee…"
She began, faltering just enough to make it seem rehearsed.
"I—I didn't want to cause trouble. Truly, I didn't. But my most sacred necklace—the one passed down to me from my beloved grandmother—is missing! Or rather… has been stolen..."
She clasped her hands, voice trembling with false emotion. She looked to the crowd for support.
"And I saw it… in your room, Lady Rosalee."
The hallway filled with hushed murmurs that rippled through the gathered servants. A few maids subtly glanced at one another with thinly veiled disbelief.
Rosalee's smile didn't falter. They blinked.
"My, that's quite an accusation…"
They said softly.
"And you… saw it… in my room, you said?"
They asked, their voice just shy of trembling. Mireille nodded vigorously, too eagerly.
"Yes! I came earlier today to clean, and I saw it on the vanity. You must have taken it from my quarters last night—perhaps by mistake…"
"And you told the head butler…"
Rosalee mused aloud.
"And he believed you."
The head butler gave a pointed grunt.
"Indeed…"
He said, his deep voice as dry as his soul, Thatch cleared his throat like a man about to deliver a sentence at the gallows.
"Lady Rosalee, this is a serious accusation. While your position as a noble lady grants you many privileges, it does not excuse theft from the house staff—especially from those beneath your station."
He said the word "lady" with such disdain, Rosalee wondered if he were gagging on it.
"And so you brought the court…"
Rosalee said, gesturing with a dainty hand to the sea of servants.
"To witness my trial?"
"We need to search your quarters immediately. If you would allow us inside, we can resolve the matter quickly. "
Thatch said, brushing past Rosalee without waiting for consent.
"Oh, please do…"
Rosalee said gently, they tilted their head, long braid shifting over one shoulder.
"I wouldn't want to be accused of theft. So of course…"
They stepped aside, gesturing with an elegant sweep of the arm.
"Do come in."
They murmured, a delicate sadness softening their eyes.
"I would never wish for poor Mireille to go another moment without her beloved heirloom. Search as long and deep as you wish."
They even pressed a hand to their chest for dramatic flair.
"If I've misplaced it somehow, I shall be the first to weep."
Mireille blinked, clearly thrown off by the ease of Rosalee's consent. Her plan relied on Rosalee being indignant—on them lashing out, denying entry, drawing suspicion. Instead, Rosalee's serene compliance left her uncertain.
The crowd hesitated, holding its breath as the butler, Mireille, and two other maids stepped inside.
Right as Thatch stepped through the doorway.
He stopped.
The bedroom beyond looked like a jewelry box had exploded in the aftermath of a tornado. Gowns spilled over the arms of chairs, glinting rings and half-open brooch boxes littered the vanity and floors, drawers were half-pulled out, their contents tumbling down like silken waterfalls. The bed was only half-made, with soft red silks curling along the edge like petals of an overgrown rose.
Mireille froze.
She hadn't expected… this.
Thatch's eye twitched.
"Well…"
He muttered.
"It's a bit… ahem… in disarray."
"It's… a mess."
One of the junior maids muttered under her breath.
Rosalee clasped their hands behind their back, swaying slightly on their heels like a sweet girl who just couldn't help having a little fun.
"I had such trouble choosing what to wear today…"
They said, voice all velvet.
"You understand."
The maids hesitated at the threshold.
Thatch cleared his throat.
"It'll take an hour just to move the gowns."
"And lunch still needs preparing…"
One of the older kitchen maids grumbled.
"And now dinner's going to be late."
Rosalee blinked at them with devastating sincerity.
"But surely we can't leave dear Mireille in anguish all day. This necklace must be returned."
They turned toward the crowd, letting their voice soften to a wounded lilt.
"Wouldn't you all feel better if we searched everything? For peace of mind?"
The maids groaned. Two more of them ducked inside to begin sorting through the piles of fabric. Another began sifting through the vanity drawers. Even Thatch, red-faced and tight-lipped, pulled off his gloves and rolled up his sleeves.
Mireille could only stand there, red creeping up her neck as her entire scheme collapsed into a shared chore.
Rosalee turned away from the door and smiled to themselves.
It was going to be a lovely afternoon.
---
In the kitchen, the scent of warm, buttery pastries filled the air as Ben arranged a delicate tray with care. Flaky little rolls with cheese and rose jam, freshly cut fruit, and a small silver container of chilled tea steeped with mint and elderflower. Beside it, discreetly wrapped in linen, was a small bottle of lubricating oil—pure, scented faintly with roses—something Ben intended to use for Rosalee's sore muscles. He'd overheard once that Second-borns bruised more easily, and though Rosalee never said as much, Ben couldn't help but want to do everything in his power to ease their aches.
He wiped his hands on a towel staring at the neat tray. His heart was beating too fast. It had only been a day since that stolen kiss on the cheek, and already he was preparing what looked suspiciously like a lover's after-training surprise.
Ben shook his head, trying to focus.
That's when he heard them.
Two maids walking briskly through the servant corridor, whispering a little too loudly, clearly hoping to be overheard.
"I heard Mireille's got something planned. Said she found her chance after last night."
"The garden girl?"
"Mmhmm. Said the Second's due a humiliation… said she's going to make sure no one forgets their place."
Ben froze.
The tray rattled slightly in his hands as fury gripped him.
'Mireille? That plain, bitter little—'
He didn't even finish the thought. Instinct overwhelmed logic. He snatched up the tray, still perfectly arranged, and tucked the linen-wrapped oil beneath his arm. He didn't have time to alert the head cook, nor did he care.
He needed to find Rosalee. Now.
The thought of someone trying to hurt them—even emotionally—filled him with a rush of protectiveness so strong it startled even himself. His polished shoes clicked against the marble floors as he half-walked, half-jogged through the corridors, heading straight toward the Second's suite. He prayed he wasn't too late. That Rosalee hadn't walked straight into a trap while he was dawdling over jam pairings.
No one was allowed to harm them.
Not while he was still breathing.
…
Ben arrived at Rosalee's door breathless, half-expecting disaster.
But when he opened the door without knocking—his sense of urgency overriding propriety—he was struck motionless.
There sat Rosalee, languid and radiant, perched atop their velvet chaise like a cherry blossom in bloom. One leg delicately crossed over the other, a frosted glass of water poised in their hand. Their braid, laced with rose-pinned shimmer, glinted in the sunlight streaming in through the tall windows. They looked every bit the sovereign of the room—serene, smug, and unbothered—like a courtesan lounging in the center of a stage designed just for them.
And all around them, the staff was bustling in various stages of chaos.
Maids with reddening cheeks hurriedly sorted piles of silken garments and expensive lace underwear into neat stacks. Footmen quietly muttered to each other as they rearranged jewel boxes and lined up shoes. And in the middle of it all stood the aging, grimacing head butler—Mr. Thatch Grinnel—sleeves rolled up and furiously scrubbing a patch of floor from a spilled glass of juice near the bed as if trying to erase his own indignity.
No one spoke.
Ben stood frozen in the doorway, his tray balanced precariously in his arms, taking in the surreal tableau before him.
After a leisurely sip from their glass, Rosalee finally noticed him. Their lips curled up, delight blooming in their expression.
"Oh! Benny!"
They called out cheerfully, their voice bright as spun sugar.
The entire room stopped moving.
Even Thatch's scrubbing hand paused mid-circle, a droplet of soapy water falling from the rag in slow motion. The staff turned toward Ben with wide eyes, waiting—expecting—his rebuke, his sneer, his discipline for the disrespect, the over-familiarity. They were sure he'd be furious, mortified, at such intimacy being spoken aloud from the house's lowest-born noble.
But instead, Ben smiled.
He smiled with soft relief and barely contained joy, his shoulders relaxing as he strode forward, no shame in his step.
"You're alright…"
He said gently as he reached the chaise, setting the tray down on a nearby side table.
"I thought something might've happened… but you look…"
His gaze swept over them, from their braid to their folded hands to the slight sheen of freshness on their cheeks
"Better than ever."
He knelt slightly, lowering his voice just enough to turn the room into an eavesdropper's theater.
"I brought your favorites…"
He said as he removed the linen cloth from the tray, revealing the delicately arranged snacks.
"And if you're sore from training… I had rose-scented oil delivered just this morning. I can massage your arms, or your back. Anywhere you feel tight. I know the training must've been intense today."
Rosalee blinked once, their lashes lowering ever so slightly.
Even they were stunned.
Ben had begun to act loyal—yes—but never so openly attentive. Never this devoted. His voice didn't even waver with shame or hesitation as he offered a massage in front of a room full of underlings. The power shift was palpable.
Rosalee quickly recovered, slipping into their softer persona with an impish grin.
"You think of everything, Benny. Thank you."
They cooed, turning toward the tray and lifting one of the rose-jam pastries with dainty fingers. Before they could bring it to their lips, Ben intercepted.
"Allow me, my lady."
He said smoothly, taking the pastry from them and lifting it to their mouth, his other hand hovers underneath so no crumbs fall onto their lap.
Rosalee, playfully wide-eyed, opened their lips and took the bite gently from his fingers. The moment lingered. Their lips barely grazed his fingers. The smallest of sighs followed as they chewed with exaggerated delight.
Around them, the staff slowly bowed their heads and resumed their work—but now with reverence, with tact.
All but one.
Mireille stood in the corner, her arms stiff, her hands folding one of Rosalee's more daring undergarments—a sheer ivory lace pair with pearl clasps—her jaw clenched so tightly it seemed it might snap.
Her brown eyes burned with spite as she watched Ben carefully dab the corner of Rosalee's lips with a cloth, murmuring something too low for anyone else to hear.
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she folded the lace into a neat square, swearing silently that if her first plan didn't work, her next one would be unforgettable.