Looking for a Husband to Confine Me - Chapter 38.2
Chapter 38.2
He rummaged through his clothes with the hand that wasn’t holding my wrist. His movements, initially hurried, stilled as he found what he was looking for and pulled out a pristine white handkerchief. Still holding my wrist with one hand, he used his teeth to rip the handkerchief.
“What are you…?”
“You’re injured, Amelia.” He wrapped the torn strip of handkerchief around my left arm. His words made me realize that, with Harun gone, the wounds on my left arm were fully exposed.
“I thought you were safe and sound. Apparently not.”
“This just… happened.” It wasn’t a serious injury. If Haroon had stayed a little longer, it would have healed completely. It wasn’t something to be so concerned about, but Damian seemed displeased. The languid smile he usually wore was gone, replaced by a serious expression.
“…Did you get hurt because of me?” Bashar, seemingly noticing the injury for the first time, approached slowly, his face grim.
The sudden proximity of the two men cast a shadow over where I stood. I quickly shook my head.
“No. It’s an older injury.”
While it was true that I’d received the injury while saving Bashar, there was no need to tell them the truth. The problem was that neither of them seemed to believe my lie. It was an injury one could easily sustain while fleeing from beasts and monsters under Pazl’s influence. I didn’t understand their overreaction.
“Amel…” Damian was about to say my name when—
Thud! A dull thud echoed from the next room, the reception area beyond the door. A faint groan followed.
“That’s…”
“That’s my brother’s voice.”
“It seems to be Pazl.” Me and Damian answered Bashar in turn. The problem was the lack of further sounds after the initial thud. If Pazl had entered and Kelliard had tried to subdue him, there should have been a struggle. Yet, there were no further sounds, not even Kelliard’s groans.
“…It seems he’s waiting outside.” Damian muttered, releasing my wrist. The air against the skin where his hand had been felt momentarily cool.
“Waiting? Who is he waiting for?”
“Well, perhaps he’s waiting for Your Highness to show yourself.” Reaching the door, Damian turned to Bashar with a wry smile. He held the doorknob, seemingly gauging Bashar’s intentions. “Outside is Pazl and perhaps a surviving knight. He’s waiting. Waiting for Your Highness to appear first.”
“A trap?”
“It’s possible.” Damian lightly twirled the sword he’d been holding. The usual languid expression had returned to his face. “Regardless of his true intentions, I was ordered to protect Your Highness, and that’s why I’m here.”
“…Me?”
“So, Your Highness, you simply need to tell me what to do.” His playful, confident demeanor and gaze… ever since I met him, I’d questioned if he was truly a mercenary. But now I knew for certain.
The practiced way he handled his weapon, the killing intent directed towards Pazl, the absence of fear in the face of potential danger, the attitude that suggested he would carry out any order—Damian Ditronil, the man shrouded in rumors, was undoubtedly a mercenary.
“Whether to kill him, or let him live.” Damian’s words implied he would deal with Pazl according to Bashar’s wishes.
Bashar’s lips parted slightly, his golden eyes, like the sun, flickering with uncertainty.
‘In this situation, killing Pazl would be easier.’
It’s always easier to kill than to save a life. Subduing someone alive is far more difficult and troublesome than simply killing them from the start.
Pazl’s survival posed a significant threat. He might escape again or cause further trouble. Eliminating him would be the most advantageous course of action for Bashar. Yet, Bashar hesitated, conflicted about what to do with the man who had attempted to take his life. ‘Could it be…?’
Despite the attempt on his life, Pazl was Haroon’s attendant. Perhaps Bashar felt he couldn’t decide his fate. Or maybe, after their long history, he simply couldn’t bring himself to order Pazl’s death. Whatever the reason, the situation was frustrating. Finally, Damian, tired of waiting, made the decision.
“Your Highness seems to be in deep thought. For now, we’ll spare his life.” Bashar remained silent. “That way, you can decide later.” Damian spoke as casually as if discussing dinner options, then slowly opened the door to the reception area.
The first things visible beyond Damian were the shattered remains of furniture, the room in disarray. Clearly, Kelliard had put up a fight. Albeit unsuccessfully. Past the wreckage, Pazl was visible, effortlessly holding Kelliard by the throat. Pazl’s mocking gaze shifted to the bedroom.
“Disappointing, Your Highness. You thought such a pathetic knight could stop me?”
“Pazl,” Bashar’s voice was low and heavy.
“Hiding in such a place… How pathetic, Your Highness.” Pazl’s eyes, filled with disdain, fixed on Bashar in the bedroom. “Perhaps it’s the place that suits you best.” He laughed aloud, his body shaking with each jeer, causing Kelliard, still held captive, to sway precariously.
“…Is he…” Bashar’s quiet words cut Pazl’s laughter short. He seemed momentarily confused, unsure who Bashar was referring to. Bashar’s gaze was fixed on Kelliard Hazel, held tightly in Pazl’s grasp.
“Is he dead?” “
Surely you haven’t grown fond of a mere foreign knight already? Or perhaps his incompetence reminds you of yourself?” Pazl burst into laughter again.
“Ugh!” His grip on Kelliard’s throat tightened, shaking him violently, forcing a groan from the knight. “Unfortunately, this insignificant knight still lives. A remarkably tenacious life, wouldn’t you say?” Pazl’s gaze shifted from Kelliard back to Bashar, his eyes raking over him as if to add, ‘Much like Your Highness.’
