The Villainess's Secret Bedroom Service
Chapter 147: Where You Truly Belong

Chapter 147: Where You Truly Belong

In the depths of another unsettling dream that seemed to blur the lines of reality, Rosalie found herself enveloped in an eerie darkness that somehow failed to obscure her surroundings. Amidst the murky abyss, her attention was captivated by one striking detail— the unmistakable roundness of her own stomach.

A wave of uncertainty washed over her as she grappled with the implications of this peculiar revelation.

"Could it be... Am I pregnant?"

The weight of this realization settled heavily upon her, prompting her to instinctively place both hands atop her round stomach. Yet, as she made contact, a jolt of unfamiliar sensations surged through her, causing her to hastily retract her hands. The overwhelming unfamiliarity of her significantly altered form proved to be too much to bear, even within the confines of her subconscious.

Out of the darkness, the duchess perceived the faint yet distinctly weighty footfalls drawing near, heralding the approach of an entity she somehow knew all too well. Swiftly, from the shroud of obscurity materialized a familiar figure—a large black wolf, its fiery crimson gaze fixated upon her, its massive, unkempt paws methodically advancing.

In the face of this surreal encounter, Rosalie found herself frozen in place. However, contrary to her usual response, it was not fear that seized her; it was astonishment at the absence of fear itself.

Upon noticing the lady’s lack of apprehension, the wolf cautiously extended its nose toward her rounded stomach, meticulously observing her response. Encountering no resistance, it gingerly maneuvered its snout, bestowing upon her stomach a gentle, tender nuzzle as if to express a silent affection.

Observing this unforeseen tenderness, Rosalie found herself compelled to voice her bewilderment,

"You’ve never seemed this approachable before. Have you always harbored such gentleness beneath your exterior?"

Inevitably, the wolf maintained its silence, meeting her gaze with an expression that seemed to convey a mix of compassion and melancholy. Before Rosalie could come up with another question, the faint echoes of yet another set of footsteps reverberated from the depths of the enveloping darkness.

This time, a towering, enigmatic figure materialized before the lady and the wolf. Distinguished by his tall stature, long, cascading locks, and the concealing swathes of white bandages that obscured his sight, the presence of this stranger left Rosalie bereft of any protective refuge.

A surge of unease rippled through her, a sensation the black wolf readily perceived, yet he remained notably non-aggressive. Instead, he allowed the man to draw near, observing the unfolding interaction with a guarded vigilance.

As the stranger closed the distance, he merely extended a placating gesture, his hand coming to rest gently upon the wolf’s head. Curiously, he appeared disinterested in Rosalie and her pregnant stomach, his attention seemingly drawn elsewhere. With an unhurried pivot, he turned on his heel, hands calmly clasped behind his back, and began to recede into the obscurity from whence he came.

The black wolf hesitated, revealing to Rosalie the unspoken understanding that the man cloaked in darkness intended for it to accompany him.

Caught in a web of uncertainty, Rosalie grappled with conflicting thoughts. Did the wolf willingly desire to follow the enigmatic figure, or was it being forced against its will?

The stranger’s silhouette gradually diminished, melding into the enveloping shadows, and in response, the wolf acquiesced, stepping forth to heed the silent call. As the wolf vanished into the abyss alongside the enigmatic stranger, a profound sense of desolation engulfed Rosalie. It was as if she had been abruptly severed from a cherished acquaintance, leaving her adrift in a profound sea of helplessness and sorrow, haunted by the uncertainty of whether they would cross paths again.

***

Damien gently planted a delicate kiss upon the soft skin of Rosalie’s hand, cradling it against his cold forehead. His voice, a plaintive murmur, trembled with an earnest plea,

"Rosalie, why aren’t you waking up? Revered Altair and His Holiness, the High Priest, have assured us that all is well. Then why, my love, do you remain so still?"

Three days had passed since Rosalie’s sudden collapse at the lavish celebration of her birth. Despite the exhaustive consultations of the most esteemed Imperial physicians and the spiritual guidance of the revered figures from the Holy Temple, their combined wisdom had yet to rouse the duchess from her enigmatic slumber. The stagnation of her unconscious state cast a shadow of distress upon all those who held her dear, their apprehension mounting with each passing moment of her unbroken repose.

In the span of these preceding three days, Damien had remained anchored by his wife’s bedside, refusing sustenance, hydration, and sleep. Ever since he brought her back to their bedroom, his fervent desire had been singular—to witness her return to consciousness, to witness her luminous eyes once more flutter open.

Amidst the growing concern, a multitude of well-wishers expressed their earnest desire to pay their respects to the ailing lady, clinging to the hope that her ailment was naught but a passing affliction.

However, to their dismay, their overtures were met with the resolute denial of the Grand Duke, who adamantly shielded Rosalie from all external intrusions. Even the members of the Imperial family were met with the same unyielding refusal, fostering an air of pervasive conjecture throughout the Capital, shrouding Rosalie’s condition in an aura of escalating mystery and grave concern.

Despite the mounting concern, the esteemed nobility unanimously opted to honor Damien’s resolute decree, refraining from exerting any undue pressure upon him. This collective adherence to restraint found its roots in the earnest counsel proffered by none other than the Emperor himself, who, in recognition of the delicacy of the situation, advocated for a hands-off approach.

However, one persistent figure remained resolutely undeterred by social conventions—the unwavering presence of Princess Angelica Rische. Refusing to yield to Felix’s repeated objections, she tenaciously entrenched herself within the confines of one of the estate’s guest chambers, resolute in her vigil until her cherished friend would awaken from her enigmatic slumber.

Determined to uncover the truth shrouded in mystery, Angelica remained resolute in her quest.

"Be it witnessing Rosalie’s emergence from that chamber or awaiting the Grand Duke’s eventual surrender to rest, I refuse to be swayed. Something lingers, something amiss. I must discern the nature of this anomaly, for should Rosalie’s well-being be imperiled, my Holy Power may hold the key to her salvation."

***

Altair delicately pressed the quill tip onto the pristine expanse of the parchment, deftly etching each word with meticulous urgency. Within the hushed confines of his Temple chambers, the sole disturbance came from the scratchy whisper of the quill as it inscribed the parchment, the only sound that dared to permeate the encompassing stillness.

Abruptly, as if seizing upon a fleeting pause in the ceaseless motion of his hand, Altair halted, allowing a brief respite. In this overwhelming silence, Mephisto finally exhaled a deep, resonant sigh, shattering the tranquility with his somber intonation,

"So, this is your resolve, is it? Forsaking the Cult and leveraging my abilities to safeguard a woman who can never be yours?"

Altair paused briefly, fidgeting with the quill, before recommencing his fervent transcription. With an undertone of irritation lacing his words, he retorted to the demon’s disdainful remarks,

"Such concerns are irrelevant now. The landscape has shifted, and so have my priorities."

In response, Mephisto emitted a derisive snort,

"Oh, the folly of mortal minds. Always tethering their honor to self-sacrifice. You relinquished your very soul to avenge your kin. Then, you squandered your sanity obsessing over a girl. And now, you cast away the remnants of your existence in an attempt to aid her. Are you naught but a martyr, Altair? Perhaps the embrace of the Holy Temple is where you truly belong."