Wearing Her Face, Claiming His Bed

Fionna

The commotion rose from the ground floor—the master had returned home, and this mansion adjacent to Kensington Palace fell into a brief flurry of activity. I understood what time it was, so I walked into the bathroom and meticulously cleaned my body, applying sage-scented scrub all over before spraying on rose perfume. After blow-drying my hair, I entered that room and quietly lay down on the ornate four-poster bed with its antique styling. Before long, the door was pushed open, and the man walked in.

"You're always so conscientious," he said, removing his silk shirt as his knees pressed onto the mattress, causing my center of gravity to shift slightly and the hair that had been covering my chest to fall away. His body pressed tightly against mine, that scorching temperature making me shiver involuntarily, a moan escaping between my lips and teeth.

"Alastair." I called the man's name, actively extending my arms to embrace his back. Those hands fell on my waist, cold and clean—I could feel the slight calluses on his fingertips scraping against my sensitive places. His ten fingers were so slender yet possessed a terrible strength that left me unable to break free, only able to gasp and melt in his burning embrace. Each of his thrusts was deep and fast, forcing me to grip the slippery silk sheets, my nails pulling out fine threads. I couldn't scratch the man's back, so I used all my strength to control myself.

My waist was losing its strength—seeming to sense my difficulty, he lifted his hand to grab a pillow and tucked it under my waist, then raised his position and once again entered me deeply.

I maintained my clarity of mind throughout—something I had insisted on doing for years—so I heard the words he uttered between his gasps.

"You look so much like her, but you're not her, Fionna."

This lovemaking lasted two hours, as usual. Afterwards he went to clean up first while I lay on the disheveled bed, gasping for breath, trying to bend my knees. Sharp pain struck—every joint in my body was protesting. I bit down to swallow my scream and grabbed the lace nightgown to pull over my head.

The room was filled with the scent of roses, so rich it was almost bitter, reminiscent of the juice that seeps out when those crimson flowers are cut from their stems.

I coughed lightly a few times, suppressing louder sounds.

Alastair emerged from the bathroom. I had to admit, he was so handsome and upright he could be placed directly into the canvas of "Artemis and Orion"—or simply call it "Artemis and Alastair." Once the moonlight illuminated him, the goddess would surely forget that foolish shepherd boy.

The dignified nobility cultivated by wealth and power made Alastair appear unattainably lofty, and indeed he rarely let others approach him, while I was that cunning little thief.

"I brought you a gift," Alastair said, taking out a small box containing a necklace set with some kind of sapphire. "Sri Lankan sapphire—not very large, but very pure, matches your eyes perfectly."

He pulled me to stand and walked to the enormous floor-length mirror. The tearing sensation in my lower body nearly made me scream out, but I summoned all my strength to maintain my smile, looking at myself in the mirror—reddish-brown curls, pale skin, sky-blue eyes, a woman like a rose.

Alastair hung the sapphire necklace around my neck, gazing at it obsessively, and I knew very clearly he was looking through me at a phantom shadow.

"You look so much like her," he murmured, his fingers sliding from my cheek. "Even the names are so similar—if Fionnaghal were still alive, she'd be your age, though she would certainly be more beautiful than you."

He finally reluctantly released me and handed over a deep red rose. As I had every time before, I put on a happy appearance, inhaling the scent of those velvet-like petals.

"I still can't believe my luck is this good." The stabbing pain at the root of my thighs became more pronounced—I desperately maintained my composure, making myself look like a silly girl. "That I could find such a good job, so easy, with such a beautiful life, wow."

Alastair smiled, but that smile was swift and sharp, like a pale lightning bolt cutting across the night sky. He released me and stepped back a few paces.

"Thank you for reminding me each time that you're not Fionnaghal, that my beloved has long since turned to ash."

I drew my shoulders in, playing the naive girl.

Yes, in his eyes I was merely an ordinary girl who happened to come to the mansion to apply for a staff position, with no connection whatsoever to the ancient Scottish mafia factions, but God had granted me a face similar to his deceased lover's. He made no attempt to hide his favoritism toward me, but it was limited to just that—a cute toy cat, that was my meaning, for now.

I calculated the time—it was about right to take my leave, so I lowered my head to Alastair. I should have curtsied—he had a genuine old aristocratic title and favored these ancient ceremonies—but my waist and legs hurt too much, so sometimes I would muddle through. He suddenly lifted his head.

"Oh, by the way, Oleander returns from Genoa tomorrow."

My footsteps paused. Oleander was the daughter of an ancient Italian mafia family—the old guard in London hoped she could become Alastair's wife, just as they had insisted for centuries, ancient noble bloodlines merging with each other without mixing in "inferior" blood. So half the year, Oleander lived in London, ostensibly working at a foundation where she held a title, but actually cultivating a marital foundation with Alastair. I didn't want to use "emotional foundation" because there was no such thing between them. However, I had only arrived here last winter and had only heard about her, never met her.

"She specifically requested you as her lady's maid," Alastair continued with his instructions.

Good God, listen to his terminology—"lady's maid." I believed in modern society this job should be called "personal assistant," but such standards did not apply to Alastair.

He made a gesture indicating he had finished speaking and I could leave, so once again I forced out a smile, and only after closing the door did I stagger and collapse onto the thick velvet carpet.

As the master, Alastair's bedroom was on the mansion's third floor, and he had made an exception allowing me to live in the adjacent room—originally prepared for the lady of the house and children. Without his permission, staff members were not allowed to come to the third floor at will, so no one knew of my predicament.

Finally dragging myself into the room, I let out a long breath, forcefully closed the door, and collapsed directly onto the soft carpet. Enough roses had already accumulated on the floor, like a wall of flowers, just like the rose wall Alastair and I had once crawled through together many years ago.

Poor Alastair, never knowing that his first love had crawled out from beneath the rose ashes, returning to his side with a changed appearance, only for revenge.

A subtle burning sensation rose in my heart, as if fine needles were pricking me.

But first, tomorrow I had to welcome a troublesome woman, and if I didn't sleep soon I would definitely be done for.