Julien's hands hovered, just above her chest.
Then he reached behind her back — slow, unhurried — fingers slipping beneath her to find the knot holding her bra closed.
A gentle tug.
The strings came loose.
Her breasts spilled free beneath the loosened fabric. Full, heavy, pale against the light.
Her nipples, already stiff from exposure, tightened further as the cool air brushed across them. Soft flesh trembled with her breath, rising and falling in a rhythm she could no longer control.
Julien's eyes lingered.
Then he reached for her — his hands sliding up her ribs, curving around the outer roundness of her breasts.
He tried to hold one with a single hand—but it spilled between his fingers, too full to contain. So he used both, cupping her breasts slowly, almost experimentally, as if weighing them.
His thumbs brushed across the nipples, drawing a slight shiver from her spine.
Her thighs shifted. Her fingers gripped the sheets.
He squeezed. Not hard — but firm. Shaping her flesh between his palms, before lowering his mouth to her breasts.
His lips met her skin in a deliberate press.
He sucked.
Her body reacted immediately. Her back arched slightly. One of her hands flew up, grasping at the pillow. The other clenched tight around the sheet.
His tongue circled the peak of her nipples. Then again, slower. His lips closed, and he pulled.
Heat rushed across her cheeks.
Her breathing broke — low, sharp gasps escaping between parted lips.
Then he shifted to her left breast.
Mira's legs tensed beneath him. Her toes curled.
Julien's pace changed — he sucked again, but deeper this time, lips dragging away with a soft, wet pop. Her nipples glistened in saliva, stiff and slick under the dim light.
She exhaled sharply, eyes shut, her chest rising high with each breath she caught from the air.
Julien sat up.
His hands trailed downward.
Fingers slid across her stomach, then lower — pausing at the waistband of her panties. Black cotton. Plain. Clinging.
He didn't remove them.
Not yet.
Instead, his palm flattened against the fabric, feeling the heat beneath. He pressed slowly, fingers gliding along the soft curve between her thighs — tracing the full shape of her lower lips, already wet, even through the barrier of cloth.
Her hips lifted, just slightly.
His touch dragged down the center, deliberate, until his fingers rested over the slickest point.
Her breath caught.
Julien leaned forward again, hand still moving — slow, steady — as if mapping the shape of her pleasure. His other hand reached up, brushing her breast once more. Then he stopped.
Both hands came to rest — one at her chest, the other at her hips.
He hooked his fingers into the sides of her black panties.
And pulled.
The fabric slid down her thighs. Over her knees. Past her ankles.
Gone.
Julien moved between her legs.
Her thighs parted as if on instinct.
He leaned forward — again, without a word.
And finally, he entered her.
Mira's back arched. Her breath scattered.
Her hands tightened around the sheets once more.
Julien moved — slow, deep, silent.
The rhythm of breath, the slap of skin, the wet sound of friction.
No words.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Only the sound of her body giving in.
He thrust again — steady, unchanging.
Her body trembled.
Then again — and she came, moaning.
She was breathless. Her body slackened beneath him, chest rising and falling in short, shallow gasps, skin glowing with sweat.
But it seemed Julien wasn't done yet.
He glanced down at her, grinned, then spoke for the first time that night.
"You can still go on, right?"
Mira, still flushed and dazed, nodded. A silent yes.
He moved again.
A second round.
Then a third.
They stopped at fourth.
Both were soaked in sweat. Mira's legs trembled. Julien finally laid down beside her, exhaling softly.
He pulled her against him, one arm sliding beneath her back, the other down near her waist — hand settling over the soft curve of her rear. Her naked breasts pressed gently against his chest.
And like that, they drifted into sleep.
The next morning.
"Young Master, wake up."
"Young Master, you'll be late if you don't get up."
"YOUNG MASTERRRR—!"
Julien stirred, eyes blinking open, lashes still heavy with sleep.
Sunlight spilled through the window.
He turned.
Mira was standing near the bed, already halfway dressed — blouse fastened, skirt still undone at the waist. Her chestnut-brown hair hung loose over one shoulder, and her cheeks were dusted in red.
She was trying not to meet his gaze.
Julien stretched once, then asked casually:
"By the way, Mira… why did you say such cursed words to me that morning?"
His tone was light, amused — but there was something steady behind it now.
The old Julien's memories had settled in. And there he saw it — how Mira had always been there. Quiet. Steady. While others mocked and belittled old Julien, treating him like nothing… She did her duty. When he was hurt, she was always the first to clean his wounds and bandage him.
Mira paused, eyes down, fingers fidgeting with the ends of her braid.
Julien added, gently. "Don't worry. I won't get angry. Just be honest."
Mira hesitated. Then finally answered.
"W… When the Patriarch called you to his study…" she began, voice low.
"The Head Maid also came… and she got angry. She said I hadn't taken proper care of you. If I'd… handled your… sexual urges, the scandal wouldn't have happened."
She bit her lip.
"The other maids were laughing. Teasing me. Saying I was useless. So I…"
She trailed off, shoulders tight.
Julien looked at her for a long moment. Her face was flushed, her hands clenched.
'She's cute when she's flustered.'
Then Mira bowed her head, her voice low and unsteady.
"I'm sorry, Young Master. Please forgive me. I won't say anything like that again."
Julien stood up — fully nude, unbothered — then stepped closer. He placed one hand gently on top of her head, guiding her forward until her forehead touched his bare chest.
His arms wrapped around her.
"Don't worry," he said quietly.
"No one would dare insult you now."
Mira's eyes widened.
"P-Pardon…?"
But then her gaze shifted — to his chest.
Her breath caught.
Julien's body, once lean and soft, now held a firm, sculpted definition. His muscles were tight under pale skin — not bulky, but refined, as if cut and shaped with purpose.
Her cheeks turned crimson.
'When did Young Master become so… fit?'
She shook her head quickly, flustered by her own thought — then turned on her heel and fled the room in a rush.
Julien chuckled under his breath.
But the smile faded a second later.
Pain stabbed into his chest.
He staggered — one step, then two — and collapsed to his knees, gripping the floor.
His entire body seized. Breath shallow. Fingers trembling.
Then—
A sudden pulse.
His veins lit up with light — a faint blue glow dancing across his skin like threads of fire beneath the surface.
A translucent layer of mana surged over him — coiling across his arms, his neck, his chest. It shimmered violently, like a spell forced into form.
Then it vanished.
Silence followed.
Julien stood slowly.
His violet eyes opened — no longer dull, but blazing.
The irises glowed, deep and fierce — like twin violet flames, flickering with arcane light.
He raised a hand, fingers curling and flexing in the air.
"Finally," he muttered.
"I reached the First Circle."
The mark he painted on Mira's belly last night wasn't some idle flourish.
It was a Succubus Flame Mark — a rare glyph used by dark mages to siphon power through sexual resonance. Normally etched on a trained vessel, it allowed the caster not only to absorb mana and vitality through intercourse... but to bind the marked subject with layered constraints:
• They could not commit any physical or verbal act — directly or indirectly — that might harm the caster.
• Their pain threshold would be altered, rewritten into heightened pleasure — especially during defloration.
• ….
• ….
That's why Mira hadn't bled on her first time. She hadn't screamed. She had gasped, writhed — clung to him like she was drowning in pleasure.
Julien's lips curved into a satisfied grin.
"I didn't expect it to work so perfectly."
Mira's voice called from outside the room, slightly rushed.
"Young Master, please bathe and come down for breakfast. Your class will be starting soon!"
Julien bathed quickly, ate, and left for class.
The moment he stepped into the lecture hall, the room fell silent.
Not a whisper. Not a cough.
Every noble student sat straight, eyes locked forward, hands perfectly placed — as if facing a superior, not a peer.
No one dared meet his eyes.
Julien just hummed, low and amused, and walked to his usual seat at the back.
Tristina was already there.
Still unreadable. Still silent.
But Elaria, her admirer Darian, and his sister Ava — the triplets: vanity, barking pride, and useless tears — were absent.
Professor Aldwain Macklin entered shortly after. A moment later, the lecture began without delay.
Books opened. Quills scratched faintly on parchment.
Julien leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded.
Class went on as usual.
When class ended, everyone rose and shuffled around, murmurs rippling through the room.
'Wait… Isn't Etiquette next? It's supposed to be in the same room.'
Julien stayed seated, frowning faintly. Something wasn't right.
Before he could—
"Julien."
The voice was calm.
Precise.
Close.
He turned—slowly.
Tristina. Finally spoke.