Bound by Love and Contracts

Chapter 1

**Title: Forced Into a Merry Contractual Union - GL**
In an unexpected turn of events, Daphne the Nanny emerges as a dignified, striking heiress.
Armed with a hefty relocation contract, she coerces Young Finn Goldsmith into signing a thoroughly unequal marriage arrangement—
Cassandra Everhart: “Let’s get to the Civil Bureau right now.”
Alaric von Whitmore: “This is a huge deal; it’s going to cost you more~”
Cassandra Everhart: “If you don’t marry me, you’ll live alone forever.”
Alaric von Whitmore: “Let’s do it. Even if Jesus himself shows up today, I’m still marrying you.”
The marriage agreement’s eleven clauses are all traps waiting to ensnare Alaric von Whitmore.
Heartbroken, he stumbles into the metaphorical grave of marriage, working a thankless job during the day and laboring in bed at night, all to please his wife and falsely secure more living expenses.
In the middle of the night, drowning his sorrows, Alaric von Whitmore sorrowfully sings “The Dancer’s Tears”: “Pushed to live, I swallow my tears, is this simply fate, destined to toil in the dust forever.”
**Scene - First Flower Delivery:**
Alaric von Whitmore rushes to Blossom Vale, returning with a truckload of sunflowers.
At five in the morning, he stands in Rosewood Garden, holding a megaphone and feigning deep emotion: “Oh, my beloved wife, you are my sunshine, I will forever look up to you.”
The schlockiness of this romantic proclamation makes Cassandra Everhart want to throw her slippers at him: “Boring! You’re such a dork.”
Rebuffed, Alaric von Whitmore plops down, casually cracking sunflower seeds: “Wife, sunflowers can be roasted too. How about I make some for you to snack on~”
---
**Chapter: The Matchmaking**
The late afternoon sun beams through the clouds, casting a golden haze around.
Alaric von Whitmore lounges by the window, chatting on the phone, sunlight gracing his slim shoulders, and his wavy chestnut hair gleaming.
“After ruining nine of your matchmaker cousins' setups, why haven’t they given up yet?” The tone hints at exasperation. Long, slender fingers trace circles on his coffee cup, beads of chilled water glimmering like jewels.
Whatever they say on the other end seems to spark a thrilled glimmer in his smart eyes.
With a confident smirk, he replies, “I’ll sabotage today’s setup for sure; I promise to break it into smithereens.”
Lady Eleanor Beaufort, an old client, has promised a hefty commission if Alaric can successfully help her dodge a relentless suitor.
In the quiet ambiance of The Gilded Mug, there are only a few other tables filled.
Suddenly, a striking figure catches his eye as she marches in.
The woman’s vibrant lips glisten, her clear eyes radiating an aura of aloofness.
She struts toward Alaric von Whitmore’s direction, an enchanting scent trailing in her wake.
Claiming the desired corner table for herself, she positions herself facing Alaric as if to silently challenge him—this corner is mine, and you’re not welcome here.
Overwhelmed by her powerful presence, Alaric sips his coffee, irritation bubbling within him.
A server strolls over, breaking the charged silence.
“Hot latte, no sugar,” the woman instructs, her voice cool and clipped, clearly uninterested in wasting time on trifles.
In the fleeting moments, their eyes accidentally meet.
Alaric smiles warmly, but the woman turns her gaze imperiously to the window, effectively closing off any chance of conversation.
Tsk, why act as if everyone owes you money? Alaric grumbles internally as he notices a second figure approaching.
“Everhart, sorry to keep you waiting.”
Cassandra Everhart glances down coolly and retorts, “You’re late.”
Evangeline Browne, unfazed by the chill, chuckles teasingly, “You hold your friends to such lofty standards; it’s hard to like you.”
“I don’t need to please you,” Cassandra snaps back, as if uttering another word would be a slight against herself.
Evangeline Browne is notorious for being a heartbreaker, queuing up affection for any girl she likes, her reputation marred solely by her entanglements.
Cassandra Everhart is her rightful fiancée.
With their families long intertwined, their union merely sustains corporate benefits—no sentiment involved.
“Why did you call me here? What’s the deal?” Evangeline fidgets, sneaking glances at her watch, obviously keen to leave even a second longer.
Cassandra, keen to not waste time, goes straight to the point: “Let’s cancel the engagement; it’ll be liberating for both of us.”
Such a sudden proposal catches Evangeline off-guard, who naturally refuses, “No, this isn’t a small matter; it’ll be a mess to explain to our parents.”
“You seem to be the only one bothered by that,” Cassandra retorts, slapping an assortment of photographs onto the table, the sound akin to a slap to Evangeline’s ego.

Chapter 2

In the upscale lounge of The Gilded Mug, Evangeline Browne was engrossed in a seductive game of cards with the charming Isolde the Fair. Despite the tension of their game, her expression remained remarkably composed. Her gaze drifted shamelessly over the photographs strewn across the table, a growing appreciation flickering in her eyes.
“I’ll take care of this situation; we can’t cancel the engagement,” she declared, her confidence undermined by a hint of insecurity.
Cassandra Everhart, perched elegantly beside her, couldn’t help but scoff, “And how exactly do you plan to handle it? There’s always someone who thinks they deserve to be the main event. I’m not that easy to displace."
Alaric von Whitmore, ears perked and eyes gleaming with mischief, leaned in closer, enjoying the unfolding drama like a spectator at a circus. His amusement was palpable, a grin stretching across his face as he savored the chaos around him.
Suddenly, a bulky figure plopped onto the couch, blocking Alaric’s view entirely.
"Miss Charlotte, why are you here so early?" The latecomer, Sir Reginald Blackwood, grumbled, showing no remorse for his tardiness.
Alaric glanced up, observing the man whose balding head was slowly giving way to a prominent beer belly, accompanied by not one, but several chins that cascaded down as if seeking refuge beneath his suit.
Ugh. He wondered where the rest of his neck had gone.
As the man loosened his tie, his ample midsection jiggled, embodying the stereotype of the tasteless nouveau riche. He’d flaunted his flashy gold watch with bravado, barking orders at the waiter and fully embracing his over-the-top persona.
Confronted with such overwhelming crassness, Alaric found himself baffled. What terrible crime had Miss Charlotte committed against her family to warrant being saddled with such a ludicrous brute?
There were plenty of men on Earth who weren’t walking punchlines. Why on earth was she being punished with this?
With an exaggerated flick of his wrist, Alaric checked his phone, channeling his inner drama queen. "Oh, look at that! Sir Reginald Blackwood is just over an hour late. No big deal. I hardly mind."
The oily gentleman couldn’t miss the subtler insinuation in Alaric’s tone: "You see, I was late because I had a business deal worth several million dollars to sort out."
“Oh, several million!” Alaric stretched out his words, feigning naiveté. “If I didn’t understand, I might’ve walked out on you already. Aren’t I just so easy to get along with?”
“Let’s skip the pleasantries, ladies don’t understand business. I like to get straight to the point. What are your conditions?” Sir Reginald leaned back, his posture complacent, exuding an air of undeserved authority.
“Are you not worried that nearby tables might overhear your utter nonsense? This is a legitimate matrimonial meeting, not a brokered deal,” Alaric chortled, his faux politeness radiating high-class contempt.
“Let me lay it out then: my requirements aren’t much. You won’t have to make public appearances as my wife, and it’s crucial you take care of the home front. A woman’s role is to nurture the family, preferably delivering two children—a boy and a girl to complete the ensemble.”
The sheer entitlement flowing from him was laughable, Alaric’s eyes glinting with mischief. “Two? That’s hardly enough. Why waste a lifetime on just that? I’d be your personal baby machine, minimum four kids. When you’re old, they’ll take turns playing mahjong with you, savoring the joys of family.”
“Y-you!” The man faltered, momentarily thrown off by Alaric’s biting words.
Alaric seized every opportunity to land a jab. “How tall is Sir Reginald Blackwood anyway? I’m standing at 5’10”, so I can easily make up for your genetic shortcomings.” He leaned in, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If we’re lucky, our kids might even hit the low end of 5 feet. That’s a win!”
Feeling bold, Alaric stood, arms wide open. He spun in place, showcasing his statuesque frame, a model of confidence that inevitably invited envy.
Just then, the main star of those steamy photos stormed into the room, her fury palpable. She lunged directly for Cassandra's drink, intent on tossing it without any hesitation.
From the corner of his eye, Alaric noticed the action. His instincts kicked in—years of training had sharpened his reflexes.
In one swift motion, the glass arched perfectly through the air as the assassin lady targeted Miss Charlotte, the attack redirected as it struck the woman’s hand. Instead, a spatter of coffee showered over Evangeline and the brutish man. Justice brewed warm.
The gentleman clutched his designer suit in distress, glaring furiously. “Crazy woman! What’s wrong with you? I’ve never liked you, anyway,” he seethed, pointing his finger at Alaric.
The façade shattered as Alaric returned fire. “A toad hoping for a swan? Quite the absurd notion. Look at you—a gross representation of a misguided fantasy. I suggest you get yourself a hair transplant and fix that liver or your chances of marriage might evaporate before you know it!”
Fuming, the man swung a punch, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity.
To Alaric, the man’s gestures were nothing more than comedic flailing. She caught the punch effortlessly and twisted his arm sharply. Leaning in, she asked, “Still want a boy and a girl? How’s that working out for you?”
The man winced, desperation flooding his features. “Okay, okay! No kids! No kids!”
“Then scram,” Alaric released him as the man dashed off, decisively vanishing from view.
Cassandra’s eyes snapped toward Alaric, surprise etching her features.
Alaric flashed her a smirk, striding over to her and feigning innocence, “My apologies, did I hurt you in the crossfire?”
“My hand aches, it’s all red,” Cassandra muttered, brushing off Alaric’s concern, her eyes glimmering with indignation.
“Let me see,” Evangeline, detached from her earlier composure, suddenly softened as she noticed Cassandra’s wounded pride.
“It’s her fault!  Blame her!” Cassandra pointed a finger at Alaric, accusing her with all the zeal of a child.
The audacity of the blame game was so transparent it almost drew Alaric into laughter.
Cassandra remained unfazed, a pillar of poise. Clearly enjoying the spectacle unfolding as each word bore witness to an ugly confrontation.
“Jade the Enchantress mixing it up with a sultry vixen? Now that’s a headline,” Alaric quipped, synthesizing irony to cut through the tension, leaving both women momentarily speechless.
Evangeline was too sharp to let the biter tangle escalate. Wise enough to recognize that Cassandra wasn’t the type to cross lightly, especially with the kinds of photos that might come back to haunt them upstairs.

Chapter 3

“Enough, stop playing around,” she whispered sharply, grabbing Isolde the Fair and quickly exiting The Gilded Mug.
Two absurd events had recently concluded, leaving only the two matchmaking candidates in a tense stare-off.
Alaric von Whitmore felt a flicker of dissatisfaction; why did this dinner wrap up just as it was getting interesting?
Unbeknownst to her, she had single-handedly taken down the greasy man, smashed a cup in Jade the Enchantress's direction, and thoroughly humiliated the so-called sea king, embodying the spirit of a true battle warrior. It was hard to believe this meal had to end.
Pulling out her phone, Alaric sent a triumphant message to Lady Margaret White — “Your happiness is assured; mission accomplished!”
When she looked up again, Cassandra Everhart was determinedly walking away.
“Hey! I helped you twice, and you can't even say thanks? How unreasonable!” Alaric complained, a hint of sorrow creeping into her tone.
Cassandra slowed her steps at the sound, yet continued walking without looking back.
The dismissal infuriated Alaric, who stomped her foot and placed her hands on her hips defiantly. “Don’t let me run into you again; that would be quite unfortunate.”
Just then, her phone rang, cutting into her frustration. “Hello?”
“Out making side cash during work hours again, are we?”
“I... I’m not!” she protested.
“Let’s talk business. There’s a cleanup job with a handsome payout. You need to handle it alone tonight at eight.”
---
Lillian Bright spoke as if sharing a delightful secret: “Promise me you’ll read the third chapter.”
---
Alaric von Whitmore’s childhood was a saga of loss, having become an orphan following the brutal massacre that shattered her family 24 years ago. Now, two decades later, she stood as the youngest detective captain in the Ravenport Guard. Over her five-year career, she had cracked countless bizarre cases, earning the label of the shining star in the police realm.
During an operation, a conflict erupted between the lawmen and the criminals, and Captain Alaric found herself saved from a gunshot wound by the sudden appearance of a mysterious woman.
Before losing consciousness, the woman pressed her fingertip against Alaric’s lips, leaving behind a tantalizing mystery: “I will break all your chains. You shall become the new order; a soul does not simply fade away without discovering the truth.”
That fleeting encounter struck Alaric’s heart like an arrow, haunting her with nightmares ever since.
After recovering, she dove into investigations, collecting evidence and apprehending suspects, never granting herself a moment of respite. Her idle time was devoted to grueling workouts and training, all geared towards subduing her restless thoughts.
Six months later, amid an unexpected reunion at a crime scene, the woman, donned in icy indifference, introduced herself, “Hello, Captain Alaric. I am Lucius Gale, the head of the Third Party Forensic Institute.”
---
The realm of college bullying led to the unearthing of seven chilling murder cases, prompting city officials to enlist Alaric and Lucius for a joint investigation.
Throughout this partnership, Lucius revealed a different facet of her personality each day; she could transition from captivating charm to a fiery temper in the blink of an eye. Alaric, utilizing her extensive investigative skills, found herself perplexed by this new emotional intricacy.
Eventually, she uncovered Lucius's hidden truth—she had seven distinct personalities.
Their relationship grew quietly, with Alaric irresistibly drawn to the enigmatic depths of Lucius, who quipped, “What if you were to date seven different versions of me; wouldn’t that terrify you?”
“It sounds thrilling; I’m here for the adventure,” Alaric teased back.
Joking aside, the notion of seven personalities posed no real threat. Alaric’s extensive romantic experience assured her that while she solved mysteries by day like an overworked mule, at night she could pick and choose a persona from Lucius’s diverse array of identities, indulging in a life full of exciting encounters.
---
Chapter 2: Rivals
On the outskirts of Ravenport, at the desolate corner of a forgotten place, the Crumbling Tower lay overrun with wild grass, its inner fire flickering ominously.
“Once you buy it, you’re all in—no backing out.” The speaker had a twisted lizard tattoo sprawling across their face, clearly the local boss.
A crowd of henchmen swarmed the gambling table, where freshly stacked cash formed a small mountain.
Just as everyone became engrossed in their betting frenzy—
A pitch-black motorcycle roared to life, casting a menacing shadow and kicking up dust.
Alaric, wearing a shark-fin helmet and tight leather, emerged like a mysterious nighttime knight.
Skillfully weaving through the chaos, she made it seem like a carefree chase across the venue, showing no mercy as she barreled into anyone in her way.
“What are you standing there for? Get her down!” Cedric the Tattoueur shouted, sensing the gathering storm and turning to flee.
Alaric swiftly dodged the chaotic flurry of blades, drawing a short blade from her back with a swiftness that blurred the line between action and illusion.
The knife sliced with lethal precision, embedding deeply into her opponent's neck.
The man collapsed, yelping in agony as Alaric’s motorcycle mercilessly crushed his legs, snuffing out any chance of escape.
As his screams echoed into the night, Alaric decisively took control of the pandemonium, following the tried-and-true strategy of seizing the king before the pawns. A frenzied group of miscreants fled in panic.
In an instant, the Crumbling Tower was left with just the two of them.
The roar of the motorcycle faded into silence, leaving Alaric’s graceful long legs firmly planted on the ground.
She picked up a torch and approached the man, tilting her head to admire her handiwork.
This mission felt like a thrilling amusement park ride, reflecting her inherent nonchalance toward death.
“Do you even realize who you just crossed?” the man spat, barely managing to contain his rage.
He completely overlooked the grim reality that he was merely a lamb to the slaughter.
“Truly bothersome,” Alaric sighed, unexpectedly pulling out the blade lodged in his throat, the blood splattering onto her helmet.

Chapter 4

The man hadn’t yet registered what was happening when the blade sliced across his face, instantly opening a gory wound that released a flood of crimson despair.
“AH—!” His anguished howl echoed as he clutched his bleeding face, waking to the horrifying reality of his own situation.
Clearing the irritating blood from his helmet, Alaric von Whitmore grimly stated, “Just tell me the exact location of the casino, and I can guarantee you’ll see tomorrow’s sunrise.”
The man remained silent, terrified; selling the casino’s location could save his life today, but tomorrow his boss would flay him alive.
Alaric pressed the torch closer, his cold demeanor turning menacing. “My patience is limited.”
The flame danced ominously over the man’s matted flesh, repeatedly singeing his open wound. Overwhelmed by the compounded pain, he finally cried out, “I’ll tell you! Just stop!”
As Alaric jotted down the address, he kicked the man to the ground, clucking in disdain. “You were going to say it sooner or later. Why make it so painful for yourself?”
Despicable, yet effective.
Returning to his motorcycle, Alaric didn’t leave immediately; instead, he rummaged through his portable case and pulled out a large backpack.
Cedric the Tattoueur could only watch helplessly as she strolled leisurely toward the poker table, thinking she might swipe the cash.
To his utter surprise, she ignored the money entirely and exclaimed, “A dozen beers, and you big guys barely drank three six-packs? How are you supposed to run this place?”
Alaric inspected the scattered beer cans on the ground with dissatisfaction and launched into a sarcastic tirade.
Cheerfully gathering up all the cans, she filled her backpack to the brim before stomping on the crushed beer boxes for good measure.
Every recyclable item was hers for the taking.
Cedric, bewildered by her bizarre behavior, struggled against his pain to ask, “Who exactly are you?”
Alaric, not one for modesty, slung the heavy backpack over her shoulders and hopped onto her motorcycle, replying swiftly, “The Midnight Cleanup Crew.” With that, she sped off stylishly.
The midnight moon cast silver rays through the gloom.
The damp stone walls echoed with strange electrical sounds from the streetlights, flickering between light and shadow. Through this ebb and flow, a dark figure blinked in and out.
Shadow Alley pulsated with a rhythm—
‘Thud.’
‘Thud.’
‘Thud.’
It sounded alarmingly like the sickening crack of broken necks, a disquieting affirmation of the city's notorious supernatural myths.
The atmosphere shifted quickly, morphing into something surreal.
“On a pitch-black night, the shadow of Alaric von Whitmore flitted about, targeting the nation's treasures, catching thieves, and even those stealing manhole covers.”
Alaric sang off-key about the haunted tales of the neighborhood.
After successfully completing her bounty mission, she remained helmeted and dumped her collected cans onto the ground.
With each stomp of her long legs in time to her song, the cans crunched and popped like a carnival game, making it almost addictive.
A German Shepherd bounded from a corner, proudly carrying an empty plastic bottle in its mouth and wagging its tail in celebration.
“Lord Prosper, come here!” At the command, the dog rushed over enthusiastically.
Alaric stuffed the flattened bottle into the pockets of Lord Prosper’s saddle bags, clapping her hands in triumph. Time to head home.
Passing a heap of trash, Lord Prosper paused to sniff something peculiar. “Woof.”
Thinking it was just being a typical dog, Alaric scolded, “I’ve told you so many times, we’re not going dumpster diving.”
Lord Prosper whined softly and kept nudging the object at his feet with his nose.
Noticing something amiss, Alaric squinted into the moonlight and felt her heart skip—glimmering like gold was what looked like a human form, draped in a stylish outfit, complete with a wig.
Bending down to ruffle Lord Prosper’s fur, Alaric praised, “Good boy! Look at this treasure I’ve just found. This could fetch quite a sum.”
However, as she reached for the figure, she hesitated, pulling her hand back sharply, her initial excitement morphing into a grim seriousness.
The model’s limbs felt unnaturally soft, warm, as if they still held life.
This wasn’t just a lifeless mannequin—it was a living person.
Trained in the art of combat and death as a mercenary, Alaric was familiar with blood and grim situations, but discovering an unconscious stranger at this hour stoked a flicker of unease in her gut.
Brushing aside the tangled hair, even in the dim light, the delicate features became evident.
A familiar scent of perfume enveloped her senses.
Curious, she gently touched the woman’s face, her earlier anxiety suddenly dissipating.
What to do now? Call the cops? Take her to the hospital? Or just leave her be?
Calling the cops might land her in trouble, taking her to the hospital would wring her wallet dry, and ignoring the woman felt entirely wrong.
In a fit of frustration, Alaric turned to Lord Prosper and vented, “I’ve told you; we’re not rummaging through trash at home! Now look what you’ve done.”
The dog lay low, guilt evident in his eyes as he whined softly.
After a moment's internal conflict, an idea sparked in Alaric’s mind, her eyes narrowing as she plotted mischievously.
The woman showed no visible injuries; she probably fainted—why not take her home for now?
Once the woman regained consciousness, she could spin fanciful tales, and perhaps even express her gratitude with a little cash.
Alaric was a sucker for money, and if it involved riches, she was all in.
Taking swift action, she repositioned her backpack and hoisted the woman onto her back.
“You’re lucky you ran into me; if it were a sleazy old man, who knows what would’ve happened?” Alaric muttered grumpily.
Meandering through the darkness, she navigated back home with a few stumbles along the way.
Once she laid the woman down on the floor, Alaric was winded, struggling for breath as she removed her helmet.
Squatting down to part the woman’s thick, beachy waves, she prepared to assess any injuries.
But upon seeing the woman’s face, Alaric fell back onto her rear, her hands flying to stifle a gasp. “Oh my god, what in the world—”

Chapter 5

"Don’t let me see you again; it’s just bad luck." The harsh words replayed in Alaric von Whitmore's mind like an unwanted tune.
The world was indeed a small place. Wasn’t that the proud woman from The Gilded Mug café earlier in the day?
Alaric sat cross-legged on the floor, lightly flicking Cassandra Everhart's forehead. "Hmph, weren’t you so full of yourself? How did you end up like this?"
Cassandra rested her chin in her hand, deep in thought. The stylish and graceful woman was clearly from money; how could she have fallen to this? Did their earlier fight play a part?
Alaric couldn't piece together what had led to Cassandra’s current state, but taking advantage of her was not in her nature.
Anger brewed within Cassandra, yet her heart remained kind—there was no way Alaric could simply toss her back into the streets.
Rising, Alaric headed to the bathroom to wet a cloth, pulling out a clean long-sleeved shirt from the wardrobe.
When she returned, she found Cassandra carefully removing her makeup. As her fingers grazed Cassandra's features, trailing down the sharp curve of her nose to her lips, the touch was gentle and soft.
Alaric studied Cassandra's face closely; from afar, she was merely beautiful, but up close, the details were breathtaking.
Even without makeup, Cassandra's beauty shone through, though her temper appeared to be short.
As Alaric helped Cassandra out of her dirty clothes, she felt a lump in her throat. (Looks like she’s a pure-hearted warrior.)
"You have what she has; why be embarrassed?" Alaric mumbled, suddenly blushing as she glanced down at her own unimpressive chest.
Comparing herself to Cassandra made Alaric feel inadequate. Covering her chest defensively, she protested, “What's so great about being well-endowed? It’s all the rage to be petite like a little bun; that’s the real elegance.”
Cassandra's firm yet delicate waist sparkled under the energy-saving lights, a testament to her self-care.
As Alaric cleaned Cassandra’s body, she noticed a small cloud tattoo on her lower back; upon closer inspection, it revealed a cute little sheep.
After changing into her own clothes, Alaric effortlessly lifted Cassandra and set her on the couch. Biting her lip in thought, she questioned where she would sleep now that the bed was occupied.
"I’m no angel, you know. You’re taking the sofa." Then she moved a small couch next to the bed and nudged Cassandra over onto it.
Gazing at the disarray in the room, Alaric collapsed onto the bed, groaning, “I’m so tired. Lord Prosper, why can’t you just help me clean up?”
Lord Prosper mused: Darling, what miracle are you expecting here?
In the dimly lit sleeping quarters, listening to Cassandra’s soft breaths, Alaric couldn't believe how restless she felt.
After a long day, why was it so hard to settle down?
Perhaps it would be better to brainstorm how to break the ice with the unconscious beauty come morning.
Turning to face Cassandra on the couch, Alaric rehearsed her opening line: "Last night, I fished you out of a dumpster; what happened? Are you okay?" She quickly scrapped it, “No, no, that sounds too dull.”
Clearing her throat and lowering her voice, she tried an arrogant tone, “Hey! This is the third time I’ve helped you; isn’t it time you said thank you?”
Still feeling unsatisfied, she muttered, “Ugh. Is that too rude?”
Trying again, she feigned seriousness, “What’s your name? Where do you live? If you’re alright, don’t you think it’s time to leave?”
Nothing felt right; none of it seemed to mesh.
Alaric buried her head in her pillow, frustration spilling over as she kicked her legs. “This is so annoying! I should never have brought you back.”
After rehearsing these lines all night, her efforts yielded no results, while Cassandra effortlessly slipped into sleep.
Alaric then drifted into a healing dream—
A little sheep like a cloud jumped into her arms.
She hugged the fluffy creature tightly, excitedly rubbing its soft curls; it felt delightfully plump, making her want to hold on forever.
Then, more sheep began to bounce in, then two, three, until she was surrounded by a swirling sea of fluff and joy.
This sense of fulfillment felt like she was indulging in cotton candy, leaving her utterly content.
Wait a minute, why did this sheep look so familiar?
Alaric picked one up to inspect it, noticing it bore the same tattoo as someone she knew.
Just as a flood of questions surged in her mind, the little sheep morphed into Cassandra, bleating at her.
Alaric kicked the little sheep away, tumbling out of the dream and awakening to a reality even more unsettling than any nightmare.
She smacked her lips together, instinctively tightening her arms around the warmth enveloping her, drunk on the sensation reminiscent of her dreams.
Peering down with bleary eyes, she noticed her tousled curls brushing against her neck, sending shivers down her spine as Cassandra snuggled closer, quietly studying her sleeping face.
Cassandra’s sparkling, lively eyes shone with curiosity, hinting at unexpected excitement.
The atmosphere between them had completely shifted since yesterday.
Perhaps still shy from being woken, Cassandra offered a sweet smile as Alaric finally opened her eyes, “You’re awake.”
Time seemed to freeze as their breaths mingled together.
‘Thump, thump—’ adrenaline surged through Alaric as her heart raced, almost leaping from her chest before it was forcefully subdued.
She noticed her palm resting on Cassandra’s waist, having slipped inside her shirt. So the cuddly sheep from her dreams, that pleasant plump feeling… Alaric dared not linger on the thought.
Regaining her composure, she jumped up, creating distance between them and rubbed her flushed cheeks repeatedly, suddenly conscious of how disheveled she felt.

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