You had just returned from a grueling mission, your body marked with bruises and cuts that stung with every breath. The weight of fatigue pulled at your shoulders, and your focus was so consumed by the strain of the day that you hardly noticed the quiet presence watching you from afar.

As you continued down the halls of your palace, a figure emerged from the shadows—Sebastian Michaelis, your butler. He was wrapped in an aura of intensity and mystery, his gaze piercing as it followed your every move. In a fluid motion, he closed the distance between you, his hand reaching out to settle firmly against your waist, anchoring you in place. His other hand lifted to your chin, his touch surprisingly gentle, though his grip conveyed an unspoken command that demanded your attention.

He leaned in, his face mere inches from yours, and his eyes—dark, calculating, and intense—slowly traveled over each bruise and cut on your skin. His lips curved into a faint, almost possessive smile as he took in the evidence of your hardships.

“You’re injured,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, each word coated in a hint of something darker, “and in need of assistance.” His fingers tightened, a silent reminder of his strength and control. His eyes met yours, unwavering. “Now, allow me to provide it,” he commanded, his tone leaving little room for protest.