“Haa… Rean… don’t…”

Under the dim, intimate glow, Olga let out a slightly hurried, sweet pant. She glanced back, her gaze hazy, hot breath carrying a hint of lavender brushing gently against his cheek—sending an unnatural warmth prickling through Rean’s entire body.

She wore a snow-white silk gown that clung smoothly to her form, tracing elegant curves. The pure white resembled dove feathers drifting freely across the sky. One delicate shoulder peeked bare; long matching gemstone earrings swayed with her faint tremors, highlighting skin smooth as porcelain. Her flawless silhouette, lifted by slender white stiletto heels, looked tall and alluring.

Olga turned away again, pressing a hand over her mouth—as if trying to hide her embarrassing breaths from him.

“What’s wrong…? Weren’t *you* the one who asked me to do this?”

Rean dipped his head, whispering softly into her ear. His magnetic voice, like a demon’s temptation, sent warm breath teasing her soft earlobe—making her squirm, longing to pull free.

“Nope. We promised to see this through to the end.”

One arm wrapped firmly around her slender waist, blocking escape. His other hand parted her honey-gold hair, fingertips gliding gently across the smooth, exposed back of her gown. Her delicate skin flushed a faint pink with shame. His touch traced her shoulder blades, caressed the base of the nearest pure white wing, then slowly swept every inch toward the tip.

“But your hand—eep!”

“My hand… what about it?”

Rean gently took her earlobe between his lips. Startled, she let out a cat-like squeak. His hand kept roaming her back—each stroke making her feel weightless. She *could* have turned to grab his wrist… but the will to resist was fading. She slumped weakly against his solid chest.

“Pervert… sexual harassment…”

The gown strap had slipped, revealing a rounded shoulder. Her reprimand was soft, lacking real anger. Hazy eyes held his face; tears glistening at the corners seemed to yearn for more. Their faces hovered less than five centimeters apart—one slight move might replay last night’s “incident.”

*Did I go too far…?*

Beneath his wicked smirk, Rean worried inwardly.

Time rewound to that morning…………

“Who sent what?”

Spotting Rean return with an envelope, Olga’s curiosity sparked. He said nothing, just tossed it onto the low table before grabbing a slice of bread to settle his empty stomach.

“Victory banquet invite. Not great at fighting, but quick to celebrate.”

He deliberately skipped Tyler’s note about bringing a companion—planning to go alone and claim she’d passed out drunk at noon.

“It says you can bring *one* companion!”

“…!”

Rean spun around. Olga already held the unfolded crimson invitation, waving it excitedly.

“Ah, that’s not important. Rest at home. I’ll go alone.”

*Silent curses hid behind his smile.* In the blink he turned away, she’d torn it open—zero boundaries, as usual…

“So… wait. You weren’t taking me?”

Her smile vanished. She stood, stepping close to confront him.

“Obviously,” Rean muttered, swallowing his bread. “You didn’t fight. Just guard the house.”

Olga’s face paled. She seized both his arms, pinning him against the wall. “I didn’t go *because you wouldn’t let me!* Now they say bring a companion—why not me?!”

“No. Absolutely not. My business. Don’t cause trouble—agh!”

He strained to break free, but her monstrous strength held him fast.

*This monstrous-strength angel!*

He admitted it: raw power-wise, he might lose to Olga normally. Not his fault—her physique was just… different.

“What’s your *real* motive?! Planning to flirt at the banquet?!”

“Like hell! It’s your wings—they’re impossible to hide!”

Olga glanced back at her folded yet glaringly visible wings. A tiny twitch flickered at her eye.

“Can’t I wear a cloak?”

“Do you think banquets are masquerades? Formal gown only. A shawl, maybe. A *cloak*? Seriously.” Rean sighed. “Why are you so fixated? It’s not even important. *I* don’t want to go.”

“The banquet… I’m curious, but… it’s not that I *have* to go…”

She released him, head drooping, voice small. “I just… wanted to be with you. It’s lonely alone at home.”

…

*Don’t say cute things like that…*

Rean covered his face.

*No—don’t fall for it. She’s a poisonous flower. One misstep and you’re screwed.*

He warned himself fiercely. Yet her pitiful gaze—like a kitten fearing abandonment—shattered his resolve to stay cold.

“Hey… really not possible…?”

“FINE! I get it! Just stop looking at me like that!”

Olga lifted her face, gazing up with watery, earnest eyes. Heat crawled up Rean’s neck. He relented.

*I really can’t handle spoiled girls…*

“I’ll fix your wings. But conditions: no scenes in public. And *definitely* no ‘I’m his fiancée’ nonsense.”

“Okay! As long as I’m with you!”

“Ugh—don’t say that so casually… Go do whatever. Don’t bother me unless it’s urgent.”

After Olga skipped off happily, Rean rubbed his temples and climbed the hall-side stairs to the rooftop’s most secluded room. He pushed the door open—a ripple of magical energy, born from concentrated high-grade materials, spilled out. Tools lay scattered across the long table like a battlefield.

He shook his head, stepped inside, and closed the door. The sealing barrier on the frame and walls hummed back to life, locking the energy within.

After last night’s failed prank on sleeping Olga, he’d explored the mansion. To his relief, the merchant owner left all daily necessities behind—no extra luggage needed. *Probably why it sold for six million Sam.*

But Rean needed more than shelter. This would be his long-term base. So he’d spent half the night:

First, a defensive barrier around the main house—alerting him if anyone but him or Olga entered, then attacking after ID confirmation. (His destructive magic research? Confident he outclassed every mage in the Kingdom of Tiyehua.)

Second, converting this corner room into an alchemy workshop. The adjacent room stored books and overflow materials; he’d even opened a connecting door. Tight space—but enough to unleash his talent.

*Now… how to hide Olga’s wings?*

He sat at the workbench, eyes closed, mind racing.

Stealth magic? No—conceptual magic vanishes the *whole* target.

Temporarily remove wings? Impossible. Angel wings weren’t like Demonform mutations; they were flesh and bone. Couldn’t just… cut them.

Idea after idea formed—and died instantly.

Unaware, Rean had already sunk deep into solving *her* wish… losing all track of time.

Evening.

“Impressive~? Amazing~? Genius~?”

Rean descended the stairs, bottle of blue liquid in hand, face glowing with pride. He blew a kiss to the vial. Olga stared, bewildered.

“What…? Rean, your face is weird.”

Her eyes jumped from the liquid to his dramatic pose—and froze.

“Behold! The genius alchemist *and* Demon King presents: localized invisibility potion! Only the coated area vanishes!”

He uncorked it, dripped a drop on his fingertip. Where it touched—*gone*.

“No way… You *can* make non-weapon stuff with alchemy?”

“Less talk. Change. Apply the potion. We’re leaving.”

He reached into subspace, pulled out a white gown, and offered it.

Olga didn’t take it. Suspicious eyes flicked between Rean and the dress.

“Why… do *you* have women’s clothing?”

After a long pause, she finally asked.