The clack-clack of rolling wheels filled the carriage. Evelia and Arman sat face-to-face in the steady compartment. In this enclosed space, an unusual silence hung between them—neither spoke a word.
Arman propped his chin on his hand, gaze fixed out the window. But his thoughts clung to the locked carriage door. He’d chosen to escort Evelia back to the manor… yet his inner turmoil refused to settle.
*One wrong move, and everything unravels.*
If getting close to Evelia was a misstep, all he’d built would collapse.
He sensed trouble brewing. Pushing forward might invite disaster.
*So… kill her?*
Right here. Silently.
He’d locked the door upon entering. Not a sturdy lock—a single yank would break it. But that yank would buy him seconds. In close combat, seconds decided life or death.
Arman tilted his head toward Evelia, feigning casualness. Leaning on his arm, he scanned her from head to toe. Her hair flowed loose, a few braids tied with ribbons—too light, too soft to hide weapons. Her neck bore nothing: no sharp pendants, no mysterious crystals. *A shame,* he mused, *such a graceful neck deserves adornment.* He disliked flashy jewelry himself, but appreciated elegance on others. Professionally, he avoided those whose accessories looked weapon-like.
His eyes drifted downward. Her legs were covered by his knight’s coat—offered earlier, though no wind stirred inside. Her outfit was simple: bare wrists, bare thighs. After the earlier "incident," he was certain her lower half held no hidden blades.
*Her chest…*
Given her figure, she *could* conceal something there. But… a knife? Unlikely.
Only the bag remained.
A black rectangular paper sack. The only mark: a common clothing store’s logo—popular among commoners, branches everywhere. Arman knew it well from tavern nights. But he also knew: dangerous things hid in plain sight. Ordinary packaging bred complacency.
"Evelia…"
He hesitated, then spoke.
He knew what came next. This was step one of *"eliminate Evelia."*
*—Kill her?*
Evelia turned at his voice. "Yes? What do you need?" Her tone was calm.
"Um… could I see that?"
His smile stayed gentle, eyes warm—a practiced mask over churning doubt.
"This?" She lifted the square paper bag beside her.
"Mm. May I?"
*—Please, just be clothes.*
If it was ordinary attire, fine. But if she’d met someone… traded something… pulled out proof… then he’d have no choice.
"Sure."
She reached in without hesitation. Arman should’ve braced for a weapon—but her calm, unhurried motion eased his tension.
Then—black lace-trimmed, semi-transparent panties appeared before his eyes.
"…?"
The tension shattered into sheer awkwardness.
"What is…?"
"Black lace panties."
Evelia held them up matter-of-factly.
The shop assistant had suggested white lingerie to craft a "pure-as-snow" image—untouchable, sacred. Then, later, reveal black sets for stark contrast: *the flawless maiden unveiling a seductive side just for you.*
*"Isn’t that the ultimate allure?"*
Evelia hadn’t fully grasped it, but bought the set anyway.
"Th-this… just panties…?"
*(He meant: "Your mysterious bag holds only this?")*
*(She heard: "You only bought underwear?")*
"Ah! More—wait!"
She shoved the panties into his stiff hands, oblivious to his trembling fingers, and dug deeper.
"You—!"
"And the matching bra."
She presented the lace top with earnest seriousness.
"…Y-you…"
Arman, used to noble ladies who simpered and blushed, had never faced this. Tongue-tied, he stammered: "S-so… only… this lingerie set…?"
*(He stressed "lingerie": "Nothing else?")*
*(She heard "set": "Is one set not enough?")*
"Understood. One moment."
She shoved the bra into his already full hands.
"And this, Sir Arman—it’s part of the set." She pulled out a box. "For role-play, they said."
*—This is a scandalously skimpy maid cosplay!*
White headband. Black choker. Heart-shaped stickers. A flimsy black veil. Ridiculously short skirt. See-through panties. Black thigh-high stockings with garters.
"…"
Arman’s lips pressed tight. Flustered, he looked away.
"Is that… all?" he blurted.
Evelia hummed softly, set the box aside.
Clutching the black lace—holding it felt wrong, dropping it worse—Arman awkwardly extended his hands. *Take it back. Please.*
*Rustle.*
The lingerie in his palms didn’t shrink. It grew.
A familiar white pair. Warm.
"—?!"
He jerked his head up. Evelia leaned back, hands behind her neck, struggling with her bra clasp.
"E-EVELIA!!!"
He shoved everything into her arms, stood too fast—*thud!*—his skull smacked the ceiling. Dizzy, he reached to cover his face… but the faint floral scent on his fingers left him utterly flustered.
*This…*
*Is this a seductive trap… or just outright flirting?!*
