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When he left the bedroom following the order to depart, a man as tall as Valentin stood before the door in a rigid posture.
“You’re working hard late into the night, Valentin. Thanks to you, I’ve managed to maintain this stubborn lifeline today as well. I am always grateful.”
Vasily, looking somewhat exhausted, patted Valentin's shoulder and asked in passing.
“Where is Ivan?”
“He is not in the Imperial Palace.”
Is he busy digging a hole somewhere? Just as Valentin nodded and turned to leave, Vasily asked casually.
“Would you like to see Lara before you go?”
Valentin stopped reflexively.
Was Lara awake at this late hour? The question vanished quickly. If she were truly spending the night trembling in fear, the opportunity would never have reached Valentin.
“Get a grip, Vasily. I am not your brother. On what grounds would I enter the bedroom of a grown woman?”
His brow furrowed instinctively. He was not only appalled by Vasily's unconditional trust but also felt a surge of unprecedented resistance.
“That’s unexpected. I didn't know you could say such things. I suppose Lara does look like a grown woman in your eyes.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“But Valentin, as you know, Lara is… a child who grew up far too sheltered because of our greed. She is bold by nature, but today’s incident must have been a great shock. Even if she stays shut in her room, I worry she might be unable to sleep. If she is tossing and turning, please sing her a lullaby.”
“I am not the Imperial nanny.”
At those words, Vasily let out a rare, dry laugh.
“Is that so? I naturally thought you were our nanny. If you dislike it, it cannot be helped. I apologize if it was burdensome. Let’s act as if I never mentioned it.”
Vasily held Valentin in an embrace for a long time before letting him go. It was his own honest way of expressing gratitude.
And by the time he came to his senses, Valentin's steps were already heading toward Lara's bedroom.
‘…Sigh.’
As he had been told, four guards were stationed in front of Lara's bedroom.
They had been glaring at Valentin's shadow with a menacing aura, but as soon as his pale face was revealed in the dim light, they saluted lightly and relaxed their guard. Upon receiving the report that the mistress of the room was asleep, Valentin carefully opened the door and entered.
The room was so dark that not a single thing was visible. Perhaps that was why his steps, as he was drawn inside, felt heavy and suffocating, as if walking through a swamp.
Among the trivial personal stories written in the letters exchanged over the past four years, he recalled that Lara always preferred to sleep with thin white cloth curtains rather than blackout curtains.
Gauging the size and layout of the bedroom, he moved quietly toward the window, where he felt the firmly closed wooden blinds beneath his fingertips.
“Your Highness Larisa.”
There was no answer to his call.
He moved silently and stood by the bedside. As he slowly lowered his hand, a soft and delicate sensation, like a spool of thread, wound around his fingers.
Closing his eyes, he imagined the light brown hair that poured down smoothly like a summer river. Then the small ears, then the rounded cheekbones, and finally, the faint sound of breath at the tip of her nose.
Only after confirming her regular breathing did Valentin swallow a sigh of relief.
When he received the report that bullets had pierced the carriage twelve times, he felt as if his heart had dropped. Entering this bedroom where not a single sliver of light was visible, he truly…
[Why was I not supposed to be born?]
He could feel the pulsation.
Every moment Lara's heart beat, a sharp ache pierced his own chest. Why was she not supposed to be born? He had never dreamed that she had grown up harboring such a question.
She was his girl, whom he had spent over a decade protecting preciously. He believed that if anyone dared to wound the heart of the woman who was the greatest blessing and sole opportunity of his life, they should pay for their sins even with death.
‘To think that I was the one doing such a thing.’
Leaning against the bed as if collapsing, Valentin sank into remorse, his lips pressed against the hair wound around his fingers.
Right now, he wanted to wake the sleeping Lara, hold her warm body in his arms, kiss her apricot-colored forehead and cheeks to his heart's content, and whisper his love. That the world exists because she was born. That he alone would stay by her side forever.
Aside from family, no one was as precious as Lara, and he had never kept anyone more valuable than her by his side. He couldn't grasp where it had all gone wrong.
No, in truth, it wasn't that he couldn't. It was impossible not to. Rather, it was so clear, like looking at the midday sky, that it was the problem.
‘Looking back now, perhaps I drew the line too sharply.’
But Valentin truly enjoyed simply watching her. He had not wanted to interfere in Princess Larisa's world, and that thought remained the same even now.
‘…Is it really the same?’
His feelings could only be described as confused. To think he didn't want to provide an answer to such an obvious question. He gently stroked the hair in his hand. Focusing all his attention on this sensation, his Princess still felt like the spirited young girl of her childhood.
But Lara was no longer a child.
Because she was no longer a child, Valentin must have entered her now wider and more mature field of vision.
The Lara Valentin saw was intelligent, witty, and ambitious. The obsession she occasionally showed toward Valentin was likely a lovely greed—the desire not to lose the friend who had connected her to a strange world beyond Makhachkala at a young age.
Whenever he met the gaze of affection—and the clear spite that came from that affection—he felt a sudden urge to tease her. To pretend not to know, to pretend to be uninterested, and to keep doing other things.
Perhaps he had reacted like an immature child because he felt he was being rewarded for the unconditional attention he had poured out from behind the shadows. As his frantic thoughts reached that conclusion, a bitter sneer naturally formed on his lips.
‘Ridiculous. To think that until a moment ago, I believed I was satisfied with just watching her.’
In the end, was he not the one with the twisted greed?
If he had known it would be like this, he should have stayed by Lara's side himself from the beginning. Firmly, so that no storm, threat, or doubt could reach her. If he hadn't been afraid, she would never have heard stupid nonsense like, ‘You should not have been born.’
But he was glad he hadn't done so.
If he hadn't kept his distance, Lara certainly would not have faced a threat like today's. He would have enshrined her in his room somehow, locking her away from the outside world along with all the delicious foods and luxurious toys. She surely would have bloomed and grown in that spot, like a flower in a greenhouse.
And eventually, she would have withered away.
Princess Larisa, armed with such beautiful vitality, would never have truly been born.
That, after all, would be wrong. Moistening his dry lips, Valentin slowly raised his body, which felt as heavy as water-soaked cotton. A question echoed from the deep abyss of his heart, asking if that was truly correct, but he consciously ignored it.
His life had been ruined long ago. Not listening to twisted desires was the minimum struggle to maintain a shred of reason in this broken existence.
Standing still, he looked down at the invisible Lara.
“I hope you have peaceful dreams.”
For some reason, he felt her lovely forehead must be furrowed. Regretting that he was in no position to kiss those cute brows, a short laugh escaped him the moment he left the bedroom.
Hadn't he had a similar thought at the banquet?
The moment he discovered Sergei Nikitin staring at Lara, he could no longer bear to look at her. The thought of himself having the same eyes as that man made him feel sick.
Now, he didn't just have to keep an eye on that spirited young man. The second candidate chosen by Vasily would also begin to hover around Lara.
The eldest son of the Tolstoy family.
“…Igor Tolstoy.”
Valentin cheered for the two men with a heart as light as down. At least, on the surface.
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