Chapter 139

Regardless of the underlying reasons, Liv found herself quite fond of these moments. Although she couldn’t urge him to open up about his own experience, every time the Marquis shared one of these stories, she tucked it away as another exclusive fragment of his life that only she possessed.

In that sense, today’s information was intriguing. Someone who wanted to hide the Marquis. She wondered if it must have something to do with his family. Camille previously told her that there was nothing known about the Marquis’ family.

Maybe, he was truly a blood relative of some royalty.

Imagining Demus as royalty came effortlessly. Draped in the finest fabrics and bedecked with the world’s most exquisite jewelry, he presented a truly captivating sight.

Lost in her fantasies, Liv snapped out of her reverie when she felt a hand on her bare skin. Demus was running his fingers down her side. Or, more precisely, the scar on her flank.

“I guess I hate you getting hurt more than I thought, Teacher.”

It was a long scratch from a sharp needle. A trainee had scratched her with a safety pin while taking her measurements in the boutique earlier. Behind the sobbing trainee, who claimed it was a mistake, a few of the employees were stealing glances while barely hiding their satisfaction.

Perhaps the trainee was pressured into it by the other employees who were more senior to her. So that when Liv called her out on it, the trainee would take the blame alone and face the consequences of being fired.

Liv didn’t make a big deal of it. This resulted in the Marquis knowing about the scar on her flank only when they got on the bed.

“It’s not a deep cut, so it’ll go away soon.”

“Tsk.”

Although Liv attempted to reassure him with her words, the Marquis remained visibly displeased. Liv eased into a more relaxed posture, allowing her body to yield to his touch.

“Is there a reason why you like a clean body?”

“It is beautiful.”

Maybe it was due to his persistent prodding at her scar. The barely formed scab seemed to elicit an oddly ticklish sensation. Or maybe, it could have been that the dissipated heat in her body had begun to rise up once again.

“Isn’t it as plain as day? Something flawed is bound to lose its value.”

Liv’s gaze shifted to her side. A scar destined to vanish shortly. If the manifestation of human jealousy were possible, it might take on this guise. Red, stinging, and somewhat disconcerting.

“But don’t flaws also serve as proof of having survived life?”

The gaze that had been fixed on her scar now shifted to the man’s hand. It remained concealed unless his fingers were spread wide, yet Liv was familiar with the shape of the scar on that hand.

“A medal of victory, like the scar on your hand, my Lord.”

What kind of expression would he have if she said she liked it?

The Marquis seemed to hate the scar on his hand. But Liv liked that scar.

Because it caused that man, who appeared to have lived without permitting even a trace of dust on him, to look human. Because, in a way, it granted her the assurance that he, too, was a human being just like her.

Because it seemed to tell her that it was acceptable for her to pretend as though she had lost her sanity and to harbor feelings of greediness towards him.

“Because just surviving through life is a victory.”

The Marquis narrowed his eyes at Liv’s words. The hand that had been practically tickling her now felt coercive. Squeezing Liv’s flesh, the Marquis curled up his lips at an angle.

“You have a quite unique perspective.”

A slight wisp of cigar smoke emanated from the moving lips.

“Interesting.”

“I don’t think my perspective is right. But… the way you express disdain for imperfections gives off a vibe that suggests you hold similar feelings towards the scar on your hand.”

The Marquis maintained his gaze on Liv while he silently indulged in his cigar, the tip of his thick cigar aglow with a fiery red hue.

“While you’re suggesting that it might be a good idea to think about it differently…”

Smoke filled the room, thicker than before. Within the enveloping pungent smoke, the Marquis’ cold voice cut through the air.

“Have you ever seen limbs torn off, severed, and sprawled everywhere?”

His tone was dry.

“In a landscape stained by a dried mixture of blood and soil, where dust clouds loom, the loss of a lone limb can evoke a bitter irony. For those who defy the odds and survive, they’ll spend the rest of their lives with a grotesquely twisted and disfigured body, robbed even of the mundane comfort of sleep…”

She couldn’t tell what he was describing. But it was clear that it was a description that couldn’t be made without seeing it with his own eyes.

“You don’t know how loud and ugly the screams and desperate cries they spit out are.”

For the first time, an alien emotion flickered within the blue eyes that had long held only arrogance and cynicism. It bore an emptiness.

However, that emotion had withdrawn before Liv could even respond. She attempted to discern its trace, but with Demus coldly averting his gaze, she was denied the chance to peer deeper into his eyes.

Demus rose to his feet and dropped his cigar into the ashtray. As he turned to leave, Liv spoke up.

“Even so, if they manage to survive, they can at least dream of hope.”

Demus, who seemed as if he would immediately open the door and leave, turned to glance at Liv.