Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate - Chapter 155

Chapter 155: Her morning (2)
She still didn’t know what to do with the feeling blooming inside her. That warmth in her chest wasn’t fading—it was spreading. Slow. Unrelenting. Like it had rooted itself beneath her ribs and was now daring to grow.

Elysia blinked, trying to ground herself, but—

Her eyes dropped.

The sheets beneath her were creased, tangled… and stained.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Blood.

That much was expected. She had known—logically, clinically—what the act entailed. She’d studied anatomy, combat trauma, field medicine. She understood what it meant to give one’s first time, even if she never thought it would be hers.

But it wasn’t just the blood.

There were other marks. Faint but undeniable. Scattered remnants of heat and friction, of need and release.

Her face flushed immediately.

‘Tch…’

She tightened her grip on the sheet, knuckles white. She didn’t want to look at it. Didn’t want to remember the exact sounds she’d made. The things she had said. The way she had begged—not with her words, but with her body.

She forced herself to rise, legs shifting under the weight of gravity and memory alike.

The ache hit her all at once.

A slow, throbbing soreness.

In her thighs. Her stomach. And especially—

Her breath hitched.

There.

That place.

She hadn’t noticed it before while sitting still, but now? Moving? Standing? Every inch of her felt like it had been tested, stretched, used. And not just by physical effort. This wasn’t like training. This wasn’t pain she knew how to channel into focus.

This was different.

She winced, taking a shaky step forward. The soreness wasn’t debilitating—not for someone like her—but it was constant. A low, heated hum through her muscles. Fatigue, laced with a strange… afterglow.

And it hadn’t healed.

Of course it hadn’t.

She glanced down at her wrists.

The bracelets.

The same twin bands she’d worn through years of service, designed to suppress the flow of her mana, to dull her enhanced recovery. Essential for training with a non-Awakened master. Necessary for control.

And last night… for restraint.

Her fingers hovered near one of the clasps, hesitating.

Then—

Click.

The first came off.

Click.

Then the second.

She let them fall to the floor with a muted clink. And the instant they were gone, she felt it.

Mana.

Returning like breath after suffocation. Warmth and weight flooding her limbs. The invisible threads of strength threading through her bones again, restoring what had been dulled.

Her posture straightened.

Her heart beat harder in her chest—not from pain, but from power.

A soft exhale escaped her lips as the aches began to dull. Bruises faded. Soreness began to lift. Her muscles adjusted rapidly, her Awakened body responding the way it was meant to—correcting damage, recalibrating, restoring.

The soreness faded quickly.

But not everything did.

Elysia stepped toward the full-length mirror near the far side of the room, drawn not by vanity but necessity. She angled her head, brushing her fingers along her shoulder—and there it was. A bloom of faint red-purple, just beneath the curve of her collarbone.

A hickey.

Not one. Several.

Trailing down her neck. Her arms. Her ribs. Some were dark and obvious, others subtler—faint patterns of yesterday’s possession stamped into her skin like unspoken truths.

Marks of hands.

Of lips.

Of him.

She exhaled through her nose—not sharp, but deep. Measured. She was not flustered now, not in the same way as earlier. Her mana was flowing freely again, stabilizing her body and clearing her mind.

Her control had returned.

But the marks stayed.

‘Of course they did.’

Her Awakened body would heal bruises, tears, fatigue. But it would never erase what wasn’t damage—what was left as a result of submission, not injury.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Inhaled. Exhaled.

Control.

It was like returning to the silence of a blade’s edge after being drowned in noise. Her limbs responded without delay. Her nerves were hers again.

Her composure returned.

Then her eyes snapped open.

And her entire posture changed.

‘The meal.’

Her gaze darted to the clock on the wall. Time had slipped past her—something that almost never happened. She had woken late. She hadn’t prepared his breakfast. He would’ve begun training by now.

Damien never waited.

Her jaw tightened slightly, more out of self-reproach than anxiety. She was never this careless. Never this behind.

‘I’ll clean the room later.’

There were still marks on the sheets. The kind that spoke too loudly. That was her responsibility too—but it could wait. The Master’s body came first.

She moved swiftly to the armoire, pulled a clean set of underclothes from the lower drawer, dressed with practiced efficiency, and stepped into her uniform—brushing her hair back, tightening the familiar black ribbon at her nape.

The moment the uniform settled across her body, something clicked into place.

She was Elysia Verdant.

Combat-maid of the Elford family.

And now…

His.

The thought surfaced, uninvited—but it didn’t rattle her.

Not anymore.

Her senses expanded outward as she stepped into the hallway, mana-imbued perception sweeping through the walls like a quiet pulse. Her awareness snapped to life, registering temperature traces, mana signatures, sounds carried through air currents.

She found him easily.

Damien was in the training facility below the east wing.

His heart rate was steady—but exerted. Breath control, footwork, movement. The subtle thud of weights hitting mat flooring. And a faint trace of sweat in the air, carried through the underground vent system.

He was focused.

She was late.

Her footsteps quickened, no hesitation now. The kitchen was her destination, and everything else could wait. He would need protein. Fat. Recovery fuel. The monster meat had already been partially prepared last night. She’d just need to finish the sear, prepare the eggs, and ensure his hydration formula was mixed correctly.

She reached the stairs.

And descended.

*****

The scent of seared meat and eggs drifted upward in gentle waves from the polished steel tray Elysia carried, heat still clinging to the plates beneath the linen wrap. Her steps were steady—no rush, no stumble. But her pulse was… not what it should’ve been.

Not erratic. Just irregular.

The descent into the training chamber was as familiar as breath. The reinforced doors opened with a soft hiss of air release, and her Awakened senses immediately adjusted to the subtle shift in humidity and pressure.

The room smelled of steel, sweat, chalked rope—and him.

Her gaze swept the chamber automatically, just as she always did upon entering. The perimeter: clear. The training equipment: in use. The mana field? Still active—his signal burning like firelight in the middle of it all.

And there he was.

Damien.

Shirtless.

Hands coated in chalk. Muscles pulled tight with effort as he scaled the climbing ropes rigged into the towering ceiling structure of the chamber. His body was leaner now—sharper. A sculptor’s work still in progress, but undeniably transforming. His back flexed with each pull, legs driving upward with brutal, deliberate force.

He was training in silence.

No grunting. No muttering.

Just motion.

The tray in her hands didn’t shake—but her mind did.

That body. She’d seen it last night. Beneath her. Over her. Inside—

She pressed her lips into a line.

Focus.

This was routine. This was part of her job. Deliver the meal. Monitor his condition. Ensure proper recovery.

And yet—

Her eyes traced the curve of his shoulder, the pull of his back, the motion of his hands and the faint sheen of sweat beginning to gather along the lines of his torso.

He was stronger.

Not just in form. In presence.

He moved like someone who no longer doubted each step forward. Someone who owned the pain—welcomed it.

And then—

He looked down.

Caught her gaze without hesitation, a smirk curling slowly across his lips.

“My dear maid is awake.”

Elysia’s breath stilled for just a moment.

He was still climbing, but his attention was wholly on her now. As if he hadn’t just been exerting himself for hours. As if the distance between them didn’t exist at all.

She adjusted her grip on the tray, standing perfectly straight, refusing to let even the faintest flicker of emotion betray her control.

“…You didn’t rest long,” she said evenly.

Damien’s grin deepened as he reached the top of the rope and paused, body suspended high in the air, arms stretched, muscles taut beneath the light.

“I rested enough,” he replied. “Though I admit… I was surprised you stayed in bed that long. A rare sight.”

Damien lingered at the top of the rope for a heartbeat longer, letting the tension stretch—not just in his arms, but in the air between them.

Then—

“Did your master taste that good?”