I'll Die
Ania Brontë was a beauty as if painted into existence.
One look at that high, elegant nose and skin as translucent as white jade, and it was easy to believe that setting fire to the hearts of countless men was nothing at all for her.
"I'll die."
But one must never be deceived by her appearance. That endlessly lovable exterior was nothing more than a shell.
What lay within was the core of a truly vicious villainess — a woman who drove the countless men who loved her straight into the jaws of death.
I still remember the names of the men who fell for Ania Brontë's beauty, who gave her everything — their livers, their gallbladders, their very souls — only to meet wretched ends.
Zaian Raymond, Billy Jude, Almond Suckland… and so on.
"If you won't love me, I'll die."
"Why is that?"
I remember how they died.
Zaian, chewed alive while trying to offer up a dragon's heart; Billy, who contracted with a demon to conquer the world for her and was subsequently subjugated; Almond, who fell from a castle wall with the distinctly unromantic words, If there's love, I'll survive, right?
Their sacrifices were, in truth, little more than acts of pure folly — and yet they were noble enough.
Why?
Because thanks to those men, I never fell for Ania Brontë.
There were times when she would press her full, tempting breasts against me, or brush those soft lips of hers, and my heart would lurch. When she whispered sweet words of temptation, I even had the foolish thought that I might as well hold her just once, even if it meant dying for it.
But even so, I held out.
I had sworn to myself that I would survive and return to my original world.
"Because I've fallen in love with you."
"Damn it."
I gave Ania Brontë no attention whatsoever. I ruthlessly rebuffed every one of her advances. I didn't fall for her suggestion that we rest a while because she was drunk. Even when her thin blouse was soaked with rain, her bare skin showing through, I turned my head away. When she feigned an accident and tried to press her lips to mine, I coldly dodged and sent her tumbling.
And yet — why?
"Why, damn it?!"
"Love is a fever, Edward."
"You don't know what love is."
"Isn't that just what you want to believe?"
Saying that, Ania Brontë came into my arms — and I found I could not push her away.
A woman like a rose that pricks you the moment you touch her.
Why had that woman fallen in love with me?