Piercing Gazes

As the chatter began to wind down and the teacups on the table emptied, a knock echoed from the parlor door. Moments later, it swung open, and Olens stepped inside. He was impeccably dressed in a suit, his white shirt neatly buttoned, brown hair combed back tidily.

"A pleasure to meet you. I am Olens E. Belpharos."

He bowed courteously to the ladies in the room. Except for Olivier, who hastily fixed her gaze on the floor, Evril and Shaylin examined him closely. As Olens approached and sat on the sofa, he shot Olivier a glance, prompting her to rise with a reluctant expression and introduce the others.

"Lady Loren, and Lady Frey."

"It's an honor."

Evril and Shaylin replied in kind.

"Delighted."

"Charmed."

The parlor attendant brought hot tea for Olens and refilled the cups on the table. The fragrant aroma of black tea wafted gently upward.

"Lady Olivier, your brother is quite the handsome gentleman."

Shaylin said with a smile, but Olivier merely lowered her head demurely without responding.

"You flatter me."

Olens replied with the poise of a top graduate from the Imperial Etiquette Academy, lifting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his teacup for a sip. Evril, seated opposite, watched him drink his tea with composed elegance over the rim of her own cup. His first impression defied expectations for a son of a fallen noble house from an obscure lineage—neat and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠refined, his demeanor and speech exuding sophistication. He was as tall as Killian, though slimmer, lacking the build of a martial artist.

As Olens casually sipped his tea and surveyed the parlor without much interest, his eyes met the subtle gaze scrutinizing him from across the table. Evril's probing eyes locked with the pale brown irises beneath his impeccably combed-back brown hair and clean forehead. The moment their gazes—hers a deep dark brown like Killian's, his a lighter shade—collided was objectively brief. Yet for the two of them, that fleeting instant stretched into an eternity.

Staring into Olens's pale brown eyes, Evril saw that beneath his tidy exterior lurked a razor-sharp edge. Even as he seemed merely to regard her politely, the intensity within was like a honed blade, a needlepoint honed to lethality.

Olens offered Evril a faint smile. Unlike the fierce glint in his eyes, his smile was soft. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠There was a strange allure to this man, blending gentleness and sharpness. As Evril's gaze deepened and pierced straight toward him, the chaotic impulses swirling in Olens's mind fell suddenly silent.

Evril was a goddess of refined features, flawless skin, and graceful curves. The moment their eyes met—her straight-shooting dark brown gaze piercing his—his mind grew still, serene.

Evril averted her eyes first, lifting her teacup to sip. Olens watched her intently. She felt his gaze upon her as she drank, intense enough to sting her cheeks. That needle-like stare, cloaked in courtesy and calm, methodically scanned her from head to toe. Unyielding, Evril set down her cup and stared back at Olens across the table.

Their eyes met again, and heat faintly flushed Olens's face as the impulsive voices in his head hushed. His eyes flickered briefly. The sociable banter between Olivier and Shaylin flowed over the table, but none of it reached his ears—mere muffled noise, formless and meaningless, like sounds underwater. All he registered clearly was the unwavering dark brown eyes that had fixed on him since she set down her cup, piercing him as if to see straight through.

Evril's gaze felt as though it impaled his pounding heart. Far from unpleasant, it stirred his chest with thrill, so Olens met it with his own intensity. Somewhere above the table, their eyes locked, tangling like knotted threads. The moment lasted a mere instant, yet felt eternal. Evril broke away first, lowering her gaze to the table as before. Olens followed it, yearning to draw her eyes back to him.

"...Lord Belpharos, you attend Seruma, don't you?"

Shaylin's question amid her conversation with Olivier snapped Olens from his daze. He flashed a sociable smile.

"Yes. Nothing compared to you two ladies."

Shaylin waved off his humility lightly.

"Not at all. I'm at Seruma too. Only Lady Loren attends Eximia."

"Ah, I see. My apologies for not knowing."

"She's the future Duchess of Kingston, after all—beauty and talent combined."

Shaylin praised the woman beside her. Evril smiled with refined lips, then fixed her gaze on Olens once more. Pretending carelessness, she knocked the teaspoon beside her cup to the floor beneath the table while holding his eyes.

"Oh dear, how absent-minded of me."

As Evril exclaimed and bent to retrieve it, Olens leaned down, reaching for the spoon. Their fingertips brushed near it under the table—close, almost touching. Then, as if by some unspoken wish, they met again. Olens had already grasped the spoon, but Evril's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fingers—feigning coincidence—laid lightly atop his. Warmth grazed the back of his hand. The heat from her pale fingers burned like fire against his skin. A bloom of flame erupted at the point of contact, surging inward, thrilling through his veins in electric shivers.

The fingers lifted soon after, leaving Olens aflame within from that brief touch.

"A fresh teaspoon."

He placed the retrieved spoon at the table's edge and ordered the attendant. A new one appeared before Evril, who calmly smiled and stirred her tea with it. Conversation resumed above the table, both parties interjecting occasionally while alert to each other. As Olivier and Shaylin delved into a lively debate over a book they'd both read, Evril straightened, feigning discomfort as she rose.

"All this hot tea has my cheeks burning. I need some fresh air."

Shaylin and Olivier, absorbed in their discussion, looked apologetic. Olens stood swiftly from his seat opposite.

"Would you care to stroll our modest garden? There's a short path inside. If you grant me the honor of escorting such a beautiful lady, it would be my greatest privilege."

Evril glanced at the other two ladies, who nodded eagerly amid their talk. Olens offered his arm courteously; Evril placed her hand lightly upon it. They left the parlor stiffly. Passing the outer corridor to the back door passage, they walked rigidly ahead, ignoring the passing attendants and maids—who knew of Lady Loren's visit and paid no heed to the awkward pair.

Finally emerging through the back door onto the narrow path, Evril tightened her grip on Olens's arm. He turned to her at the squeeze. Mere inches apart, their gazes tangled once more in heated silence. Without a word, they roughly completed the stroll and reentered via the back door—not returning to the parlor, but slipping into the adjacent study. Nearby attendants prompted Olens to raise his voice dramatically.

"Ah, you're interested in mines, Lady? Fortunately, our study has quite a collection on the subject."

Evril played along loudly.

"I'd love to see them. With Grandfather leaving me shares in his will, I'll soon be a mine owner myself."

"This way, please. The study."

Olens opened the door, bowing and gesturing politely. Evril entered. He quickly scanned the room, confirmed it empty, and carefully shut the door. Evril stood against the wall by the door. Face-to-face at close range, their gazes intertwined stickily.