EX: Nightmare

Six days had passed since Vexia started living with Westen.

In that short time, she had learned more than she expected about this cold, stone-faced man.

When her family first fell, she thought it was over—utterly and completely. A princess of a once-powerful clan, reduced to scraping by for survival. Hiding. Running. Powerless.

She wasn't even awakened. And worst of all, the future of her clan had fallen squarely on her shoulders.

She didn't know what to do.

She was being hunted for a crime she didn't even understand—one her family hadn't deserved. And every time she thought about it, her chest burned—not with grief, but with fury. A helpless, festering rage. But what could she do? She was nothing now.

When she arrived in Sakura City, her plan had been simple: stay a few days, then move to the coastal region. From there, escape to another country.

But before any of that could happen… she was taken.

Kidnapped. Dragged to a warehouse. And there—

They tried to break her.

She thought her life was over.

She held onto her dignity with trembling hands, refusing to give them even that last scrap of pride. The sound of their cruel laughter still echoed in her skull. Her pleas, her tears—none of it moved them. It only excited them more.

She could still feel their breath. Their intent.

Even now, her body shivered remembering it.

And then—

Just when she thought it was the end, he came.

Westen.

Wrapped in a black coat, faceless in the dark, like some modern knight—but colder, sharper, far more terrifying than any fairytale.

He didn't speak to her. He didn't care about her. Nor did he care for the lives of the kidnappers. He came like a storm—and left behind silence.

She didn't know who he was, but she clung to him that night like the last raft on a sinking world. She needed protection—desperately. And in her panic, she used the only weapon she thought she had left.

Her looks. Her charm. Her body.

It had always worked before. She knew why those men had chosen her over the others, even though the other girls were beautiful too.

But Westen? He wasn't like them. Her attempts fell flat. He didn't even blink. And when she pushed too far, he gave her a single, chilling warning:

"If you try that again, I'll give you what you're asking for. No questions asked."

She never tried again.

When she revealed her family's inheritance, she had expected greed. Shock. Maybe even obsession.

But all he asked for was money—and she didn't even have that. It was all traceable. She warned him the artifact she offered was priceless. That he was missing out.

He didn't care.

And disturbingly enough… his reasoning made sense. A low-rank person couldn't even use such a high-tier artifact. They'd burn themselves alive just trying to activate it.

After sealing their agreement with a handshake, he brought her to his apartment. She half-expected him to drop the act and pounce on her.

He didn't.

Instead, he asked for her clothing sizes.

She misunderstood at first, thinking he was finally showing interest—but no. He simply bought her proper clothes. He even cooked for her. And when she tried to help…

He kicked her out of the kitchen.

"You're doing more harm than good, get out."

He said bluntly.

It stung. She felt useless. But she didn't give up.

Next, she tried cleaning the house. That didn't go well either. She knocked things over, misplaced items, and made the bathroom floor slippery.

Finally, he pointed a stern finger at her and said,

"If you touch anything again with the intent of cleaning, I'll make sure to clean that thought out of your system properly. Understood?"

She wanted to crawl into a hole and die from embarrassment.

She'd never done chores before. She'd never had to. But now? She was in a world where no one would clean for her.

No one would serve her. She had wanted to help, truly—but she wasn't good at it. And he didn't force her either. He just… did everything himself.

His food was surprisingly good. Better than even the royal chefs her family had employed. She liked it. She liked eating. She liked the quiet. The comfort.

She never thought she'd feel safe again.

Not after everything.

But Westen…

He gave her that feeling.

And in her shattered, hunted, hopeless life—

That safety meant everything.

***

The Third Day

Westen wasn't there.

He had gone out that morning, handing Vexia the key and telling her to lock the door behind him.

She did.

But all morning, a subtle unease crept in her chest. They had only lived together for three days, yet his presence had already carved out a space in her world. Without him, something felt… off.

Unsafe.

So she made sure everything was secure. Every door, every window—locked.

Now she sat curled beneath a blanket in Westen's room, a baseball bat resting beside her. Just in case. Her phone dimly lit the small space around her, but it couldn't chase away the silence.

He had let her use his phone. For emergencies—to call the police.

If someone had told her a week ago she'd be living with a man—sleeping in his bed—she wouldn't have believed it. Not in a million years.

But on the first night, Westen had calmly suggested they share the same room. The moment he said it, every shred of trust she'd started to feel collapsed.

'He is just like the others.'

She thought.

He made vague excuses. Said that if she stayed in a different room and someone broke in, he might not make it in time. That he couldn't sense movements across the whole apartment.

And then he asked her to sleep in the same bed.

That was it. That confirmed everything she feared.

She mentally prepared herself for the worst. Her mind ran wild.

But when night came, nothing happened.

He just… slept.

Used her thighs as a pillow.

That was all.

She didn't sleep at all that night. Every movement he made, she held her breath. But when she opened her eyes, he was gone.

The second night came. Same routine. Again, he used her lap like a pillow and drifted off.

But this time, something was different.

She wasn't as tense.

Maybe it was the scent clinging to him—something strange, yet oddly calming—that lulled her to sleep.

She couldn't fight it. She didn't want to.

She slept soundly. Better than she had in years.

The third night was the same.

That scent. That warmth. That quiet presence.

Maybe that was what gave her the strange sense of security she now missed so badly.

She hadn't realized how deeply Westen had embedded himself in her life—until he was gone.

She felt his absence in every breath.

So when the knock finally came at the door, her chest tightened.

She grabbed the bat and crept forward, steps light and wary.

Peeking through the peephole—

It was him.

Westen.

Relief surged through her in a silent gasp. Her knees almost buckled.

She opened the door. He raised an eyebrow at the bat in her hand, then gave a small, approving smile.

"Good job."

No teasing. No mockery. Just quiet praise.

She blinked. Then smiled back—just a little.

He guided her to the living room, handed her a few documents, and a new phone.

"Use the chatbot I installed. Try using it to explore your hidden trauma. It'll help resolve unresolved feelings. I can vouch for it."

She nodded.

She checked the documents. Her jaw almost dropped. Fake ID. Birth certificate. Parents' names. Everything—completely forged. Legal.

'Who the hell did he call to get this done in one day?'

Her name was there. First name unchanged. But the surname was now "Thronwill."

It felt… wrong. Unfamiliar.

She'd seen "Mirelune" next to her name her entire life.

But most of all—she felt grateful.

She hadn't asked for this. She hadn't even thought of it. But he did it anyway.

She looked at the silver-blonde-haired man.

He was in the kitchen, multitasking—cooking while watching something on his phone. He didn't even look at what he was doing, yet not a single movement was wrong.

Instead of watching TV, she found it far more interesting to watch him.

Stone-faced. In an apron.

"You should turn off the TV if you're going to watch me. No matter what, wasting energy isn't good."

She flinched.

Caught red-handed.

Her face burned with shame. She felt like she'd been caught mid-theft.

She took one sneaky glance at him to see if he was teasing—but his expression remained unchanged.

That eased her embarrassment, just a little.

-To Be Continued