She held out the neatly folded set of clothes—a simple oversized T-shirt and a pair of jeans.
Despite his bloated frame and disgusting legs, Damien Elford had always insisted on wearing jeans. Tight, restrictive, unsuited for his body—but he wore them regardless, as if in denial of his own form.
She expected him to take them without comment, as he always did.
"This... throw these jeans away."
Elysia blinked, her grip tightening around the fabric.
Damien had never complained about his clothing before. He had never cared. As long as he had something to throw over himself before leaving his room, he never gave it a second thought.
"Bring me something more comfortable," he said, his tone casual, but firm.
Elysia hesitated for only a fraction of a second before responding.
"I understand, young master."
She turned back to the wardrobe, her sharp eyes scanning over the neatly arranged garments. If he wanted something more comfortable, then—
She selected a loose, lightweight shirt made from soft fabric, paired with lounge pants—clothing that, while still refined, would at least allow his bloated frame to breathe.
Turning back to him, she held out the fresh selection.
Damien looked at her, then at the clothes, before smirking slightly.
He let the robe fall.
Elysia did not react outwardly, but her sharp eyes took in everything.
Thankfully, his underwear remained in place.
His body, once covered in a thick, unkempt layer of hair, was now completely smooth.
His chest, his arms, his stomach—clean.
A stark contrast to the Damien Elford she had known.
And then there was the scent.
It was no longer the overwhelming stench of sweat, alcohol, and stale filth.
Now, he smelled fresh.
Like soap. Clean. Almost... pleasant.
"What are you waiting for?" Damien's voice cut through the silence. "Do your job."
Elysia gave a short nod, her body moving on its own, hands reaching for the shirt she had just selected.
It was routine. Muscle memory. Something she had done more times than she cared to count. Yet, as she stepped forward, as her fingers brushed against fabric instead of coarse body hair, she couldn't ignore the stark difference in sensation.
She pushed the thought aside and focused on the task at hand.
Unfolding the shirt, she lifted it over his head, her movements precise and efficient. Damien stood still, arms slightly raised, letting her work without the usual sluggish resistance. In the past, he had always made this process unbearable—swaying on unsteady feet, muttering complaints about how stiff and cold her hands were, laughing lazily whenever she adjusted his sleeves.
But now, he was unnervingly composed.
Elysia slipped the shirt down over his frame, smoothing out the fabric as it fell over his stomach. It fit loosely, far more forgiving than the ill-fitting garments he had forced himself into before. The lounge pants were next. She bent down, gathering the fabric at the waist, waiting.
Damien simply shifted his stance, lifting each foot in turn without being told.
That, more than anything, made something stir in the back of her mind.
The man she had clothed for years had always been difficult. Lazy. Indifferent. He never lifted his arms properly, never balanced himself when she pulled up his pants, never made this task anything less than a drawn-out exercise in patience.
But now, he was making it easy.
Her fingers tightened briefly against the waistband of the fabric before she pulled it up the rest of the way, adjusting the fit around his waist before taking a measured step back.
"It is done, young master," she stated, her voice as even as ever.
Damien rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the looser clothing, and let out a pleased hum. "Much better," he murmured. Then, casually, he glanced at her. "You seem distracted, Elysia."
She remained silent, not taking the bait.
He let out a soft chuckle, running a hand through his still-damp hair before looking at himself in the floor-length mirror nearby. For a moment, he simply studied his reflection, his expression unreadable. Then, with the same lazy amusement, he turned his gaze back to her.
"Did you detest this task that much?"
Elysia met his eyes without hesitation. "I am only performing my duty, young master."
His smirk returned. "Is that so?"
Damien lifted a hand and lazily motioned with his fingers.
Elysia obeyed without hesitation, stepping forward with practiced precision, her posture straight, her expression unreadable.
She had no reason to refuse.
A quiet, nagging thought in the back of her mind whispered that she should have hesitated.
She came to a halt just a step away from him, close enough that she could still catch the lingering scent of fresh soap on his skin, see the way his damp hair clung slightly to his forehead.
Then, without warning, he reached out.
Fingertips brushing against her skin, he tilted her chin upward, just as he had done before.
"If I were you," he mused, his voice low, smooth, "I would also detest this."
His thumb traced the edge of her jaw, barely there, but enough to make her skin prickle with awareness.
"But don't worry." His smirk widened. "Soon, I'll make sure you start to like it."
Elysia's brows furrowed slightly.
She did not understand what he meant, nor did she try to.
Her mind worked efficiently, logically, trained to discard unnecessary thoughts. But still, something in his words—his tone—felt off.
He saw her confusion and chuckled, shaking his head as if amused by her lack of comprehension.
"You may not understand it right now," he murmured, his blue eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "But you will. Soon."
Casual, teasing—yet laced with a certainty she couldn't ignore.
She stiffened slightly at the unfamiliar term.
"You've suffered quite a lot," he continued, his fingers finally leaving her chin. "Now it's your time to reap the rewards of your suffering."
Her lips parted slightly, then pressed back into a firm line.
"I have not suffered," she stated, her tone neutral, professional. "I have only done my duty."
Damien only shook his head. "You keep telling yourself that, Elysia."
He turned then, walking past her with an easy stride, his movements fluid, controlled.
No stumbling. No sluggish carelessness.
Just effortless confidence.
He stopped briefly at the doorway, glancing back at her one last time.
And then, without another word, he stepped out, leaving her standing in the quiet of his room.
For the first time in years, Elysia found herself frozen in place.
Not because she was confused.
Not because she was hesitant.
But because—for once—she did not know what to expect next.