His Final Command: "Come Back Here and Ravish Me."

I am a woman, masquerading as a man, serving as a Shadow Guard.
But I don't guard shadows.
I carry my crippled, foul-tempered master to the privy, I lift him into his bath, and sometimes, I even have to wash his back.
Lord Cassian Valerius despises me for it.
Every time he sees me, a furious crimson blush stains his high cheekbones.
I always thought it was hatred.
Until the day he cornered me, his eyes burning with a desperate fire, and accused me of not loving him.
I blinked.
My name is Jaelen, and I am, perhaps, an idiot.
I was his personal Shadow Guard, a privilege granted because he brought me into the Valerius household himself.
He was always more lenient with me, even after the riding accident that stole the use of his legs.
He refused every other guard, every servant, but he allowed me to remain.
After his injury, however, Lord Cassian became a storm of unpredictable moods.
Whenever I carried him to his bath, his face would flicker between that furious red and a deathly pale, his gaze a turbulent sea of struggle and shame.
He would stare at me for long, unnerving moments, and when I met his eyes, he d snap, his pride wounded.
I chalked it up to the bitterness of his condition and asked no questions.
I just did my job.
Today, his cousin, the young Lady Genevieve, was scheduled to visit.
It was late, but my lord had not yet risen.
As I debated whether to wake him, a commotion erupted outside his chambers.
The noise must have stirred him, because a pair of long, elegant hands impatiently threw back the velvet bed curtains.

"Who is making that racket?"
His voice, raspy with sleep, was a low growl of irritation and weariness.
The curtain fell away to reveal a face of breathtaking, almost feminine beauty.
Long, narrow eyes, the color of twilight, tilted upwards in a way that was both seductive and disdainful.
A cascade of silken black hair spilled over his shoulders as he sat up.
His brow was furrowed, his perfect lips pressed into a thin line of annoyance.
Spotting me standing frozen, Lord Cassian propped himself against the headboard and beckoned with a single, imperious finger.
"Come here."
I obeyed, sinking to one knee beside his bed.
He draped his arms around my neck with a practiced ease, resting his head in the crook of my shoulder.
"Carry me out. I want to see what fool dares disturb my morning."
His voice was a tired murmur against my skin.
I slid one arm under his thighs and the other around his back, lifting him effortlessly.
With my free hand, I snagged the ornate wheelchair parked beside his bed.
I kicked the chamber door open with my foot, set the wheelchair down, and was about to place him in it.
A sudden, sharp gasp cut through the air.
I turned my head.
Standing in the corridor was Lady Genevieve, her face a mask of utter shock.
I tilted my head, genuinely confused by her reaction.
She pointed a trembling finger at us, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, before she finally found her voice, her cheeks flushing a scandalized pink.
"I never would have imagined."

"Cousin Cassian& you harbor a passion for men!"
She stared at us for a moment longer, her expression a chaotic mix of horror and fascination, before stammering, "I shall... I shall call again another day."
As she fled down the hall, I scratched my head, completely bewildered.
Before I could puzzle it out, the man in my arms began to struggle.
His pale, slender hands pushed against my shoulders, trying to create distance.
I glanced down.
The languid, boneless lord who had been draped over me moments ago was now rigid, his face a blazing scarlet, his eyes filled with a profound, mortified fury.
"Put me down," he bit out, his voice strained.
I carefully lowered him into his wheelchair.
The moment his body touched the seat, he frantically wheeled himself away from me.
He only stopped when he d put what he deemed a safe distance between us.
"My lord, did I do something wrong?"
I took a hesitant step forward, but his expression made me freeze.
I was never the sharpest tool in the shed. My lord often called me a block of wood.
I must have blundered again to make him this angry.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly raised his scarlet face to meet my gaze.
His eyes were a storm of unreadable emotions.
After a long moment, he spoke, his words clipped and sharp.
"You did nothing wrong."
"It's just& I do not like men."
He doesn't like men. And?

I stared back at him, waiting for the rest of the sentence.
Under my unwavering gaze, his grip tightened on the armrests of his chair.
He repeated, more forcefully this time, "I. Do. Not. Like. Men."
I know, I thought. He's a man, of course he likes women.
So why was he telling me this?
I tilted my head again, my confusion growing.
His eyes met mine for a split second before darting away.
When he spoke for the third time, his voice had lost its edge, replaced by a thread of... uncertainty.
"I don't think..."
The words died on his lips, and he clamped his mouth shut, looking utterly vexed with himself.
He gave me one last, deep look, then spun his chair around and retreated into his chambers, the door closing with a soft, final click.
Staring at the closed door, I scratched my head again, more confused than ever.
Utterly stumped, I decided to seek counsel from the one person who might understand: Rook, the Chief of the Shadow Guard.
I found him where I always did, perched in the branches of the old oak tree overlooking the training grounds, cracking nuts between his teeth.
I scaled the tree silently and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Chief."
He yelped, nearly dropping his handful of walnuts.
I smoothly relieved him of his snack.
"Chief, I think I made my lord angry again," I said, cracking a walnut with my thumb. "His face was flushed crimson."
Rook brushed the dust from his hands. "What did you do this time?"

My chewing faltered. I sheepishly recounted the morning's events.
When I finished, I looked at him expectantly, hoping he could devise a plan for me to earn back my lord's favor.
Rook stroked his chin, lost in thought. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.
"It must be because you were seen carrying him," he declared with conviction. "He's a man of immense pride. He wouldn't want anyone to see him in such a vulnerable state."
A wave of understanding washed over me.
Of course!
Lord Cassian was so fiercely independent. I should have been more discreet. If I d been faster, Lady Genevieve wouldn't have seen a thing.
"Thank you, Chief!" I exclaimed, patting his shoulder. "I know how to apologize now."
I shoved the remaining nutshells back into his hand and leaped from the tree, eager to make amends.
Behind me, Rook s enraged roar echoed through the yard.
"You scoundrel! You gave me back the empty shells!"
I quickened my pace, not daring to look back.
When I entered the chambers, I found Lord Cassian staring out the window, his posture rigid.
I moved to stand behind him, preparing my apology.
As I was forming the words, he suddenly turned his head.
His long, twilight eyes swept over me, and for some reason, the blush immediately returned to his pale cheeks.
He closed his eyes for a moment, a flicker of struggle crossing his features.
When he opened them again, he looked away. "Stand back," he said, his voice low.
Seeing this, I panicked.
It's worse than I thought. He can't even stand the sight of me.

I dropped to one knee. "My lord, I was wrong," I said, my voice tight with sincerity. "I will be sure to avoid any onlookers the next time I carry you."
At my words, his face turned an even deeper shade of red.
"You..."
He pointed at me, his finger trembling with suppressed emotion.
Taking a deep breath, he gestured sharply towards the door.
"Get out."
I looked at the door, then back at his furious face, hesitating.
Seeing that I wasn't moving, his expression softened almost imperceptibly.
"What? Unwilling to leave me?"
Emboldened by his slightly calmer tone, I dared to speak.
"If I leave, who will carry you to the privy, my lord?"
It was a genuine, practical concern.
Ever since his injury, that duty had fallen to me. If he banished me, who would take over?
By my calculations, it was nearly time for him to need it.
My question seemed to be the final straw.
His face went from red to incandescent.
He looked around wildly, searching for something to throw. His eyes passed over a ceramic teapot, a heavy leather-bound book, an ink-stained quill.
Finally, he settled on the least damaging object, ripping the leather pouch of coins from his belt and hurling it at me.
I caught it reflexively.
"Out," he seethed.

I held up the pouch. "And this?"
He waved a dismissive hand, his patience clearly gone. "It's yours. A reward."
A reward? He was this furious with me, and he was still giving me a reward? Lord Cassian truly was a good man.
I happily tucked the pouch into my tunic and walked out, my steps light. I would go to the East Market and buy a honey-cake to celebrate.
And maybe& maybe I d also buy one of his favorite jujube paste cakes.
The next day, Lord Cassian seemed to have forgiven me.
When I presented him with the jujube paste cake, he feigned disdain but his hands told a different story, reaching for one piece after another until they were all gone.
After he had neatly wiped his mouth, he instructed me to take him to the ducal soir?e.
At the carriage, I paused, looking at the assembled servants and then at my lord.
Remembering the incident with his cousin, I made a quick decision. I bent down, gripped the wheels of his chair, and lifted.
I carried him, wheelchair and all, up the steps and into the carriage.
No one would see him being carried like a child this time. I was brilliant.
Once inside, I looked at him, expecting a nod of approval for my cleverness.
Instead, I saw his lips pressed into a white line, his knuckles bloodless as he gripped the armrests.
He caught me looking, and his face darkened.
I didn't understand why he was angry again, but I knew better than to ask. I sat quietly in the corner.
The silence stretched.
Perhaps finding it as uncomfortable as I did, he lifted the curtain and stared out the window.
Halfway to the palace, I spotted a familiar pastry shop through the open curtain.
An idea sparked. If I'd angered him, perhaps more jujube cakes would soothe his temper?

"Stop the carriage," I called out.
Lord Cassian shot me a sideways glance but said nothing.
I bought a fresh box of the cakes.
On my way back, I passed a young woman kneeling by the roadside, a crude sign before her reading: "Selling myself to bury my father."
I hesitated for only a second before pulling out the coin pouch he d given me and pressing all of it into her hand.
I felt a quiet satisfaction as I climbed back into the carriage, my own smile bright.
I was about to offer the peace-offering of cakes when I looked up and met his furious gaze.
"What? Smitten with her?" he asked, his voice dripping with acid.
His sudden hostility baffled me.
"Yes, my lord, you are correct," I said, defaulting to my usual tactic of simply agreeing when I was confused.
His face contorted, and the corners of his eyes reddened with an emotion I couldn't name.
"I forbid it!" he snapped, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist. "I forbid you to desire anyone else!"
His grip was surprisingly strong, his tone laced with a dark, unfamiliar intensity.
I didn't understand his anger, but I knew how to placate him.
"Very well, my lord. I won't desire anyone else."
"I desire only you, my lord."
He froze, his expression slackening into something unreadable.
He awkwardly released my wrist, a faint blush creeping up his neck.
"Who asked for your desire," he mumbled, though the storm in his eyes had clearly passed.
His mood improved, and his curiosity surfaced.

"Why did you give that woman your money?" he asked, affecting a casual tone.
"She reminded me of myself," I answered honestly. "If you hadn't found me, my lord, I might still be begging on some street corner."
It was the truth. He had saved me from a life of destitution. I owed him everything.
Even if the whole world called him difficult, I would always be there for him, tending to his every need.
He fell silent.
He seemed to remember my past, and a flicker of pain, of empathy, softened his features.
He opened his mouth as if to say something comforting, but no words came.
Instead, he simply reached out and took my hand, his fingers lacing through mine, holding on tight.
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
But I could feel his gaze on me, gentle and full of a strange, tender sorrow.
When we arrived, I hesitated, remembering his earlier anger.
But this time, as I bent down, a pair of soft arms wrapped around my neck.
He rested his head on my shoulder, his voice a low, lazy command.
"Carry me."
I paused for a breath, then lifted him into my arms.
He melted against me, his upper body pressed flush against mine.
His warm, moist breath ghosted across the sensitive skin of my collarbone, sending an involuntary shiver through me.
He chuckled softly at my reaction, his arms tightening, pulling us even closer.
So close I could feel the feather-light brush of his lips against my skin.
A fierce heat bloomed on my ears, and my whole body felt like it was on fire.

I hurried towards his designated suite, desperate for this sweet torture to end.
Inside, I moved to set him down.
Suddenly, his arms locked around my neck, refusing to let go.
"My lord?" I asked, confused.
He just held on tighter, burying his face in my neck, his body refusing to budge from my arms.
He wouldn't get down, and I couldn't force him. I stood there, awkwardly holding him, until my arm began to burn with fatigue.
"My lord," I finally said, my voice strained. "Could you please get down? My arm is getting sore."
"Idiot," he murmured into my skin. "Sit down. With me."
Relieved, I did as he asked, sitting on a plush divan.
He remained draped across my lap, his legs hanging limply to one side.
His arms were still wound tightly around me, his cheek pressed into the hollow of my neck.
I hesitated, then tentatively rested my hand on his thin shoulder.
He trembled at my touch.
"My lord," I said softly. "It's a bit warm."
I felt like a furnace, especially where his body met mine.
He took a deep breath, then slowly lifted his face.
It was flushed a brilliant, feverish pink.
His beautiful, twilight eyes, usually so sharp and impatient, were glistening with unshed moisture.
The corners of his eyes were tinged with red, and his lips, which he had clearly been biting, were swollen and rosy, like bruised rose petals.
As I stared, he gazed back at me through a haze of emotion.

Seeing him like this, I was struck with alarm.
"My lord, you have a fever!"
I immediately reached to feel his forehead.
He caught my wrist, pressing my palm against his burning cheek.
He looked up at me from under his long lashes.
In response to my worried gaze, he let out a soft, throaty laugh, his voice a long, drawn-out, and deeply suggestive purr.
"Oh, yes."
"I am... burning up."
But I, being the block of wood that I was, heard only the literal meaning.
I sprang up, accidentally tumbling him onto the divan, and bolted for the door.
"My lord is ill! Fetch the physician!"
Behind me, I heard his utterly infuriated roar.
"You blockhead!"
"Get back here!"
By the time I returned with the physician, Lord Cassian's face was a thundercloud.
He and I exchanged a nervous glance, neither of us daring to approach the fuming nobleman.
Thinking fast, I gave the old physician a not-so-gentle shove forward.
He shot me a glare before tremulously taking my lord's pulse.
As he held the wrist, his brow furrowed deeper and deeper.
I watched, my heart pounding with anxiety.

The physician looked my lord over, then cleared his throat. "My lord," he said delicately. "You seem to have an... excess of Yang energy. It needs to be... vented."
I stared blankly, about to ask how one "vents Yang," when Lord Cassian shot me a murderous look.
He waved a dismissive hand, sending the physician scurrying away.
After he'd gone, he caught my curious gaze and sighed, a flicker of exasperation in his eyes.
"Take this and read it," he said, pulling a thin, silk-bound book from under his pillow and tossing it to me. "Don't come back to my chambers until you've learned it."
I caught the book.
"Now, get out."
I left, holding the book, completely baffled.
He knew I hated reading. Why would he punish me this way?
Deeply troubled, I went to find Rook.
I found him on his usual perch, gnawing on a roasted duck leg.
"Chief," I said, holding up the book. "My lord gave me this."
Rook squinted at the cover.
His eyes widened. "*The Dragon's Yang Manual*?" he read aloud. "This is a treasure! It must be a secret martial arts manual!"
He looked at me with open jealousy. "The lord truly favors you. Giving you all the good stuff."
I grinned, puffing out my chest, and quickly tucked the book away before leaping from the tree.
"There's no point being jealous, Chief!" I called back smugly. "I'm his favorite!"
I ran off before he could retaliate.
Despite my pride in being his favorite, my aversion to reading won out.
I tossed the book into a corner of my room and promptly forgot about it.

My lord never tested my martial skills anyway.
A few days later, feeling confident, I returned to my duties.
The moment he saw me, Lord Cassian raised a surprised eyebrow.
"You've learned it already?" he asked, his eyes raking over me with suspicion.
My heart stuttered, but I put on a brave face.
"I have learned everything," I declared, perhaps a little too loudly.
He shot me a look, and a faint blush colored his ears.
"Keep your voice down," he hissed. "It's not exactly something to be proud of."
He covered the lower half of his face with his hand, leaving only his shy, glistening eyes visible.
I stared at his red ears, and a thought struck me.
Could it be? Was that book some kind of forbidden, evil technique?
Why would he want me to learn it?
Before I could ask, he beckoned me closer.
I swallowed my questions and approached him.
Lord Cassian coughed lightly, his gaze flickering with an uncharacteristic, almost coy, light.
"Well then. Proceed."
"Serve me well."
He tugged at the corner of my tunic, his knuckles turning a delicate pink with embarrassment.
Serve him?
I looked down at his flushed, expectant face, and then it hit me.

Of course. He needed to use the privy. Honestly, why couldn't he just say so?
Look at him, he was so red from holding it in.
I swiftly scooped him into my arms.
He stiffened for a moment, then, as if by instinct, wrapped his arms around my neck, our bodies pressed face-to-face.
Worried I might drop him, I adjusted my grip, my hands cupping his bottom, his legs wrapped around my waist.
It was the way one might carry a small child.
His eyes, wide and red-rimmed, blinked at me slowly. "So," he said, his voice a low thrum. "You prefer this position?"
"It's a bit... strenuous. But... not impossible, I suppose."
I remained silent.
I didn't prefer this position at all. How was he supposed to do his business like this? Would he... relieve himself on me?
I walked towards the privy, my mind racing.
As I reached the ceramic pot, an idea flashed.
I quickly spun him around, holding him over it, much like a mother holding her son to pee.
He was a grown man, but sometimes he needed to be coaxed. I sighed internally.
The position was apparently one of great shame for him. He gripped my arms, his entire body flushing a deep, mortified red.
"What... what are you doing?" he stammered, his normally rich voice turning thin and sweet with embarrassment.
I blinked, confused. He asked me to serve him, didn't he?
Was he shy?
I closed my eyes firmly. "Do not worry, my lord. I will not peek. You may proceed in peace."
I even made a few soft "shushing" sounds to help him relax.

The room fell deathly silent.
The next second, a pair of hands locked around my throat, their grip surprisingly weak.
"You... you absolute cretin," he choked out, so furious he could barely speak.
I opened my eyes and met his gaze, which was blazing with a teary, humiliated rage. He was trembling.
"My lord," I said, trying to wriggle my neck. "Please don't touch my throat. It tickles."
This seemed to make him even angrier.
He grabbed my collar, his voice rising to an incredulous shriek. "I am trying to strangle you! Strangle you!"
I tilted my head. So that's what this was.
But his grip was so feeble, it felt more like a tickle than a threat.
I studied his face carefully. "My lord, why are you so angry? You asked me to serve you."
His eyes widened, then narrowed into furious slits. "This isn't how you were supposed to serve me!"
He suddenly reached up and pinched my cheek.
"You didn't read the book I gave you, did you?" he asked, his eyes full of suspicion.
My gaze flickered away.
He knew instantly.
With a sound of pure frustration, he leaned forward and bit down on my neck.
A soft, wet heat slid across my skin. I felt my own face start to burn.
When he pulled back, he saw my flushed face, and some of his anger seemed to dissipate.
"Fine," he sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'll teach you myself."
He leaned in close, his lips brushing against my ear, and began to whisper.

First, search for and download the Novellia app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "606442" to read the entire book.