The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 591: The Secret Sneak-in (3)

Lira’s breath hitched—not from exertion, but from raw surprise. So this is his foxhole. All those playful jokes about secret hobbies suddenly rang half true.

Serelith stepped through and vanished.

Lira leaned back into the alcove’s darkness. Cerys’s knuckles brushed hers, silent question: Now?

She nodded once.

They waited a full minute—long enough for the bookcase to grind shut—before darting forward. Cerys knelt to inspect the track along the floor, eyes narrowing at minute brass shavings. Lira, meanwhile, studied the false shelf. Her gloved hands mapped each spine until they felt the faint heat of enchantment. She found the bark-beetle tome, tilted, pushed.

The mechanism obeyed with a soft mechanical sigh. Beyond lay a narrow corridor ribbed with steel struts, sloping downward. Tiny crystals embedded at ankle height glimmered pale green, illuminating evenly without casting glare. It looked nothing like the castle’s torch-lit stone; it looked... modern, almost foreign.

They slipped inside. The wall slid shut behind them, plunging the outer world into silence.

Cerys flexed her fingers around an imaginary sword hilt—habit she couldn’t shake—then began downward. Lira followed, letting her eyes dart across every symbol chiselled into the basalt. These weren’t standard arcane runes; they blended angular script with circuitry patterns—mana-tech sigils she’d glimpsed only once in an academy journal, rumored experimental.

The deeper they went, the cooler the air grew, yet it never felt damp like other basements. Some hidden ventilation swept fresh currents through, tinged with a clean metallic tang. Resin? No. Something tree-derived but alchemically refined. Lira inhaled, filing the scent away.

Halfway down, the walls widened into a gentle spiral curve. Lira brushed stone—warm, almost alive beneath her glove. A faint heartbeat? No, that was her own pulse racing. Still, the idea unsettled her. She was used to castles feeling dead until occupied by people. This tunnel felt as though it hummed even when empty.

Cerys halted suddenly, one hand up. Ahead, a chimera ant no bigger than a thumb scuttled across the path, bearing a droplet of glowing blue gel on its back. It hurried into a side crevice filled with tiny alcoves—storage cubbies perhaps. Neither woman moved until it disappeared. Then Cerys exhaled, whisper-quiet: "They’re organized."

Lira’s voice matched the hush. "I don’t think any of us grasped how organized."

They rounded the final curve. Soft lights flared automatically: rune-touched crystals set in brass sconces. The passage flattened into a short hall lined with neat shelves. Jars of strange beetle wings, spools of copper wire as fine as hair, rolled scroll tubes labeled in Mikhailis’s messy scrawl. Everything was immaculate—tools nested, vials corked, labels facing outward. A scientist’s order, not a prince’s whimsy.

Whenever Lira had dusted the prince’s library, she’d assumed his clutter was a facade. Here, the truth shone: behind the jokes sat a ruthlessly organized mind.

Cerys paused to study a rack of miniaturized gears. Her finger hovered over a cog etched with microscopic glyphs. "These aren’t smith-made," she breathed. "They’re... grown?"

Lira knelt to a lower shelf. A parchment diagram illustrated an ant worker assembling a clockwork insect the size of a thimble. Arrows annotated each gear alignment. Heat prickled across her nape. Alchemy, engineering, and entomology in one stroke.

Soft clicking echoed further down. She straightened. At the hall’s end loomed a heavy oak door fitted with greenish studs. Under the threshold leaked faint amber light and—she swallowed—the unmistakable cadence of murmuring voices. Serelith’s alto, low and playful. Mikhailis’s deeper, laced with that perpetual grin even when he spoke softly.

Another sound drifted—rustle of fabric, a soft sigh half laughter, half something else. Lira’s cheeks warmed despite the cool air.

They edged to the door, footsteps synchronized so perfectly they could have rehearsed. Lira pressed fingertips to the seam. Heat leaked through, mingling with the sharper lab scents. She felt mana fizz in her bones—the kind that thrummed after strong illusion spells. Serelith was inside, undoubtedly weaving something—around herself or Mikhailis?

Cerys glanced over, silently mouthing: Ready?

Lira gave a tense nod, her breath catching in her throat. The air in the narrow passage felt suddenly too warm, too close. They pressed flat to the oak frame—two disciplined warriors reduced to illicit eavesdroppers—and tilted their heads just enough to catch the sounds spilling through the grain of the door.

Inside, Serelith’s voice rolled like honey over velvet.

"Fufufu... you naughty prince... mmhh!! Slrp!"

The syllables slid under Lira’s skin. Heat flickered through her, equal parts mortification and a low, traitorous thrill. She swallowed hard, blinking fast.

Cerys’s shoulders remained square, but the tips of her ears glowed a betraying pink. She lifted one finger—listen—and stilled every muscle.

Another noise filtered out: a soft, wet kiss followed by a sigh so breathy it felt indecent even muffled by wood. Something thumped gently again, a rhythmic knock—as if someone’s back met the panel with every stolen gasp. The tempo quickened.

"Mmmhh... yes, like that—ah—mnnhh!"

Lira’s palms slicked with sweat. Stars above, she thought, helpless. She had imagined Mikhailis’s flirtations, but picturing them and hearing them were worlds apart. Beside her, Cerys exhaled—short, controlled, the release of a warrior forced to watch a battle she couldn’t charge into.

Lira tried logic. "S-sparring," she whispered, though her voice trembled on the second syllable. "Could be... ah... automatic sparring golems." Even she winced at the flimsy excuse.

Cerys’s green eyes shifted, flat as forged steel. Wordless judgment.

And then the next moan came, high and sweet, ending in a breathy giggle that left no room for combat metaphors.

"Mnh—more... yes, prince... right there!"

A flash of heat seared Lira’s cheeks. She imagined Serelith’s bare shoulders glistening with sweat, pink hair tumbling loose, lips swollen from those insistent kisses. For a breath, Lira’s mind betrayed her— slotting herself in Serelith’s place, imagining Mikhailis’s hands braced to either side of her head, laughter ghosting against her mouth before plunging into another dizzying kiss. Her thighs tightened involuntarily. Focus. You’re here to protect him. To... monitor.

Cerys looked no calmer. Her jaw worked once, twice, like she wanted to grind out a curse but refused to break silence. Still, the faint rise of her chest, the quick flash in her eyes, betrayed the same restless jealousy curling in Lira’s belly. The knight’s gloved hand tightened on the pommel of her short blade—a subconscious need for grounding, not violence.

Another thump rattled the door, harder this time. A tinkling laugh followed.

"Deliciously rough tonight, aren’t we?" Serelith purred, words dripping with satisfaction.

"Only because you love it," came Mikhailis’s voice, low, warm, threaded with smug delight.

The banter hit Lira like a spark to dry tinder. She loved his playful tone, loved when he seemed both scholar and rogue. Hearing it set free—unfiltered passion instead of polite jokes— made something inside her twist. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

Cerys shifted closer to the thin gap where the hinges met. Lira hesitated, then leaned as well, hearts hammering in near-perfect unison.

Through the sliver, they saw flashes:

—Serelith pinned between a thick cedar pillar and Mikhailis’s taller frame. Her corset hung half-loosened, pale skin glowing in the emerald leaf’s pulsing light.

—Mikhailis’s hand buried in that spill of pink hair, guiding her head into a kiss that looked voracious, tongues sliding, mouths parting only to suck another breath.

—Serelith’s knees bent around his hips, stockings torn slightly where he must have hooked his fingers, dragging her closer.

The leaf on the bench flared in a steady rhythm, painting them both green-gold, as though the ancient artifact approved of such raw life unfolding in front of it.

Lira’s breath left in a thin whine she couldn’t quite stifle. Her fists dug into her skirts to keep from reaching out, from pushing the door open, from... she didn’t even know what. The jealousy hurt, but the sight was entrancing; each stolen kiss sparked vicarious heat down her spine. I shouldn’t be watching— but gods, I can’t look away.

Next to her, Cerys was absolutely still, like a wolf stalking at twilight—only the rapid flick-flick of her lashes betrayed her own arousal. For someone famed for ice-cold composure, the faint sheen gathering at her hairline spoke volumes. Her gaze tracked every glide of Mikhailis’s hands over Serelith’s waist, every shiver the sorceress gave, every soft "Slrp!" as their tongues danced.

A deeper groan rolled from Mikhailis, reverberating through the wood in Lira’s palm. Serelith answered with a startled giggle that morphed into a moan as she whispered something too soft to catch but clear in intent—pleading for more.

Cerys swallowed. Her free hand, the one not resting near a weapon, curled so tightly the knuckles blanched. Yet she didn’t step back. The flare in her eyes confessed curiosity, envy, and—though she’d likely never admit it— yearning. He kisses like that, she seemed to think, and laughs with her while doing it... would he ever look at me the same way?

Within the lab, the pair shifted again. They moved along the workbench so equipment rattled, then Serelith guided him down until she perched on its edge, heels locking behind his back. The emerald glow stroked over her bared throat as she threw her head back, letting out a spiraling "Mmmhh!"

The sound went straight through Lira, raising fine chills along her arms. She leaned closer, breath fogging the sliver of light. Her body warmed, thighs pressing together as though to quiet the ache blossoming there. She imagined Mikhailis’s mouth at her own neck, felt phantom lips—and for one dizzy instant, envied Serelith with a fierceness that stole her breath.

Cerys too seemed caught. Her chest rose in a silent gasp, muscles in her neck straining. But jealousy quickly shifted to steel resolve; the knight’s gaze hardened, and Lira recognized that look: the moment Cerys vowed inwardly to compete, to prove herself equal.

Inside, Mikhailis murmured, "Hold on,"

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