Apocalypse Rebirth: Making Billions With My Fortune-Telling Skill

A surge of murderous, burning vexation flared in Samuel’s chest, his fingers tightening slightly against April’s soft skin. But he took a single, deep breath, forcing the dark storm back beneath his immaculate mask, and slowly let it out.

Carrying April out of the bedroom, he walked down the quiet hallway to another suite—one he had personally checked and prepared hours ago in anticipation of this exact moment.

Stepping into the bathroom, Samuel gently lowered her exhausted, marked body into the deep bathtub, where the warm, fragrant water was already drawn and waiting for her.

He took off his coat, carefully folding it over a nearby rack, and rolled up his white sleeves to his elbows. Picking up a soft cloth, he dampened it in the warm water and began to gently cleanse the marks left on her fair skin.

As he washed away the lingering traces of the night, a quiet, bewildering question crossed his mind.

How is it that this comes so naturally?

He couldn’t pin down when it had started—when he had begun to look at April not just as his lady, but as a woman he was bound to nurture and protect with every fiber of his being. It was almost as though she were a delicate charge in his care, yet it was painfully far from that.

If she were merely a child, none of this torturous desire would exist, and he wouldn’t be harboring such heavy, suffocating feelings.

He was bathing her bare, exhausted body, yet the thought of taking advantage of her while she was like this never even crossed his mind. He handled her with the pure, chaste reverence of someone tending to something sacred, as if her sexuality were entirely detached from the moment.

And yet, beneath that pristine care, his blood burned for her. He lusted after her so deeply it made his chest ache, yet he instinctively knew his place and never crossed the boundary.

This strange, dual nature—this absolute, instinctual discipline that governed his intense desire—came to him so naturally that he genuinely wondered if he was losing his sanity. Is this normal?

He had no idea that this absolute, self-sacrificing devotion was a subtle, innate force driven by his very essence as her High Steward—a role that bound his deepest desires into the service and protection of his mistress above all else the moment she named him so.

Samuel stopped scrubbing. The quiet splash of the water faded into complete silence.

He slowly lowered his head, resting his forehead against the cool edge of the marble tub. His eyes stared blankly down at the tiles below, his breath shaking as he held back the quiet, agonizing storm inside him.

He was losing his mind, and there was no cure for it.

Samuel remained frozen in that position for a long moment, the cool marble pressing hard against his brow as if it could draw out the feverish heat rushing through his blood. His ragged breaths gradually smoothed into a silent, measured rhythm—the discipline of the High Steward reasserting its dominance over his aching body.

Slowly, he lifted his head. He adjusted his glasses with one damp finger, his dark eyes refocusing on April’s sleeping form resting peacefully in the warm, fragrant water.

Her comfort remains the priority, his mind reminded him, a cold, unwavering directive that cut through the haze of his desire.

Picking up the damp cloth once more, Samuel resumed his work with meticulous, practiced grace. He washed away the dried sweat and sticky remnants of the night, his touch soft and deliberate as he smoothed the cloth over the delicate curves of her collarbone, down her pale waist, and over her slender thighs.

Every mark left by the others—the faint bruises on her hips from Nat’s fierce grip, the rosy flush on her chest from Xavier’s eager mouth, and the subtle nips along her collarbone from Alexander’s quiet possessiveness—was carefully tended to.

He didn’t allow his gaze to linger on any single mark for too long. He treated her skin not as a trophy of another man’s victory, but as a precious, fragile canvas in urgent need of restoration.

When the water finally began to lose its gentle warmth, Samuel reached for a large bath towel. Then, he lifted April out of the tub. Her body was soft and pliable in his arms, completely surrendered to sleep, her head resting heavily against his shoulder.

He wrapped her snugly in the towel, patting her skin dry before carrying her into the adjacent, freshly made bedroom. He laid her down onto the silk sheets, gently pulling a clean nightgown over her head and smoothing the fabric down past her knees.

This somewhat reminded him of the first time he saw her naked. At that time, he ahd not even been this siubissive, he had just begun to know her.

That day, it was clear she had been very exhausted. He knocked on her door, calling out to her but there was o response. He opened the door but didnt find her. Worried, he went to the bathroom—maybe she had fallen down and was out—but he found her sleeping in the tub.

He had looked away right away, startled, but he didn’t leave. What if she fell sick from sleeping in the tub?

He could go call the maids to help her, but what if rumors spread that he saw her naked? He didn’t want to ruin her repuation, so he helped her, though clumsily. Since he didn’t want to look for too long, he tried to be fast about it without waking her. He put her in a robe and laid her on the bed, covering her with the duvet so she wouldn’t fall sick from cold.

At that time, he certainly had no idea he would repeat that action, but more willingly this time, like he belonged to her from soul to body.

He never told anybody about it and acted completely normal up until now.

Retrieving a small crystal bottle of soothing floral oil from his coat pocket, Samuel sat at the edge of the mattress. He poured a few drops onto his palms, rubbing it between his hands before gently massaging her calves and ankles, working out the residual tension left in her muscles after hours of intense exertion.

April let out a soft, contented sigh in her sleep, her features smoothing into complete, unbothered peace.

Samuel watched her, his expression softening just a fraction behind his lenses. The agonizing ache in his lower body was still there—a dull, throbbing pressure beneath his damp trousers—but it had receded into the background, drowned out by the quiet satisfaction of seeing her properly cared for.

He pulled the duvet up to her chin, tucking the edges neatly around her shoulders.

“Rest well, Miss April,” Samuel whispered into the quiet room, his voice low, holding no trace of the storm from moments ago.

He stood up, adjusted his sleeves, and retrieved his coat. Standing tall in the center of the silent suite, he bowed deeply toward the bed—a picture of absolute, unyielding devotion—before turning to take his guard post by the door, ready to keep watch over her until dawn.

And for some reason, he didn’t feel tired in the sligthest.