QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 211: Another feeling

Chapter 211

Nima

Riding in a luxurious carriage should be the dream, shouldn’t it?

I sink slightly into the cushion—so soft I’m almost convinced I might never stand again—and stare blankly at the passing landscape through the window. Trees blur into golden streaks, the road smooth beneath the wheels. It’s quiet, except for the occasional clink of porcelain from the refreshnt tray and the quiet hum of the arcane suspension charms stabilizing the ride.

Carriages aren’t supposed to be like this. They’re supposed to be noisy, bumpy, and cramd with at least six other half-starved students. That’s what happened last year, anyway. I rode with four other second-years in a creaking transport cart ant for tools—not people.

This? This is surreal.

"I always forget how lovely the countryside is during this season," a velvety voice murmurs beside .

I stiffen.

Her arm is draped casually over my shoulders, like it’s supposed to be there, like we’ve done this before. Like I won’t shatter into a million pieces if she shifts just a little closer.

Daphne Nyxclaw.

Predator. Aristocrat. Nightmare in a pressed uniform.

And for whatever cursed reason, the one who’s decided to take an interest in .

It’s terrifying.

Worse than terrifying—it’s addicting.

Her scent is subtle but sharp, sothing between ink and crushed velvet, with a touch of wild things. Her hair brushes my temple as she leans in, just slightly, to look out the window as if she hasn’t practically invaded my personal space entirely.

I can barely breathe.

Then I feel it.

Her tail, curling around my thigh like a lazy ribbon.

Oh no.

It slithers up just slightly before curling beneath, warming the underside of my leg, only to retreat like it never happened. I swear it’s deliberate. I know you can’t really control your tail—but I’m starting to believe she’s figured out how to weaponize hers.

Across from us, Poppy is very busy pretending not to notice anything. Her gaze is fixed on the view, but her ears twitch every now and then, the way they do when she’s over-listening.

Suspicious.

We’ve shared a class for two years, and she never said more than three words to until two weeks ago. Now she’s smiling at in corridors, handing notes, asking if I want to walk together to labor duties.

Which, conveniently, have now been changed.

The "Cultural Lineage and Inter-Noble History" class is a combined field unit for second and third-years—aning nobles, mostly. Last year we were nothing more than background characters. This year? Suddenly I’m riding in a private enforced carriage with the scariest predator on campus, and the girl who once snarled at for standing too close to her assigned corner in the greenhouse is now braiding my hair.

What. Is. Happening.

I should be grateful, right?

I’ve been promoted in status without having to lift a finger. I haven’t scrubbed a single toilet since Daphne decided I was hers to... whatever it is she thinks she’s doing.

My als are exquisite. Imported snacks. Delicacies I never dread of tasting—eastern baby carrots, white-powdered lotus fruits, preserved plum slices. I eat like a spoiled heir.

Even my room was upgraded.

One day, I made an offhand comnt about how cramped it was, and the next thing I knew, my roommate had been moved out "for health reasons," and I received a new mattress. With embroidery. And heat-regulated linens.

The scariest part?

I’m getting used to it.

It’s terrifying how quickly you can adapt to luxury. How easily you forget you’re just the mouse in the cat’s lap. The mouse being hand-fed expensive cheese.

The worst part isn’t the fear.

No.

It’s the fact that sothing else is starting to creep in.

Sothing warm. Unsafe. Invasive.

Sothing that feels like—comfort.

I grit my teeth.

No. Absolutely not.

I’m just reacting to kindness after a lifeti of being stepped on. That’s all. Like those animals in research labs that start cuddling their captors because they bring food.

It’s not real.

It’s just a confused biological response.

It’ll pass. Any day now.

Maybe. I hope it does.

Daphne glances down at , and I look away quickly. Her gaze always lingers just a second too long. Enough to make feel like she’s reading my thoughts straight from my forehead.

"You’re very quiet today," she says.

"I’m always quiet," I mumble, regretting the response imdiately.

Her lips curl into that almost-smile. "True. But sotis you squeak."

My ears heat up. "I do not squeak."

"I like the squeaks." Her tail flicks lightly.

I feel the flick against my ankle like a tap of a finger, teasing. Testing.

I want to react. I really, really want to. To roll my eyes, scoff, snap sothing back, anything to make her stop toying with like this is so sort of ga.

But I don’t.

Because I’ve learned.

She loves my reactions. I know that now.

Every flinch, every glare, every tiny huff of protest only feeds her twisted amusent. She collects them like little victories. I refuse to be her entertainnt today.

So I sit still. I breathe evenly. I imagine I’m a tree. A tree that cannot squeak. Or blush. Or tremble like a dumb herbivore when a predator teases them with velvet claws.

Her smile deepens beside , and I know she knows.

She won’t get today.

Not again.

I stare out the window like it’s my job, like if I blink wrong I’ll be fired from life itself. My spine is straight. My shoulders stiff. My breathing as even as I can manage under the weight of her looming attention.

But then the hand around my shoulders shifts—up, warm and slow—until her fingers brush the nape of my neck.

And then—

A sharp pinch.

My whole body jolts like a live wire, instincts exploding before I can suppress them. A horrible, high-pitched sound escapes .

A squeak.

No.

No.

I clamp a hand over my mouth, horrified.

I squeaked. Like an actual prey animal. A noise I didn’t even know my throat could produce. My ancestors are weeping in their graves.

Daphne hums, utterly delighted. "There it is."

Her tail flicks once across my thigh like a period on a sentence.

"I knew you had one left in you."

My ears burn. My face feels like it’s caught fire. I don’t even want to look at her. She probably looks insufferably proud of herself.