Chapter 48: Don’t Think of Your Boss’s Face on a Date

A Shocking Reaction

Only Kross knew what horrors she’d seen, what unease Rita’s question stirred.

“Kross.”

Rita called with concern, met only by stifled retching from Kross’s throat.

“Kross, you okay?”

She called again.

Kross finally responded, leaning back in her chair, her throat visibly working, swallowing either sour bile or hidden pain.

Inhaling, exhaling, she used calming techniques. Seconds later, she regained composure.

Disaster.

Kross realized what had just happened.

The succubus’s lingering effect, the tension of their shared room last night, her current vile task—all buried by her mind, resurfaced by a simple question.

The overwhelming sensation caused brief physical distress.

Forcing a smile, Kross lied blatantly. “S-sorry… ate too fast, felt a bit nauseous.”

Her reaction hinted she knew something about the succubus.

Though Rita saw through the excuse, prying into someone’s pain wasn’t her style.

The stage performance continued, but their conversation paused.

An Intimate Moment

As the play reached its midpoint, Kross’s soft voice broke the silence. “I’m feeling a bit off. Can I lean on something?”

Glancing at Kross’s chair, which had a backrest, Rita frowned but advised kindly. “Your chair has a backrest.”

Kross’s expression stiffened, a hint of reproach in her eyes. Swallowing, she said deliberately, “I meant leaning on you, Lady Rita. Is that okay?”

Oh, that’s what she meant?

In that moment, Rita understood why her luck with the opposite sex was so poor.

“Sure.” She scooted closer. Kross tilted her head, resting it on Rita’s shoulder.

The scent of Kross’s shampoo filled Rita’s nose. Her curled shoulders brushed lightly against Rita with each breath, like a bug crawling in Rita’s heart, stealing her focus from the play.

The actors’ songs and lines, though loud, were drowned by Kross’s breathing—outdone only by Rita’s own heartbeat.

This was far more flustering than when Kross, in her bunny outfit, clung to her arm. Despite no revealing attire, Kross’s focused profile, watching the stage, felt more alluring than ever.

So cute…

Unbidden, Rita recalled Cecilia trembling as she sought her embrace.

Lady Cecilia was cute too, but in a different way.

Kross, though, had a womanly charm Cecilia lacked.

It’s a rest day—why think of the boss?

How long would Cecilia even be her boss? Rita would leave her side eventually.

After a while, Kross whispered, “Lady Rita, have you seen a demon?”

“No.” Rita’s answer was firm.

Her intentions might not be pure, but her identity was untouchable. Exposing herself over a date? Not that foolish.

Kross’s question seemed a casual opener, her gaze fixed on the stage, no intent to probe.

“Demons are terrifying,” she said.

On stage, a knight, sword in hand, fought ornate-clad demons for his beloved, charging despite grave wounds.

“In human stories, love and justice triumph, the weak challenge the strong, and even terrifying demons—even Demon Kings—pale in comparison.”

Rita listened silently to Kross’s murmured complaints.

“S-sorry.” Kross lifted her head, her hair brushing Rita’s nose. “I got carried away, acting spoiled with you! Let’s watch the play.”

“Sounds good.” Rita’s eyes crinkled.

“Can I… keep leaning on you?”

“Of course.”

Kross exhaled, nestling closer, her head tucked into Rita’s shoulder.

It felt wrong, but Rita found Kross fascinating.

Nervous, sometimes showing her emotions, yet knowing when to rein them in.

Contradictory—a naive girl coerced by fate, yet a brothel worker forced to please.

Lowering her guard, showing real feelings—was this trust in Rita?

A Shared Connection

The play ended, curtains falling, snacks and drinks nearly gone.

Kross lifted her head from Rita’s chest, stretching lazily, naturally taking her hand.

“Wow, it’s over already. The ending was so gripping, I barely breathed.”

Rita hesitated, then gripped Kross’s hand tighter.

“Yeah, my first play, but it’s impressive.”

Her words belied her focus, drawn to Kross’s warm, soft hand—unlike Cecilia’s icy grip.

Not quite comforting, but holding it, Rita felt she grasped something tangible.

Kross, still caught in the play’s mood, chatted happily about the plot as they walked.

“The Demon King having only three lords isn’t realistic, but it’s a play—some tweaks make sense.”

New to such plays, Rita enjoyed discussing it. “True. If every race had a king, there’d be lots of Demon Kings, right?”

“Not every demon lord counts as a Demon King. Goblins, slimes—they’re just scattered tribes. Their leaders are mere chieftains.”

“What makes a Demon King, then?”

“The race must be strong, like the heroine’s father, the Abyssal Lord king, or the play’s Succubus King and Vampire King—high demons, quite representative.”

“I see.”

“But it’s not always like that. Some weak races, like insects, have leaders called Demon Kings. Their subspecies vary too much for me to name many.”

Beyond plot talk, Rita gleaned biological history, which she appreciated.

“I said those things earlier, but a hero risking all for love, even against a Demon King—that’s enviable.” Kross gazed at the darkening sky, sighing softly.

Rita meant to respond, but something caught in her throat.

She wasn’t that story’s hero, nor did Kross need her protection.

“Sorry, saying weird stuff again.”

Rita felt Kross’s grip tighten.

“Lady Rita.” She paused. “Want to come to my place?”