Nine Summers of Divine Punishment

The black attire Wakako had worn for her night mission was finally set aside.

Wakako stripped off her clothing and sank into the warm water, silently watching Miki in front of her.

The Saint was meticulously examining Wakako’s right hand, inspecting it closely.

This certainly wasn’t the first time Wakako had been naked in front of Miki. As early as eighteen, Miki would climb into her bed, forbidding her from wearing even a single piece of clothing.

Was there any part of Wakako’s body that Miki hadn’t seen?

Yet, this was the first time the Saint’s attention wasn’t on Wakako’s body itself.

She simply held Wakako’s wrist, scrutinizing it meticulously, as if searching for something.

Although the Saint had never done this before, years of calligraphy and painting had honed her skills in delicate tasks.

She wet Wakako’s hand with water, lathered it with soap, and meticulously scrubbed every inch, even the crevices beneath her nails, as if tenderly caring for a small puppy.

She washed her hand until it was spotless.

Wakako had always been the one to serve others—never the one being tended to. The sensation unsettled her, leaving her feeling strangely uncomfortable.

Once, twice, and by the third wash, the skin on the back of her hand had grown tight and dry. Finally, she couldn’t hold back any longer, “How many times are you going to wash it?”

Miki seemed not to hear.

She simply kept her head lowered, revealing the smooth nape of her neck beneath her white robes, patiently repeating the scrubbing motion.

After being submerged in water for so long, the Saint’s delicate hands were reddened and slightly wrinkled.

Wakako pulled away. “Enough.” She was bewildered. “What are you doing?”

Miki looked up, her gaze fixed on Wakako, filled with tenderness and love.

“You carved a walking stick for her,” Miki said slowly. “It has to be clean.”

“…”

Wakako sensed something was off with Miki’s state of mind. After a moment of hesitation, she decided not to provoke her further by mentioning their previous conversation. “No, that’s not it. We each carved our own—I didn’t help her.”

Hearing this, Miki’s expression seemed to soften slightly, though not significantly. She simply nodded.

“Then let’s leave your hand as it is.” She crouched down, gazing into Wakako’s eyes, and asked naturally, “How many times did you look at her?”

“…”

Wakako frowned. “Who counts something like that?”

Most of the time, she had been avoiding direct eye contact with Miki. She had only looked at her out of politeness when they discussed the engagement, and even then, it hadn’t been for long—just a few breaths at most.

But Miki interpreted her words differently.

She paused and asked calmly, “So many that you lost count?”

How could she interpret it like that?

“Of course not!” Wakako was speechless, momentarily at a loss for words. She stammered, “I… she…”

But Miki had already turned away, retrieving a small porcelain bottle from the side of the tent. Wakako recognized it as a container for medicinal herbs, but she didn’t know what it contained.

The Saint uncorked the bottle, and the unique fragrance of herbs wafted out.

Wakako instinctively sniffed, recognizing the scent as some kind of healing medicine, though she couldn’t recall the name. She didn’t know what Miki intended to do with it.

The steam rising from the bath warmed the parts of her skin not submerged in the water.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Miki coaxed softly, her voice almost hypnotic. “It’ll be quick.”

A small sprig of grass was inserted into the bottle, its leaves stained with a dark liquid. Holding the stem, she gently touched the leaves to Wakako’s wide eyes.

Wakako’s first instinct was to pull away, but Miki’s other hand gently rested on the back of her head.

“Don’t move,” Miki commanded gently.

Sometimes, Wakako wondered if some mechanism had been implanted within her, one that activated at the mere mention of Miki’s name, compelling her to obey, to freeze in place.

The brown liquid dripped into her eyes, stinging momentarily before it dispersed.

She finally remembered what the medicine was. It was a solution made from crushed herbs, used to cleanse foreign objects from the eyes.

And Miki believed that other women were foreign objects in her eyes.

The Saint’s cool left hand covered Wakako’s eyelids. “Just how many times have you looked at her?”

She seemed confused, leaning closer, gazing into Wakako’s dilated pupils. “Why can’t I wash it clean? Did she touch you? I think I smell something else.”

But that was impossible. It had been days since Miki had met with her. Even if she had picked up another scent, it couldn’t have lingered this long.

Several drops of the solution trickled down, tracing paths across Wakako’s face, staining the bathwater.

Her eyes had now been thoroughly “cleansed.”

Miki put the medicine bottle back, seemingly wanting to retrieve something else, but her movements were aimless, unsure of where to start. “What should I do?” she turned, “What if you really have been marked by someone else? I can’t wash it away.”

Quickly, she realized, “No, that’s wrong. You’re an Alpha, only you can leave your scent on others…”

Miki stood there, as helpless as a lost child. After a long silence, transparent tears silently streamed down her cheeks again, like porcelain suddenly crushed, turning into white powder.

The Saint was inherently fragile, unable to withstand the harshness of the world, easily hurt, requiring meticulous care to heal.

With tear-stained cheeks, she walked towards Wakako, without hesitation pressing her lips to Wakako’s forehead.

“Can I cover it with my scent?”

Miki asked in a small, tremulous voice, as though clinging to a desperate hope. And then, as if grasping onto a lifeline, her gaze grew resolute once again.

The childlike innocence she had displayed earlier seemed to have been nothing more than a fleeting illusion.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I am the Saint. No one can take what’s mine…”

The rest of her words faded into silence.

Because Miki began to kiss Wakako’s brow, the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, then her lips, before stopping.

It was a deep kiss, their tongues entwining, intense and unrelenting. The unique cherry flavor of Miki overwhelmed Wakako’s senses, filling her mouth, her nose, her entire being, until nothing existed but Miki.

The idea that only her master could inflict pain on her was no empty sentiment. Even in a moment like this, Miki managed to send waves of sharp, prickling pain through Wakako—cold and fine, like a white snake wrapping tightly around her body. Despite the lightness of the touch, it felt like an inescapable net.

Then she felt a sudden bite at the side of her neck.

Wakako shuddered.

The water reflected red, a testament to the Saint’s favor. The bite marks and kisses formed a beautiful pattern across her skin.

It was strange for an Omega to harbor the desire to mark an Alpha.

Miki stared at the marks, finally seeming to find a solution that satisfied her. A glimmer of hope slowly appeared in her eyes, but…

“It’s not enough,” she murmured, her voice burning with an intense, fiery passion, though her smile remained eerily calm. “”Little Waka, one is not enough.”

Miki’s voice softened, her fingers trailing over Wakako’s skin as she whispered, “Let’s start here.”

Her fingertip landed on her lips.

“Here.”

Then her neck, collarbone, breast.

“And here.”

Her abdomen, trailing downwards, until her entire body.

“I want to leave my mark on every part of you.”

Miki leaned down, as if seeking permission, though her gaze made it clear she was only informing Wakako of what was to come. Her lips curled into a small, knowing smile, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, glistening with something that lay between sorrow and possession.

That was how the Saint was. Even when she was the one inflicting pain, she acted as if she were the one who had been wronged.

Always with that gentle, harmless expression, she softly demanded Wakako’s obedience, her clinginess, her submission.

She demanded to bite and suck on her skin, to watch Wakako frown slightly in discomfort, to make her naturally pain-insensitive servant sensitive only to her touch.

So what if the Saint was destined to live with a fragile, delicate body?

She would still dominate from a position of weakness, watching the strong endure and weep, bowing before her, like a dog at her mercy.

The water was still warm, but Wakako felt a bone-chilling coldness throughout her body. Faint sounds from outside the tent could be heard; the Eagle Kingdom’s forces were still searching for her, but to no avail.

At a time when she should have been alert, she was instead lost in the intoxicating aroma, surrendering to the lips she had longed for.

“Does it hurt?” she heard Miki ask. “But bear with it for a little while.”

It hurt, of course it hurt.

Wakako, who was born without the ability to feel pain, only reacted to the touch of one person. Or rather, Miki’s very existence was pain itself. But she didn’t dislike this feeling, sometimes even needing it to confirm she was still alive.

What Miki was doing now was like marking her territory.

But she was ultimately an Omega, Miki couldn’t mark her with a bite—she could only leave kiss marks, one after another, upon Wakako’s skin.

From her shoulder to her arms, to the tips of her fingers, the kisses slowly reddened her skin, like a carefully crafted painting, more vibrant than oil on canvas. It was a masterwork of precision and obsession.

The commotion outside gradually subsided. They cleared the camp and stationed new guards outside the tent.

Miki blew out the lamp, creating the illusion of sleep, so no one disturbed them. The guards dispersed and took their positions outside.

The night returned to silence, both inside and outside the tent. Only their breaths intertwined, deepening, quickening.

The space wasn’t large, but Miki climbed into the bath anyway. Her white robes clung to her wet body, her hair dripping with water.

She had claimed almost all of Wakako’s body, but there was still one place left.

Miki asked her, “Is it okay here too?”

Of course it was. It didn’t matter anymore. She would paint it red just the same, like a work of art. Even the places others couldn’t see couldn’t be left untouched.

The Saint lowered herself, her free left hand gently supporting Wakako’s waist.

Wakako caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the water, a mixture of pain and confusion, melting into the steam. She knew what Miki intended to give her and knew that she wanted to accept it fully, even through the pain.

She could faintly hear Miki’s voice, still the gentle tone befitting a Saint, but she could still detect the tears in her voice.

“Are there still other people in your eyes?”

The Saint’s free left hand slipped into Wakako’s mouth, preventing her from answering.

“You should…”

“You should only look at me.”

“What should I do?”

“If everyone else disappeared… if it were just the two of us… wouldn’t that be better? You’d be happy then, wouldn’t you, Waka?”

“Little Waka…”

Miki was always like this. She would cry even as she exerted her power over Wakako, never satisfied no matter how far she pushed things. And after it was all over, she would retreat behind the mask of the Saint, distant and untouchable.

Wakako endured it all in silence.

And then, she suddenly recalled what Miki had been like at sixteen.