The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1792

Wynter took a few more steps in the heavy rain. The sound of raindrops hitting the parasol was particularly distinct in the quiet surroundings.

She was deep in thought, while Dalton held the parasol, shielding both of them as they walked slowly. His attentiveness was almost excessive. Yet, even so, Wynter found it hard to ignore his presence.

The forest around them was pitch black, with rain and mist rising, making it hard to distinguish between the sound of wind and thunder. The atmosphere was eerie, and the faint scent of blood lingered in the air.

But Dalton seemed unaffected by any of it. His fingers were clean, and his noble demeanor remained unchanged.

This made Wynter look up, wanting to study him more closely. After all, he was the only one whose name hadn't changed in this formation. This detail bothered her.

Noticing her gaze, Dalton tilted the parasol further toward her and slightly turned his head. "Miss?"

He looked even more strikingly handsome under the parasol. It was as if he had a bewitching charm. Even the faint smile at the corner of his lips was dazzling. This was especially true when he called out to her with a playful expression, his eyes slightly lowered.

His voice, though youthful, was alluring. It was much deeper and more resonant than one would expect for his age. This was completely different from how he sounded after his reincarnation.

Wynter couldn't help but imagine him in a suit, sitting in the back of a Rolls Royce, reviewing documents and attending video conferences.

Who could have imagined that the Sorzada City's "crown prince", so decisive in business and meticulous in etiquette, someone who wouldn't tolerate a single wrinkle in his shirt, would have been like this in his youth?

Wynter chuckled. "I was wondering what you'd be like a few years older."

"How else could I be like?" Dalton laughed softly, then shifted the topic. "I noticed that everyone in your hall is young. It seems you don't like mature men."

Wynter immediately responded, "They're just ordinary maids."

"Hmm..." Dalton nodded as if agreeing, then added, "Ordinary maids who attend to you at night."

He emphasized the words "attend to you at night".

Wynter exhaled. She knew there was no easy way to explain this. After all, everyone appreciated beauty. Who wouldn't want a handsome man to tell them a bedtime story before sleep?

Wynter recalled some scenes as this body's memories awakened. Velmoria's princess shared her appreciation for beauty.

Since she had brought these people up the mountain, rather than explaining their identities to others, it was easier to keep them in her hall. It pleased her and silenced curious onlookers. If they wished to leave the mountain later, they could do so.

Wynter cleared her throat. "This isn't the time to discuss this. You're knowledgeable. Is there a way to quickly improve my cultivation?"

"Eat mystic spirits," Dalton said, glancing at the white tiger that occasionally nuzzled Wynter's hand.

He chuckled with a hint of coldness in his tone. "For example, this white tiger. It may look ordinary, but it was born from a golden encounter and carries merit. Its mystic essence is a great supplement for cultivators."

His expression was teasing, yet he exuded an air of omniscience, as if saying he could answer anything she asked.

Wynter was used to his jokes. The white tiger, however, stiffened, its soft fur standing on end. It stopped nuzzling Wynter's hand, as if terrified of Dalton.

This made Wynter think back to their past experiences, realizing that no one seemed unafraid of him. She couldn't understand what was so terrifying about him.

Wynter gently stroked the whimpering tiger. "He's just joking. I don't eat wild animals, nor do I need any mystic essence."

Even with her reassurance and sensing the fact that Dalton would not take his essence, the white tiger still didn't dare nuzzle Wynter's hand again.

Dalton, with skin as pale as snow and eyes bright as stars, smirked at her. "You're too kind, comforting it like that. You might go mad if you don't consume mystic essence and force a breakthrough in your cultivation. But there's another way if your will is strong enough."

Wynter glanced at him. "What is it?"

"Since you're so close to these mystic spirits, why not borrow their fortune? That way, you'll carry the fate of an entire clan, and breaking through any realm won't be a problem."

His loosely tied black hair shifted slightly as he spoke, giving him a casual, almost aristocratic air, unlike a villager from the Wretched Ground.

Wynter had noticed one thing since bringing Dalton up the mountain. He seemed to be constantly testing her reactions. It was as if he had laid a trap, waiting to see if she would take the bait.

For example, he would suggest she kill the white tiger for its essence or tell her that the major sects wanted to eradicate all demon clans, making it difficult for her to ascend the Sacred Path if she opposed them.

It was as if he was telling her to go with the flow and perhaps gain some golden encounter instead of fighting alone. Though Dalton didn't say it outright, Wynter had pieced it together.

She glanced at him, then suddenly grabbed his free hand that wasn't holding the parasol.

With a smile, she replied, "You're quite something at this age. But as your future wife, I should remind you that I'm older than you now. As they say, with age comes experience. Don't try to manipulate me.

"Their clan's fate will be severed if something happens to me when their fortune is on me. I don't like borrowing others' fortunes—it's like stealing their lives. But you..."

Wynter stood on her toes, leaning closer to his face. "You're quite wicked."

Dalton's brow furrowed when he heard the word "wicked". His chest tightened, as if something was blocking it, and he was about to sneer when her next action stopped him cold.

Did she just kiss him?

Dalton's grip on the parasol tightened, his knuckles standing out starkly. The thunder and rain suddenly ceased, and the sound of raindrops hitting the parasol vanished completely.

Dalton's expression remained unchanged, but Wynter, as if savoring something sweet, sighed. "No wonder everyone likes to tease the innocent. You're quite something like this."

The mature version of him would have pinned her down and kissed her back with a restrained intensity, leaving her with no escape.

In contrast, the young Dalton simply stood there. He closed the parasol and, after a moment of thought, said to her, "You should behave more properly in public. Not only are you in a sect, but you're also the Princess of Velmoria. Etiquette matters."

He spoke so seriously, like a little stickler for rules.

Wynter nodded, listening to his words but continuing to do as she pleased.

Dalton seemed to sense that she was brushing him off. He recalled something, his tone turning idle. "You are quite skilled. Is it because of all your boy toys?"

Wynter hesitated for a moment.

Dalton smiled again, as if indifferent, a touch of amusement in his voice. "How many did you have before me?"

Wynter thought about it for a moment. This question was no different from asking how many partners someone had before.

A smart person should answer "only you" in this situation. That was exactly what Wynter said, her expression incredibly sincere.

"This way, even demonic cultivators will have to consider the retribution before making a move. Killing a mystical spirit with an owner brings divine punishment."

Every sentence he spoke was crucial, but he never made the decision for Wynter. After all, the one who took action would bear the consequences. And in the current situation, no one would waste their spiritual energy just to protect the demon clan.

Wynter, however, was decisive. "Fine. A temporary contract. I'll ask if they're willing."

If she didn't want to see Mt. Nyxvarn reduced to a wasteland drenched in blood—where the lush greenery withered away, and not even spirits could linger—then she had to sever this retribution at its root.

"They will definitely be willing. It's only a temporary contract, not a true bond of servitude. It's just a marking," Dalton said.

Wynter lowered her gaze as she spoke. "Let's see what they think."

As she spoke, she placed her fingers to her lips and let out a sharp whistle.

Instantly, all the demons on Mt. Nyxvarn, who had cultivated using animals as their forms, pricked up their ears.

"The little one is calling us."

"How many times have I told you not to call her little one? Call her Your Highness."

"Is Her Highness calling us because the mystic deer are dead?"

"Not just the deer. The tiger clan, too. I'm afraid we might be next."

"Let's head to the mountainside. The little one is with a very dangerous young man. That kick earlier nearly scared the bile out of me."

Wynter indeed had a commanding presence on Mt. Nyxvarn. Everything in this formation seemed to evoke her emotions, as if every blade of grass and tree were part of her own experiences.

Wynter knew that the formation was based on something that had once existed, but there was a difference. Some formations only recorded darkness, while others only recorded beauty.

She wasn't unaware of the consequences as she carried out her actions. Hence, she pinched her fingertips to remind herself that this was still a formation.

Dalton furrowed his brow deeply when he noticed her action. He hadn't paid much attention to her earlier mention of possession, thinking it was just nonsense.

But now, it seemed all her behavior could only be explained in one way—she had indeed taken over someone else's body. Yet, her spiritual form was clearly her own, with no discrepancies. Dalton couldn't understand what was going on.

As Dalton looked down, his eyes suddenly widened. There was another possibility—this world wasn't real at all. It was but a formation.

Most people wouldn't even consider this possibility. But Dalton was never "most people". This realization made him narrow his eyes slowly.

What did this mean? Was everything here fake? That couldn't be.

It would be more accurate to say that only she was real. He was just a fragment of someone's memory within the formation, or perhaps a lingering thought of the formation master, in which he had once appeared.

Dalton reopened the parasol, hiding the sinister curve of his lips as he smiled.

He refused to be fake. He refused to be a mere memory.