The next morning, I arrived at the Jaeger estate.
If the Argentis estate was a cold, silent museum, this was a fortress. The architecture was austere, all grey stone and dark, heavy timber, with banners of a snarling wolf's head—the Jaeger crest—hanging from the walls. It didn't feel like a home; it felt like a high-class, aristocratic barracks.
The man who opened the door was an old wolf-kin, as stern and grey as the stone walls. His face was all sharp angles and a neat, silver-grey muzzle, and his old-fashioned black butler's uniform was immaculate. He looked me up and down, his sharp yellow eyes lingering on my fox-ears.
"Lady Primrose Thistle," he said, his voice a dry rasp. He didn't sound happy about it. "I am Balthazar, head butler to the Marquis. His Lordship is waiting."
Marquis? My gamer brain rebooted. Oh, right! In the game, Rurik Jaeger wasn't just a "Lord"; he was a Marquis and a Captain of the Aethelgard Empire's top army, the Crimson Fang Legion. He was high-spec, high-status, and, as of yesterday, high-annoyance.
Balthazar led me through echoing stone halls. "His Lordship is in his study. He... appreciates punctuality."
Translation: He's already mad I'm here.
The study doors were massive, carved from dark oak. Balthazar knocked once, then opened them, announcing me like I was a bad smell he was required to identify. "Lady Primrose Thistle, my Lord."
I stepped inside, and my confidence immediately shriveled.
Lord Rurik Jaeger was at his desk, in that same dark-blue Crimson Fang uniform. He looked even bigger and more imposing than he had in the market. He didn't look up. He was just... radiating... irritation.
And in the corner of the room, the source of that irritation was busy disemboweling a priceless-looking armchair with his tiny, sharp claws.
Vali Jaeger, the Demon Cub, was back.
The white-haired, pink-eyed puffball was growling, ripping out stuffing, and generally proving that my Calming Biscuits had a very short shelf-life.
"He's been like that since dawn," Rurik growled, finally looking up. His icy-blue eyes were cold and sharp. "Your... snack... wore off."
"They aren't a 'cure,' Lord Jaeger," I said, trying to find my professional footing. "They're a supplement. The real problem is his main diet."
"I've already had a background check done on you," he cut me off, leaning back in his chair. His gaze was so intense it felt like a physical weight. "Lady Primrose Thistle. Twenty years old. Failed daughter of the failed Thistle house. Tail-less. No prospects. Recently... fled... your family home to open a commoner's daycare."
He leaned forward. "I don't trust beasts. But I especially hate foxes."
My blood ran cold. He wasn't just grumpy. He was openly hostile.
Okay, husband route is offline. Completely, totally, do-not-pass-go offline. This man wouldn't marry me if I was the last fox-kin on earth.
My Top Chef survival instincts took over. This wasn't a capture target anymore. This was a client. A very difficult, very hot, very prejudiced client.
I switched tracks. "That's fine, Lord Jaeger. I'm not here to be your friend. I'm here about your son."
I looked over at Vali, who was now hissing at the armchair's leg. "Sir, I'm a chef. Your son isn't a demon; he's malnourished. You told me yourself yesterday, he's just hungry." I turned back to Rurik. "How long... has he been like this?"
Rurik's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "Since his mother died."
Oh.
My snark softened, just a little. Okay. So he's a tragic, grumpy widower. That's... standard Otome game fare.
"I see," I said, my voice gentler. "I'm... I'm guessing he looks more like her... she must have been a very beautiful wolf. I can see why you must have fallen for her."
Rurik's face snarled.
"It was a political marriage, Lady Thistle. Not a love marriage," he bit out, the words sharp as glass.
"Huh," I said, my "oh-no" filter completely breaking.
"But she was indeed a beauty," he added, his voice dripping with a cold, old anger. "A pure-blood silver wolf. But she was... weak. She died birthing him."
I just stared. He's a jerk.
"Even if you didn't like her," I snapped, my brain completely bypassing my "scared-fox" instincts, "you shouldn't talk about her like that. Especially... especially in front of your son."
Vali had actually stopped shredding the chair to watch us.
Rurik Jaeger slowly stood up. He was at least a foot and a half taller than me, a mountain of pure, aristocratic rage. His icy-blue eyes were burning.
"Are you lecturing me... fox?"
I met Rurik Jaeger's icy-blue gaze, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He was a predator, top to bottom, and he was testing me.
I inhaled, my confidence refusing to be cowed by a (ridiculously hot) grumpy wolf-man. I exhaled.
"What if I am?"
Rurik's eyes widened, just a fraction. His jaw clenched. He looked, for one glorious second, utterly baffled. No one, especially a "failed," tail-less fox-kin, was supposed to talk back to him. He opened his mouth, probably to have me thrown out—or eaten—when a single, sharp knock echoed at the study door.
"My Lord." Balthazar, the old wolf-kin butler, entered without waiting for a reply. He was holding a silver tray. "It is the young master's feeding time."
"Get out," Rurik snapped, his glare never leaving me.
"No, wait," I said, my brain overriding everything. "Let me see it."
Rurik looked at me. Balthazar stopped.
"Let me see... what you're feeding him," I said, gesturing to the tray.
Rurik gave a sharp, frustrated nod. Balthazar stiffly walked forward and presented the tray.
On a polished silver platter, there was a single, deep bowl. It was filled... with chunks of raw, bloody venison.
I stared. "He wasn't kidding," I muttered.
"The young master refuses all else," Balthazar said, his voice flat. "Cooked meats, vegetables, grains... he will not touch them. He eats only raw venison."
I felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in my throat. I looked at the old butler, then at the furious Marquis, and then at the Demon Cub who was now eyeing the bowl with hungry, feral anticipation.
"You're only feeding him raw muscle meat?" I asked, my voice dangerously calm. "No organ meat? No marrow? No fibrous roots? Just... steak chunks?"
"It is all he will consume," Balthazar repeated.
I huffed, a sharp sound of pure exasperation. "He's not a demon. He's a walking protein-rage. You've given him the diet of an apex predator but the body of a child! Of course he's feral! He's running on pure, unprocessed adrenaline, has zero complex carbohydrates to balance his system, and is probably constipated! He's not spirited; he's just... he's hangry!"
Both Balthazar and Rurik looked completely stunned, as if I'd just started spouting high-level alchemy.
I turned on Rurik, all my fear gone, replaced by pure, professional indignation. "Lord Jaeger, your son isn't a problem. Your menu is."
I spun to the butler. "Balthazar. Lead me to the kitchen. Now. And you'd better pray you have a decent stock of root vegetables, some Sun-Root, and any kind of grain."
Balthazar looked at Rurik. Rurik looked at me, his icy-blue eyes unreadable. He was shocked, but... he was also listening.
He gave a single, sharp nod.
"...This way, Lady Primrose," Balthazar said, his voice now holding a tiny, tiny thread of... was that hope?
The Jaeger estate kitchen was massive, medieval, and thankfully...impeccably stocked. I ignored the gasps of the kitchen staff as I, a tail-less fox, started barking orders.
Okay. He won't eat cooked meat because it's probably dry, grey, boiled chunks. He craves the flavor and texture of raw meat. Fine. We can work with this.
My Top Chef brain kicked in. I wasn't going to make him a boring stew. I was going to make him a bridge.
I took a chunk of venison and seared it hard in a hot pan, creating a deep, brown, flavorful crust. Then I deglazed with a splash of (what I hoped was) cooking wine and threw in chopped Sun-Roots, carrots, and onions, letting them braise slowly in a rich stock. This would be the Savory Root-Vegetable Stew that his body needed.
But as it simmered, I took a second, smaller piece of the best venison tenderloin. I chilled it, then minced it finely by hand. I seasoned it with a pinch of salt and a drop of 'Starlight' honey.
It was a classic French 'Boeuf Bourguignon' served with a steak tartare garnish. But to this world? It was a brand-new dish.
I called it the Two-Wolf Stew: the cooked wolf (the rich, tender, savory stew) and the wild wolf (the flavorful, raw mince on top).
I poured the thick, fragrant stew into a bowl and topped it with a perfect quenelle of the seasoned, raw venison.
It was the bridge between the raw he craved and the cooked nutrition he desperately needed.
"Balthazar," I called out, wiping my hands on my apron. "Lunch is ready. And bring the Marquis. They're going to want to see this."