20. Chapter 20
twenty
T horne
I stare down at the glass in my hand, swirling the dark wine until it catches the light, a restless, deep red. She’s so close now, finally, after all these years, she’s here, under my roof. Soon, she’ll be seated at my table. The vision of her in my castle has haunted my dreams for so long, a quiet torment I let myself savor because it always seemed just out of reach. And now, only a few rooms away, she’s real. Inescapably real. A strange tension coils in my chest. I’m nervous; a feeling I have rarely ever felt. I can’t help but exhale the humor of it. Me, nervous? How absurd. I take another long drink, hoping it will drown out this ridiculous unrest.
I glance at my hand, remembering the way her cunt clutched at my fingers, the tight grip, her breaths rapid and shallow as I coaxed her through her orgasm. She let me in, let me see her undone, laid bare. I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the ghost of her warmth against my skin. She’s so undeniably perfect.
But then there’s that damn name. Henry. I didn’t miss the way her face fell when I told her he was still alive. Concern; no, pity, even. It seemed like she turned so quickly, eager to run to him. The thought twists like a knife in my chest, each second of jealousy cutting deeper, daring me to reach for her and remind her exactly where she belongs. She might have loved him once, clung to him like a lifeline, but she isn’t that woman anymore. She’s mine. I’ve broken down every shield she raised between us, brought her to this place where only I hold her secrets, her fears, her strength.
Would she still be foolish enough to look back? To even consider choosing that shadow of a man, clinging to the comfort of a weak spirit she no longer needs? The thought alone makes my jaw clench, anger burning slow and sharp inside me.
The wait stretches my patience thin. I sit at the table, its surface covered with darkly glistening fruits, heavy roasted meats, and silver bowls piled high with decadent offerings. I ordered all of this; foolishly, perhaps—to impress her, as if I’m some love-struck prince seeking approval. I take another drink of wine, forcing down the tension winding through me. For once, I can’t seem to unravel it.
And then I hear her; soft footsteps against the polished floors, each one drawing closer. My grip tightens on the glass as my pulse quickens, the tension twisting tighter. I don’t look up right away. Instead, I let the sound wash over me, her presence undeniable even before I see her.
When I finally look up, the sight of her steals the breath from my lungs. She stands in the doorway, framed by the flickering light, standing ever so still as if to give me my fill of how utterly stunning she is in this black dress. The fitted bodice and long sleeves trace every curve with precision, the long sleeves sleek and elegant, broken only by delicate sheer panels that tease the faintest outline of her skin.
For a moment, I can’t move, can’t think. She’s more than I’d imagined in all my restless dreams; more commanding, more radiant. An apparition of elegance and power, she looks as though she’s always belonged here, as though this castle was waiting for her to claim it. I swallow hard, setting the glass down carefully, afraid my hand might betray the effect she has on me. My eyes trace her as she steps further into the room, each movement so fluid, so captivating, it feels like a performance meant for me alone. I’ve prepared for this moment, for her, and yet, I’m completely unprepared for the sheer force of her presence. Now that she is here, now that she is truly mine, I am under her spell and she has all the power to completely unravel me.
I rise from my seat, crossing the room to her. Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I catch a flicker of surprise before she lowers her gaze. I pull out her chair, noticing the faint flush blooming along her cheeks as she sits.
"You look stunning," I murmur, my voice low, watching as her blush deepens.
She glances down, fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth. “Where did you… get this dress?” she asks, her voice soft and soothing to my nerves.
I lean closer, letting my voice drop to a near whisper. "You have a few," I say with a smirk, watching her expression waver between curiosity and a hint of shyness. "There are more being made, but I wanted to ensure they fit your taste before having Helena, our seamstress, craft the rest."
Her eyes lift to meet mine, and there’s something unreadable in her gaze. Still, I sense an ease between us that hadn’t been there before. I just want her to feel safe here. I just want her to stay. I take my seat beside her, watching as she reaches for the goblet of wine, a small but grateful smile crossing her lips. She sips, savoring the taste, her eyes momentarily closing as though the flavor draws her in.
I gesture toward the spread of food, "Please," I say, my voice soft, "help yourself."
She hesitates before reaching to fill her plate so I follow suit, filling my plate with deliberate ease, though my focus lingers more on her than the food. We begin to eat, the quiet between us broken only by the soft clink of silverware and the occasional crackle of the hearth. She tastes each dish with an unhurried appreciation, her lashes lowering as she savors each bite. I barely touch my own plate, more absorbed in the delicate curve of her neck as she leans forward slightly, the way the soft candlelight catches in her hair, and the faint furrow of her brow as she debates her next bite.
She glances up and catches me staring. Her brow arches, a hint of a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Do you often stare at dinner guests like this?”
I lean in, letting her challenge simmer between us. “Only when I’m this… captivated.” Her blush deepens again, and she sets down her fork, giving me a look that lingers, setting my insides on fire.
Then her gaze drops, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the table. “Where is Henry?”
The name drops into the room like ice water, chilling the warmth that had begun to build between us. I set down my glass, forcing calm into my tone despite the sharp edge threatening to surface. “He’s held securely. I can take you to him myself if you’re that eager to see him.” My fingers tap against the glass, my composure steady even as something dark and possessive stirs within me. “What do you wish to do with him?”
She hesitates, her eyes losing focus as though searching within herself for an answer. “I don’t know,” she whispers, and the uncertainty in her voice sets my teeth on edge, tension coiling tightly in my chest.
I force a smile, though an edge sharpens its curve. “You don’t know?” I tilt my head, studying her intently. “After everything he put you through, you feel… what? Sympathy?”
Her gaze meets mine, uncertain but searching. “I don’t think it’s sympathy,” she murmurs, shaking her head slightly. “It’s… something else. It doesn’t feel like pity. It’s new. Something I haven’t felt before.”
There’s a crack in her armor, unexpected and raw, a vulnerability that holds me still. I watch her, the sudden urge rising to close the space between us, to make her forget him entirely; to feel nothing but me. The way her lips shape each word, the soft curl of her mouth as she speaks, commands my attention. She swirls the wine in her glass, her gaze fixed on its depths as though searching for answers there.
“There’s a war inside me,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it resonates through the hall, cutting through the silence. “Part of me still clings to what I was raised to believe; that I should be a good wife, a good woman. Certainly not someone capable of murder.”
Her fingers trace the rim of her glass, her eyes drifting back to mine, heavy with her thoughts. “But the feeling of revenge… the satisfaction of seeing Villina avenged, of watching the light fade from Nyria’s eyes… It was as sweet as this wine.”
She lifts her glass, the liquid catching the flickering candlelight, gleaming like dark jewels. Her measured sip seems to last an eternity, her quiet intensity making me hang on every word that falls from her mouth. Her lips curve into a strange smile, caught somewhere between guilt and exhilaration, as she exhales, her eyes locking onto mine.
“Does that make me a bad person?” Her question lingers, low and vulnerable, weaving itself into the space between us. I don’t answer right away, seeing the wheels turn in her mind and I allow her to fully process her thoughts.
“And if it does, why do I care? Why should it matter to anyone if I am? Everyone knew of Henry’s cruelty, yet no one ever dared to lift a finger. They bowed to him, obeyed him…”
Her voice trails off, the silence crackling with unspoken weight. I remain still, utterly absorbed by the storm within her, drawn closer by the darkness she finally allows me to see.
I can’t hold back any longer, not with her words charging the air with something electric, something that demands a response. “Now, everyone will bow to you,” I say, my voice quiet but fierce, a promise etched into every syllable.
Her gaze catches mine, questioning and intrigued, her brows lifting slightly as if daring me to continue.
I lean in closer, letting the weight of my words settle between us. “There’s no shame in standing up for yourself, Brielle. The world will try to tell you otherwise—because you’re a woman, they’ll say you should be submissive, that your strength is somehow a threat. But you don’t live in that world anymore.”
She looks down, her lips parting as if to protest, but I catch her chin gently between my fingers, lifting her face back to mine. “You’re not what they tried to make you,” I say, my voice low and rough with intensity. “You’re more, Brielle. You’re a queen. And anyone who dares question that strength—anyone who would see it silenced—is a fool.”
Her gaze locks with mine, and I see it—a flicker of something raw and fiery glowing beneath her lashes, like embers catching their first spark. The old hesitations, the shadows of the life she’s endured, soften ever so slightly.
She leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips. It’s delicate, tender, yet it seeps into my very bones, igniting a quiet, simmering burn. Her eyes meet mine again, and I see it clearly: something resolute, yet vulnerable—a conflict not entirely tamed.
“I want to see him now,” she says, her voice steady but carrying that faint edge of uncertainty that’s lingered since we began this journey.
I hesitate, holding her gaze. “Are you sure?” The words feel heavier than I intend, a strange weight forming in my chest. For the first time in so long, fear stirs deep within me. What if I haven’t shown her enough—enough of what I feel, enough to make her choose this life, choose me, instead of falling back into pity for that man?
But the way she looks at me, the softness of her kiss; it convinces me. There’s no going back for her. She can’t return to that part of her life.
With a long exhale, I let the tension drain from my shoulders. “Fine,” I say, a trace of contempt curling my voice. “I’ll take you to see the mutt.” The mere thought of him tightens my jaw, but when she smiles at me—a glint of relief and gratitude in her eyes—I let the anger simmer quietly, for now.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her words gentle but resolute.
I rise from my seat, extending a hand to her. She pauses, just for a heartbeat, before slipping her fingers into mine. Her touch is soft, tentative; a tether pulling us closer. Without a word, I guide her away from the table, the rustle of her dress and the steady rhythm of our steps the only sounds in the room.
We walk through the silent halls, her hand still nestled in mine, fitting as if it’s always belonged there. The muted echoes of the castle surround us like a heartbeat, steady and unrelenting. Each step draws us closer to the towering doors of the throne room, the weight of what lies ahead pressing heavier with every passing second.
I stop just before the doors, turning to face her. Her gaze meets mine, questioning but steady, and for a moment, I simply take her in—the way her determination hums beneath her calm exterior, the way she draws strength even from her uncertainty.
“There’s something else,” my words echoing slightly, catching a flicker of surprise in her expression. “I wanted to give you your gift, anyway.”
“A gift?” she echoes, curiosity softening her tone. Her eyes search mine, and though I can feel the faint buzz of nerves in my chest, I let a smile tug at my lips. This is not a moment I’ll let slip away.
Without another word, I turn toward the massive doors, pressing my palms against their cool surface. With steady, deliberate force, I push them open. The cavernous room beyond unfurls before us, its vastness and the weight of its contents spilling into view.
Gods, be with me.