7. Absolution And Penance
7
ABSOLUTION AND PENANCE
~ G EMINI~
I step into the spacious living room, my footsteps silent against the polished hardwood floor.
The faint ache in my side reminds me that I'm far from fully recovered, but I refuse to let vulnerability show in my posture or expression.
Not now, when so much depends on the strength I project.
Everyone is already waiting—my Kings arranged around the room in postures that speak volumes about their individual personalities and current emotional states.
The atmosphere feels charged, and expectant, like the air before a thunderstorm breaks.
I've changed from the loose white dress into something that makes me feel more like myself — black leather pants that hug my curves and a simple white tank top that allows freedom of movement despite the bandages still wrapped around my midsection.
My shortened silver hair is styled to one side, the asymmetry somehow making me feel more powerful, more in control of the narrative being written around me.
I don't feel 100% — not even close — but I'll manage.
The lingering weakness in my limbs and occasional dizziness, when I move too quickly, are irritations I can push past when necessary.
And right now, with everything at stake, it's absolutely necessary.
My eyes scan the room methodically, taking in each of my Kings in turn.
Zander stands by the massive windows overlooking the ocean, his posture deceptively casual though I can see the tension running through him like a live wire. His eyes track my every movement with predatory focus, gauging my strength, my resolve, my readiness for what comes next.
Ren lounges on the couch, sprawled with deliberate carelessness that doesn't quite mask the coiled energy beneath the surface. His teal-streaked hair is more disheveled than usual, his clothing rumpled in a way that suggests he's been running his hands through both repeatedly — a nervous habit he rarely displays openly.
Marcus stands near the fireplace, his gaze assessing me with the precision of studying a particularly fascinating specimen. There's no coldness in his observation, just appearing lost in his own train of thought.
Ares leans against the wall nearest to the entrance, having followed me from the bedroom after helping me dress. His expression carries lingering concern, though he's careful to maintain enough distance that I don't feel coddled or overprotected.
He understands my need to stand on my own for this confrontation, to face what comes next with as much independence as my healing body allows.
And then there's Aries.
My eyes stop on him, sitting slightly apart from the others, his posture rigid with barely contained tension.
Our gazes lock, and something electric passes between us—a current of unresolved emotions, complicated history, and uncertain future possibilities.
I'm not sure what to say, or how to navigate this underlying problem that's festered between us since I learned of his lingering attachment to Iris.
The dead Ruthless Maiden whose ghost has haunted our interactions from the beginning, whose memory created a chasm between us that I wasn't sure could ever be bridged.
My Kings are watching carefully, waiting to see how I'll execute this delicate dance of forgiveness and accountability.
I can feel the weight of their attention, the silent assessment of how I'll handle this test of my leadership, my judgment, my capacity for both mercy and necessary firmness.
By forgiving Warren too easily, I risk undermining my own authority—suggesting that my pain doesn't matter, that loyalty to me is optional rather than essential.
Yet holding too firm a line ignores the reality that his devotion, however complicated, saved my life in those woods. Without his vigilance, quick action, and desperate efforts to keep my heart beating until help arrived, I would be nothing but a memory now.
Another cautionary tale of a Maiden who reached too far, too fast.
It feels like balancing on the edge of a blade, this decision that will shape not just my relationship with Warren but the dynamics of my entire court moving forward. The uncertainty leaves a metallic taste in my mouth, makes my fingers curl slightly at my sides as I search for the perfect words that refuse to come.
My drawn silence seems to make a decision for Warren. He rises from his seat with a fluid grace that betrays his military training, approaching me with measured steps before doing something I never expected.
He kneels.
The action is so unexpected, so counter to everything I know about his proud, independent nature, that my breath catches audibly.
He drops to one knee before me like a knight pledging fealty to his queen, head bowed in a posture of complete submission that transforms the dynamic between us in ways I couldn't have anticipated.
From my peripheral vision, I catch the subtle shifts in my Kings' postures— Zander straightening from his casual stance, Ren sitting up from his lounging position, Marcus tilting his head with clinical interest, Ares pushing away from the wall with renewed focus.
Warren's voice breaks the charged silence, emerging low and rough with emotion I've never heard from him before.
"I went against your request to stay away," Warren begins, his voice carrying a depth of emotion I've rarely heard from him. "Not because I didn't respect you, but because the nagging distance of being apart when I've protected and always had you in sight for so many years was driving me mad."
His eyes remain focused on a point just below my gaze, pride and submission warring visibly in his posture.
The controlled warrior battling the vulnerable man beneath.
"It's no excuse for the underlying cause of the ripple between us," he continues, hands clasped tightly before him. "But it's what encouraged me to keep watching, until the night almost two weeks ago."
The reference to my near-death experience sends a phantom chill across my skin, memories of frozen ground and scorpion venom burning through my veins flickering at the edges of my consciousness.
"I apologize for that first," he says, voice dropping lower. "I can bear the consequences when the time is right and beneficial to our situation."
I find myself nodding, a simple acknowledgment without verbal forgiveness. Something in his expression shifts at this minimal response—relief perhaps, that I'm at least willing to listen rather than dismissing him outright.
"My attendance at Leighton all those years had shifted my aspect on love," Warren continues, his gaze now focused on some middle distance, as if seeing into memories long buried. "I never really knew what love was or how to properly express it."
The admission carries unexpected vulnerability from a man who has always presented himself as a fortress, unbreakable and impenetrable.
My Kings remain silent, but I sense their collective attention sharpening at this rare glimpse into Warren's inner world.
"Iris, as what you guys would deem a Ruthless Maiden back then, had helped me experience it..." His voice catches slightly on her name, the only break in his otherwise controlled delivery. "Just a glimpse, but after she perished, I was haunted by her presence."
The name resonates through the room like a struck bell, carrying echoes of a history I've only heard in fragments.
Iris — the woman whose memory created the first fracture between us, whose ghost stood between Warren and me from the beginning.
"Becoming a Ruthless King wasn't my original ambition," he admits, shifting slightly as if the confession physically pains him. "I was security detail, assigned to protect the university's elite. Theo was the one destined for ascension, with his family connections and natural aptitude for the games Leighton plays."
This revelation catches me off guard—not just the information itself, but Warren's willingness to share it so openly.
To expose pieces of himself he's kept carefully guarded until now.
"Theo and I were...close," he continues, choosing his words with evident care. "Different in temperament but aligned in ambition. We understood each other in ways others couldn't. When he selected Iris as his Ruthless Maiden, it seemed natural that I would be incorporated into their inner circle as both security and confidant."
His gaze drops to his hands, watching as his fingers flex and release in rhythmic tension.
"Iris was...extraordinary. Brilliant, fearless, utterly devoted to breaking the systems that attempted to contain her. She saw beyond the superficial hierarchies, recognized patterns others missed, questioned traditions everyone else accepted blindly."
The description makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest. Because I can hear the reverence in his voice, yes, but I can also recognize traits that might remind him of me.
The uncomfortable parallel between his lost Maiden and his current Queen emerges with painful clarity.
"She convinced Theo that I belonged among their Kings as an equal partner who could help with their rise in their ascension, even if I didn’t have the typical advantages and wealth one would classify would deem me worthy of the title Ruthless King," Warren continues, unaware of my internal discomfort. "Said I brought balance to their dynamic, grounding that neither of them naturally possessed."
“Was this was against tradition?" Ares decides to ask and observes, the statement carrying no judgment, merely confirmation.
Warren nods once, sharp and precise.
"Everything Iris did challenged tradition. She believed the three-king structure was artificially limiting, designed to concentrate power rather than optimize effectiveness." His lips curve into something approaching a smile, though it carries more sorrow than humor. "Sound familiar?"
The question hangs in the air, highlighting the uncomfortable parallel between Iris's vision and my own unconventional court of six Kings.
The similarity cannot be coincidental, making me wonder how much Warren's support of my expanded structure was influenced by memories of his former Maiden's ambitions.
"What happened to her?" Ren asks, voice uncharacteristically gentle. The question we've all wondered but none have previously dared to voice directly.
Warren's posture stiffens, shoulders squaring as if bracing against physical impact.
"Official reports claim she succumbed to a rare heart condition, undiagnosed until autopsy." His voice carries a bitter edge that makes it clear how little faith he places in this explanation. "Convenient timing, given that she'd just begun gathering evidence of systematic experimentation occurring on campus. Students falling mysteriously ill, symptoms varying by social group and academic concentration."
The revelation lands like a physical blow, connecting past tragedies to our present circumstances with terrifying clarity.
The pattern Scarlett warned about, the cycle of illness that The Blind One has orchestrated for generations—Iris had uncovered it years ago, and paid the ultimate price.
"You think she was deliberately targeted," Marcus says, the statement carrying no questioning inflection. Just a clinical observation of an obvious conclusion.
"I know she was," Warren responds, certainty hardening his voice. "But proving it proved impossible. Records disappeared, witnesses changed stories or transferred to other universities, professors who might have corroborated certain details suddenly received prestigious offers from institutions abroad." His jaw tightens visibly. "By the time I realized the systematic nature of the cover-up, there was nothing left to investigate. Just suspicious circumstances and my own conviction."
"And Theo?" I find myself asking, curiosity overcoming caution. "Did he share your suspicions?"
Something complicated flickers across Warren's expression—pain mingled with frustration and lingering loyalty.
"Theo... responded differently to the loss. Where I channeled grief into the investigation, he turned toward power. Decided that if he couldn't protect what was his then, he would accumulate enough influence that nothing could be taken from him again."
This characterization aligns with the Theo I've encountered—ruthless, calculating, and fixated on control above all else. Yet Warren's explanation adds dimensions I hadn't previously considered, contextualizing behaviors I'd interpreted purely as arrogance or entitlement.
"We diverged after her death," Warren continues, each word emerging with evident difficulty. "He dedicated himself to ascending through Savage ranks, forming alliances, and eliminating opposition with increasing brutality. I remained at Leighton until the opportunity presented itself where I could feel of use. Where I could be one who protects those who are easily targeted in this forsaken world. It was a distraction really, and I convinced myself by doing something that still allowed me the access of being in Leighton and cityscape, I could find clues that would make me figure out the key steps needed to reach that final ascension.”
"And you never did," Zander observes from his position near the windows, the statement carrying no mockery, just recognition of a painful truth.
Warren shakes his head once, a sharp movement conveying years of frustration in a single gesture.
"The trail was too well obscured, the power players too entrenched. By the time I realized the scope of what we were facing…not just individuals but an entire system designed to maintain certain hierarchies.”
His gaze lifts to mine, something profound and complicated in his expression.
"I didn't think it would negatively impact my life or how I interacted with a woman in the future, until I began to acknowledge my attraction to Verena, and even then, I rather live in denial, for my duty was to protect her. Not to fall for her in any aspect."
The admission vibrates with raw honesty, making my throat tighten unexpectedly. Because this is Warren stripped of defenses, of the careful barriers he's maintained since I've known him.
This is the man beneath the bodyguard, exposed and vulnerable before me and my Kings.
"When you selected Kings beyond the traditional three when you began questioning hierarchies and challenging established power structures...it was like watching history repeat itself," he admits, something like wonder mixing with fear in his expression. "Except this time, I was positioned to actually protect you rather than investigate after tragedy struck. I could prevent history from repeating, could ensure you didn't meet Iris's same fate."
Understanding dawns with painful clarity.
His overprotectiveness, his constant vigilance, his reluctance to acknowledge growing feelings between us—all rooted in trauma I'd never fully comprehended.
In fear of losing another silver-haired woman challenging systems designed to contain her.
"But in focusing so completely on external threats, I failed to recognize the damage I could cause myself," he continues, regret evident in every line of his body. "Failed to see how my unresolved grief for Iris might affect my interactions with you. How comparing you to her—even subconsciously—was its own form of betrayal."
He lifts his head fully now, meeting my gaze directly. The vulnerability in his eyes makes my breath catch, revealing depths of emotion I'd never imagined him capable of expressing.
"I apologize that those boundaries blended and I didn't think I needed aid, maybe even mentally, to be able to differentiate before leading you on into thinking you were but a placeholder for someone who is long gone and will not be returning," he says, the formal phrasing not quite masking the emotion vibrating beneath each carefully chosen word.
He falls silent then, awaiting my response.
The weight of expectation hangs heavy in the air as I consider everything he's revealed—not just about his feelings for me, but about patterns stretching back years.
I find myself looking toward my Kings, seeking their reactions to these revelations.
Zander maintains careful neutrality, though something in his posture suggests grudging respect for Warren's willingness to kneel, to expose vulnerability so completely.
Ares watches with quiet understanding, having already shared his perspective on Warren's potential redemption.
Ren studies him with surprising empathy, perhaps recognizing something of himself in the raw emotion being displayed.
Marcus observes with a hint of detachment layered over personal recognition of the courage required to admit fault.
None of them display the judgment I half-expected, the territorial possessiveness that might have manifested as a rejection of Warren's attempt at redemption.
They seem to collectively grasp what he's been through and the implications of his confession and while his actions weren't right, the context matters: not as an excuse, but as an explanation that allows for potential growth rather than permanent condemnation.
Warren remains kneeling before me, pride momentarily set aside in his quest for absolution.
The proud bodyguard reduced to supplicant, the protector acknowledging his own capacity for causing harm. He awaits my judgment, my decision about whether his past actions can be forgiven, whether he might earn a place in our future battles.
I guess I shouldn’t be too harsh…
"I'll forgive you," I begin finally, my voice emerging stronger and more authoritative than I expected given my still-healing condition.
The words hang in the air for a moment before I continue.
"On a few conditions."
Warren's posture straightens slightly, attention sharpening at the prospect of specific requirements rather than outright rejection.
The reaction proves he is not only attentive to what I’m about to propose but is serious about earning my trust — and eventually my love — once again.
"One, you will go to therapy," I state firmly, the condition non-negotiable despite whatever protests he might raise.
Then, because something in me can't resist the particular twist of the knife, I add with deliberate casualness, "With Theo."
The visible cringe that crosses Warren's features at the mention of Theo's name is so comically genuine that I can't suppress a snicker. The reaction humanizes him in a way few things have managed, transforming the stoic soldier into someone who can be thrown off-balance by interpersonal complications like any other mortal.
"Why do I feel like that's going to be impossible?" Marcus comments dryly from his position by the fireplace, breaking his silence with unexpected humor.
Warren sighs, shoulders slumping slightly in resignation.
"Theo..." he begins, a wealth of complicated history contained in that single name, "is probably the most complicated Savage Heir you'd ever meet, and though I have no problem going with him, the chances of him coming along would be slim."
Zander mutters from his position by the window.
"He acted like a pretty jackass when he wasn't getting his way." His voice carries that particular blend of disdain and grudging respect he reserves for those who manage to impress and irritate him simultaneously.
"True," Ren agrees with a lazy smirk, stretching his long limbs before adding, "but then again, I guess he's actually in love with Aries, so makes sense." The casual observation carries significant implications, contextualizing Theo's hostility as something more complex than simple territorialism.
Marcus looks confused, his brows drawing together as he processes this new information. The reaction makes sense—he doesn't know Aries as well, or probably met Theo aside from the short instance when Zander almost perished in the alleyway and then with me during our brief encounters.
Warren shifts his weight slightly, still kneeling but with less rigid formality now that the initial confession has passed.
"Theo and my relationship is complicated," he admits, the understatement drawing a soft snort from Ren that Warren ignores. "It's more impulsive than a committed relationship that will flourish into something more than driven emotion and chaos."
His fingers flex against his thigh, a subtle tell betraying inner conflict as he continues.
"We haven't healed from Iris and I'm not sure if Theo ever will, but I have the intention of changing and committing to Verena." His eyes lift to mine, sincere in a way that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly. "So if that means going to therapy or having to cut him off in the end, I will."
Something in his willingness to sacrifice a relationship that clearly matters to him—however complicated—touches me in ways I hadn't anticipated. This isn't just about earning a place among my Kings anymore; this is about genuine transformation on this path of choosing a different route forward regardless of personal cost.
I shake my head, surprising myself almost as much as him with my next words.
"You don't need to cut Theo off," I say, watching Warren's eyes widen slightly in response. "Nor do I actually mind you continuing whatever 'ship' you have with one another."
My Kings exchange subtle glances, surprise evident in their expressions though they maintain careful silence as I continue.
"As long as Theo isn't invited into our ruthless sanctuary, that's fine, because I don't know the extent of what you've gone through with one another and it feels unfair to ask for 100% commitment when you haven't healed from your own trauma."
The statement hangs in the air, weighted with implications none of us fully articulated until this moment. Because I'm not just offering forgiveness—I'm acknowledging the complexity of human connections, the way past and present relationships can coexist without necessarily diminishing each other.
All of them seem surprised by my statement, exchanging glances that carry varying degrees of confusion and assessment. Matteo's absence in this moment feels significant—his calculating precision would have provided a valuable counterpoint to the emotional currents now flowing through the room.
Ares breaks the silence, his question carrying important clarification:
"Meaning Theo won't have access to you romantically, yes?" His tone remains carefully neutral, though something protective flashes in his eyes as he awaits my response.
"That's correct," I confirm, meeting his gaze steadily to ensure no misunderstanding lingers between us. The boundaries being established here matter for all our relationships moving forward, not just my evolving dynamic with Warren.
Having settled this critical point, I take a step forward until I'm standing directly before Warren. Crouching down despite the twinge of pain from my healing wound, I soften my gaze as our eyes meet on the same level.
"Thank you," I whisper, the words emerging with unexpected emotion, "for protecting and saving me."
He slowly nods, something profound passing between us in the silence that follows. A shared smile forms, tentative but genuine, acknowledging that this is the best way for us to start over.
To build something real and loving without hiding emotions and feelings. To create a foundation based on honesty rather than assumptions or unspoken expectations.
The moment stretches between us, fragile and precious in its newness, until the sound of footsteps breaks the spell.
All eyes turn toward the entrance as two figures approach our gathered group, their arrival shifting the atmosphere instantly from intimate reconciliation to sudden alertness.
"Hannah?" I ask, straightening from my crouched position with a speed that sends a sharp pain through my side. Surprise colors my tone as her usual perfect composure is slightly frayed around the edges.
She comes to a stop, looking visibly relieved to see me standing and okay, but I can see the lines of stress and concern etched into her typically unreadable expression.
"Where's Matteo?" Ares questions as he rises from his seat, tension radiating from his normally relaxed posture. The other Kings gather near me instinctively, a protective formation that happens without conscious coordination—each moving to position themselves strategically around their Queen.
I watch the way Hannah's gaze shifts to Ren, something meaningful passing between them before Ren sighs heavily.
"I haven't told them yet," he admits, resignation coloring his tone as he runs a hand through his teal-streaked hair.
"Told us what?" Zander demands, his voice carrying that dangerous edge that always precedes violence. His body coils with predatory readiness, forest-green eyes scanning for threats even as he maintains his position at my side.
Ren sighs again, more dramatically this time, before gesturing toward Hannah with a flourish that doesn't quite mask his evident tension.
"Wanna break the ice here?"
Hannah opens her mouth to respond, but the rough voice comes from the figure behind her, stepping forward out of the shadows to claim the spotlight.
"Matteo's missing," he announces without preamble, each word falling like stone into still water. "The Blind One has him."
The declaration hits like a physical blow, making my breath catch as implications cascade through my mind. Matteo — my controlled, calculating King, my husband in the eyes of Leighton's elite — in the hands of the man who nearly succeeded in killing me.
Shit...
I process the stranger's presumption in delivering this news. In walking into our sanctuary uninvited, acting as though he has any right to command our attention or dictate the flow of information.
"And who the hell are you?" I demand, crossing my arms over my chest to emphasize my authority.
My tone carries enough frost to make Hannah's eyebrows lift slightly in surprise, though she maintains careful neutrality as attention shifts to me.
The stranger's expression flickers with something like offense before morphing into confusion, then dawning realization. The transformation is fascinating to watch — emotions playing across features that bear a striking similarity to Matteo's perfect bone structure, though softened by youth and less rigid control.
He looks like Matteo…only younger.
I can't help but look at Zander, my eyes locking with his in silent question.
He moves immediately, crossing the space between us with fluid grace until he's directly before me. His hand lifts to my chin, tilting my face upward as he studies my eyes with unsettling intensity.
"Sweet Dynamite," he says, voice pitched low with concern, "you don't know who that is?"
"Why would I?" I counter, irritation making me roll my eyes despite the growing tension. "Who is he? A Matteo wannabe? He looks like the younger version of him, but other than that, I don't know who he is." My voice rises slightly with frustration as I continue, "Waltzing in here like he owns this place or something?"
My Kings exchange loaded glances, something almost like an alarm passing between them. Even Warren, still kneeling nearby, straightens with evident concern at this development.
Am I missing something here? What’s the big deal.
Hannah frowns, her usual perfect composure slipping further as she processes my reaction. Her eyes meet Zander's briefly before she declares with careful neutrality,
"Maybe we'll need some coffee for this one, but first we need to return to Leighton."
I’m sure we all want to ask the primary question, but Hannah lifts a single poster that must have been in her grasp this whole while, the display showing ROYAL INVITATION ONLY: THE RING OF ASCENSION.
“This is where Matteo is, and if we don’t play along to the Blind One’s tune here and now, he won’t exist, so grab your things, head to the car, and ask questions later.”
Not like we have a choice.