Chapter 37
OPHELIA
In the following days, the four walls of my bedchamber began to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a sarcophagus.
I began to leave the safety of the velvet drapes, forcing my legs to move, forcing my lungs to accept the air of the corridors.
I moved around the estate with a deliberate, noisy cadence, reclaiming the space inch by inch.
I remembered, with a distinct and petty thrill, how much my dear husband used to hate my daily strolls.
He found them inefficient. He found them distracting.
So, I made sure to be as distracting as possible.
To my immense displeasure, however, the target of my annoyance was nowhere in sight. The halls were empty. The conservatory was silent. The courtyards were abandoned.
Ugh.
I trailed a hand along the cold stone banister, fighting the urge to flinch when the texture reminded me of damp dungeon walls.
I shook the thought away, replacing the fear with irritation.
What does a lady have to do around here to piss the big, bad, brooding monster off?
I was practically offering myself up as a nuisance, and he had the audacity to be invisible.
I barely registered the final turn toward the foyer, my mind occupied with plotting how to set a tapestry on fire just to see if the smoke would draw him out, when a voice rumbled from above.
"What are you up to, Ophelia?”
My body reacted before my mind did.
I gasped, my muscles seizing as I spun around, my hands flying up to protect my face—a reflex born in the dark, carved into me by males who liked the occasional hit.
But there was no blow. There was only Friedrik.
The gargoyle was perched on the edge of a high pedestal, looking down at me. As soon as he saw my flinch—the way my breath had hitched, the way my eyes had gone wide and feral—his amusement vanished.
I lowered my hands slowly, forcing my heart to stop hammering against my ribs. I plastered a smile onto my face, though I knew it didn't quite reach my eyes.
"What happened to 'Little Ophie,' Friddi darling?" I asked, my voice only trembling slightly. "Have we moved to impersonal titles now?"
Friedrik climbed down, his heavy stone claws clicking against the marble. He watched me carefully, his amber eyes sparkling with a mixture of joy at seeing me up and a deep, abiding concern that made my throat tight.
"I will go back to calling you Little Ophie," he rumbled, brushing a speck of dust from his granite shoulder, "when you stop looking like you are plotting a small heist."
I feigned shock, pressing a hand to my chest. "Me? Plotting?"
He chuckled, a sound like grinding tectonic plates. As he moved closer, small fragments of obsidian dust flaked off his hide, settling on the pristine, mirror-polished floor.
I stared at the mess. Cain would hate that. Cain would absolutely loathe the grit on his perfect floors.
Perfect.
"Oh, and a small heist?" I grinned, the expression feeling sharper, more genuine this time. "Is that how capable you see me, Friedrik? I am insulted. I was aiming for grand larceny at the very least."
Friedrik grinned back, his jagged teeth revealing a monstrous affection. "With you, I would expect nothing less than—"
He cut himself off.
The air in the foyer changed. The temperature dropped five degrees in a second. The shadows, which had been lazy in the afternoon sun, suddenly snapped to attention, stretching toward the main archway.
And then I heard it.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Angry stomping. The heavy, rhythmic, terrifyingly familiar sound of boots on stone.
The confident strides of my malevolent husband.
He was back.
My smile didn't falter; it grew. It widened into something reckless, something that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff during a lightning storm. Exhilarating. Friedrik looked at me, confused for a second by my delight, but he didn't feel what I felt.
I felt the bond. I felt Poppy, somewhere upstairs, wake up and hiss. I felt her anger flaring, hot and protective. And I felt my own anger rising to meet hers—not the paralysing fear of the dungeon, but a hot, living fire.
Cain rounded the corner.
He looked like a thunderhead wrapped in black velvets. His hair was windblown, his jaw was set in a line of granite, and his eyes—those terrible, beautiful eyes—were fixed on me with enough intensity to strip the wallpaper from the walls.
"What is the meaning of this?"
His voice invaded my senses, deep and vibrating, soaking into my bones. It was a command, a threat, and a caress all at once.
"Planning a coup, wife?" he snarled, stepping into the light.
I held his gaze, refusing to back down, even as I felt a small, traitorous shiver dance down my spine. It was fear, yes. But it was also the undeniable, electric thrill of finally being seen by the only monster who mattered.
"A coup implies there is a ruler present to overthrow," I drawled, forcing my voice to remain steady, smooth as polished glass.
I took a step toward him—a calculated risk, a move against instinct—crossing my arms over my chest to hide the slight tremor in my fingers.
"Considering you have been haunting the dungeons like a spectre for the last ten days, I assumed the position of Prince of Death was vacant. "
Beside me, Friedrik made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a choked cough, shuffling his wings awkwardly.
Cain didn't blink. He stopped three feet from me, close enough that I could smell the sharp, bloody tang of pomegranate clinging to his skin, mixed with the underlying, oaky scent of his expensive liquor. The Void within him pulsed, a dark heartbeat against my own senses, hungry and agitated.
He crossed his arms over his chest, the movement pulling the black fabric of his shirt tight across his shoulders. His sleeves were shoved haphazardly up to his elbows, exposing his forearms.
My breath hitched, and my defiance faltered for a humiliating second.
I had seen them before, in the rain, in the dark, but I had never truly studied them like this.
They were a map of raw, lethal capability.
Thick, corded veins ran the length of his inner arms, prominent ridges that stood out starkly against his pale skin.
They wound through the intricate black bands of his tattoos, the ink seeming to hug the anatomy, emphasising the sheer strength in his hands.
It was like looking at a sculpture carved by a mad god—beautiful and terrifying. Every time he clenched his fingers against his biceps, those veins shifted and swelled, pulsing with a slow, heavy rhythm that mocked my own racing heart.
My mouth went dry. It was a stupid, biological betrayal to be looking at the hands of a monster and wondering what that heavy, blue-black pulse would feel like under my thumb or wrapped around my neck again, maybe not just in anger this time.
To wonder how hot his skin was where the blood ran so close to the surface.
His gaze dropped to my feet, then swept up my body, cataloging every inch of me—the colour returning to my cheeks, the way my dress fit, the defiance in my jaw—with a possessiveness that made my knees weak. Not from fear, I told myself. From rage.
"You should be in bed," he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "The healers said rest. Not wandering the estate conspiring with the stonework."
"The healers work for you," I snapped, tilting my chin up. "And I am bored of being in bed, Cain. I am bored of the ceiling. And I am certainly bored of waiting for my husband to decide I am well enough to speak to."
His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering beneath the stubble on his cheek. "I am protecting you, Ophelia."
"You are avoiding me," I corrected, my voice sharpening. "There is a difference."
"I am ensuring the threat is neutralised," he countered, his eyes narrowing. He took another step, invading my personal space.
My breath hitched. The proximity triggered a flash of memory—a dark cell, a looming figure—and my body betrayed me. I flinched, just a fraction. A minute tightening of my shoulders, a quick intake of air.
Cain froze.
The aggression drained out of his posture instantly, replaced by that gutted, self-loathing look I had come to despise. He stopped his advance, his hands curling into fists at his sides, as if restraining himself from reaching out—or from pulling away.
"See?" he whispered, the word laced with bitterness. "You flinch."
"I flinch because you are looming like a gargoyle, and you are not half as charming as Friedrik," I lied, though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I refused to let him use my trauma as an excuse to shut me out.
I refused to be the broken thing he walked on eggshells around.
I stepped into the space he had left, closing the gap until I was looking straight up into his stormy eyes.
"I am recovering, Cain," I hissed, keeping my voice low so the servants wouldn't hear. "I am not made of glass. I flinch at loud noises. I flinch at shadows. But I am still standing here, aren't I? I am still standing right in front of you."
I poked a finger into his chest. It was like poking a wall of steel.
"So stop treating me like I'm already dead."
Cain looked down at my finger on his chest, then back up to my eyes. A flicker of something heated—something that looked dangerously like admiration mixed with frustration—flared in the silver depths of his irises.
"You are infuriating," he murmured.
"I am your wife," I retorted, dropping my hand but holding his gaze. "And if you think a little trauma is going to stop me from making your life difficult, then you really didn't read the fine print on the bloody marriage contract, oh husband of mine.”
I gestured grandly to the floor around us, to the dusting of black obsidian grit Friedrik had left behind.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, my co-conspirator and I have a heist to plan. I believe we were discussing stealing all the good brandy before you can drink it."