Chapter 37 #2
I didn't stop until I was safely behind the heavy oak doors of my chamber, my back pressed against the wood as I gasped for air. My heart was galloping, a frantic rhythm of adrenaline and something darker, sweeter.
Friedrik landed on the balcony railing with a heavy thud, folding his stone wings with a sigh that sounded like grinding tectonic plates.
“You two are exhausting,” the gargoyle grumbled, shaking his head.
“I have watched empires rise and fall with less drama. You act like you want to tear each other’s throats out, yet the air between you crackles with enough heat to forge a star.
It is obvious that he would kill for you.
In fact, if my memory serves, he has killed for you. Too many to count.”
“Yet he doesn't want me, Friedrik,” I cut him off, pushing off the door and walking into the room, hugging my arms around myself.
“I tried. I offered him peace. I offered him… me. He pulled his walls back up. He chose his chair and his bottle over his wife. If he wants to leave me alone, then fine. I will make the most of my loneliness.”
I felt it then. A shift in the air pressure. A darkness pressing against the other side of the door.
He was there. Listening.
A wicked, reckless impulse seized me. I raised my voice, pitching it just loud enough to carry through the wood.
“In fact,” I said brightly, turning to the nightstand, “since I am so terribly abandoned, perhaps I should check on someone who actually misses my company. I’ll use the scrying stone to contact Caspian.
I need to make sure he is safe… and perhaps ask him to tell me a story.
I do miss the sound of a voice that doesn't growl, Friedrik.”
I reached for the velvet pouch.
BOOM.
The door didn't just open; it exploded inward, slamming against the stone wall with a violence that shook the paintings. I gasped, stumbling back, my hand flying to my chest as Cain stormed into the room.
He was a hurricane of shadows. He crossed the distance in two strides, snatching the pouch from the table before I could even blink. He didn't come closer, though. He stopped a few feet away, his chest heaving, his eyes black pits of fury, mindful of the invisible line he refused to cross.
“You will not speak to him,” Cain snarled, his voice a low, vibrating threat that rattled my teeth. “You will not speak to any male outside this estate. I told you, Ophelia. You are mine.”
“Then act like it!” I yelled back, my fear giving way to frustration.
“I am,” he hissed, shoving the pouch into his pocket. “Pack your things. You are leaving this room.”
I froze. “Excuse me?”
“You are evicted,” he commanded, his tone brokering no argument. “To my private quarters. My Wing. Tonight.”
“I… what?” My jaw dropped, shock rendering me momentarily stupid. “You… you want me in your room?”
“I want you where I can see you,” Cain said coldly. “I am done chasing you through these halls. You will stay in my quarters, where the wards are strongest. You will obey me. And you will perform your wifely duties without complaint.”
The air left the room. My mouth gaped open, my face burning with a sudden, scorching mix of indignation and shock.
Cain stared at my stunned expression, at my flushed skin and parted lips. His eyes darkened, sweeping over me with a look of disdain that felt like a slap.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Little Aenite,” he drawled, his voice dropping to a cruel, cutthroat whisper that sliced right through my dignity. “I meant acting like my stabiliser. My anchor. You are in no shape fit to be fucked.”
He leaned in, just an inch, his sneer sharp enough to draw blood.
“Not for how I like it.”
He turned on his heel and stormed out, the shadows trailing behind him like an obedient pack of wolves, leaving the door swinging on its hinges and the room submerged in a stunned, suffocating silence.
The raw, cold terror of Cain's command—"You will reside in my private quarters"—had consumed every other sensation. As soon as I was alone in my pristine, soulless room, my initial strategic control snapped.
“That bastard!” Poppy’s mental voice was a low, frantic scream of pure, unfiltered rage. “He thinks he can treat you like an instrument!”
“An instrument! A stabiliser!” I gasped, the adrenaline finally hitting me after the humiliation of his rejection. I looked at the meticulously made bed—the bed he deemed me unfit to share—and exploded.
I grabbed the nearest object—a heavy, unused obsidian lamp—and hurled it across the room. It struck the black marble wall with a loud, satisfying CRACK, sending fragments scattering across the polished floor.
"I won't be moved! I won't be used! I am not some broken thing to be stored on a shelf!" I screamed, the sound echoing wildly in the high, vaulted space. "He probably wants to move me into the same suite he keeps his whores in! Just another warm body to keep the monster stable!"
I tore the silk drapes from the window, and Poppy, energised by the chaos, scrambled to the desk and began batting the ceremonial stationery onto the floor with gleeful abandon.
“That’s it, Oph! Break something expensive! Make some noise!“ Poppy chirped, racing across the rug.
A sudden, sharp, low cough, like two granite slabs shifting, cut through the noise. I completely forgot Friedrik was still here, a witness to my turbulent state of mind.
“A bit destructive, little Ophie, wouldn’t you say?
” Friedrik’s voice boomed, startling me only slightly, as he stepped back into the light from the balcony where he had witnessed the entire train-wreck.
“I told the boy this room needed some character, but this is a bit much. You’re scaring the dust bunnies. ”
I froze, panting, my face streaked with tears and fury. I was caught mid-rebellion by the giant, judgmental statue.
“You don’t understand, Friedrik,” I whispered, my voice raw. “He’s forcing me into his room. He called me broken. He said I wasn't fit to be touched, yet he wants me as his emotional filter. This violent oscillation... this constant swing between saviour and jailer... it's tearing me apart."
“Yes, yes, the hatred is palpable. And so is the inevitable cohabitation,” Friedrik sighed, sounding profoundly bored.
“It’s a necessary evil, Little Ophie. You must endure.
But you have a mind, which is more than any Alistair has had in two centuries.
And you have kindness. That matters. Kindness and Silas’s willingness to help you save his master, as well as mine. ”
I felt a small, genuine surge of gratitude for the frank, grumpy compassion. “Thank you, Friddi. That actually helps. You and Silas are the only Cenites keeping me sane.”
A sharp, deferential knock sounded at the door—the sound of Authority.
"Lady Ophelia,” Silas’s quiet voice came through the thick wood. "I apologise for the intrusion. Lord Cain requires your presence in his private suite immediately. I have brought the moving staff."
I felt a wave of cold dread, then saw the opening. I wiped my eyes. No more breakdown. Time to strategise.
I opened the door, my face a mask of cold, icy composure. Standing outside were Silas and a line of four silent Cenite maids, their auras blank, carrying empty silver trunks.
“What is the meaning of this, Silas?” I demanded, my voice steady but dripping with disdain. “I will not be treated like chattel. You will tell the tyrant he can wait.”
Silas remained perfectly neutral. "My apologies, Lady Alistair. It is Lord Cain's direct command. The entire staff has been instructed to assist in your relocation. Your continued resistance will only result in an audit of your house's compliance by the Consortium."
I knew the threat was real. Cain was using the law to mould me. I stepped back, my lip curling. “Fine. Take it all. But you will tell Lord Cain that I will hate him until my last dying breath.”
“That’s the spirit!” Poppy chirped, leaping onto a packed trunk. “Proximity is power, Oph! Now let's see which side of his bed smells least like cheap perfume!”
I snickered, but the amusement didn't reach my eyes. Poppy’s words struck a nerve, summoning the memory of cloying scent mixed with my own fear.
I hadn’t forgotten Rosette’s role in what had happened, nor the cruelty she displayed while I bled.
Cain had claimed Malathor for his own dark, daily ministrations, but I had intentionally left her out of the story.
Just as he was dismantling the Consul, I would take a sickening, personal pleasure in taking care of that Cenite bitch.
As the silent maids began efficiently dismantling my space, my fury subsided, replaced by cold resolve.
I had lost my room, but I had gained constant, intimate access to the bastard.
The cohabitation was not a punishment; it was the final opportunity I needed to dismantle the monster my husband pretended to be.