Chapter 35- The Problem With Innocent Women
There is something deeply wrong with my wife.
I realize this while standing in the middle of my throne room, surrounded by blood, corpses, and horrified nobles, while Ophelia stares at me like I am the answer to every sinful thought she has ever had.
Honestly, it is concerning.
If someone had shown me the woman currently sitting on that throne over a year ago and claimed she was the same terrified creature who used to sit six feet away from me at dinner, as proximity alone might kill her, I would have assumed they were confusing two entirely different women.
The Ophelia I married barely breathed around me.
The Ophelia staring at me now looks one step away from climbing me in front of foreign dignitaries.
Somewhere along the line, the sweet frightened princess vanished and got replaced by a tiny menace with deeply inappropriate thoughts and absolutely no shame about them.
And unfortunately for me...
I find it adorable.
William's body finally stops twitching beneath my boots while servants cautiously begin stepping around the blood spreading across the marble floor.
Guards drag the corpses away while nobles murmur nervously among themselves, though several members of my court still look disappointed that the fight ended so quickly.
My shoulders ache pleasantly from the exertion while adrenaline still burns warmly beneath my skin, leaving me restless in the way battle always does.
The challengers never truly stood a chance, but it has been a while since anyone approached me directly with enough stupidity to make things entertaining.
Across the room, the Kyrian nobles look deeply unsettled now.
My gaze shifts back toward my wife automatically.
Mistake.
Because now that the danger has passed, I can see her properly.
Gods.
She looks dazed.
Actually dazed.
Her lips slightly parted while her eyes remained fixed on me with alarming intensity, one hand curled loosely against the armrest of her chair. At the same time, she bit absently at the edge of her thumbnail, as if she had forgotten that other people existed.
I know that look.
Unfortunately.
I know that looks extremely well.
That is the exact expression she gets right before she starts making terrible decisions involving me and very little clothing.
The realization nearly makes me laugh.
There are three dead men on the floor.
My wife is visibly aroused.
Something has gone terribly wrong in her development as a person.
Not that I am complaining.
Because the truly dangerous thing about Ophelia is that she looks innocent enough to fool everyone.
Soft voice.
Gentle smile.
Sweet eyes.
Meanwhile, I currently have bite marks healing across my shoulder because my wife apparently believes intimacy is a competitive blood sport.
I swear the woman was a vampire in a previous life.
The more pleasure she experiences, the more violent she becomes.
At first, it startled me.
The first time she bit me hard enough to leave a mark, I genuinely thought something terrible had happened. Then I realized my sweet little wife had apparently lost control of herself halfway through kissing me and decided the logical response was attempted cannibalism.
And gods help me...
It awakened something deeply unhealthy inside me.
Because now?
Now I expect it.
Crave it.
The sharper her teeth sink into my skin, the more completely she unravels, and there is something possessive and vicious about watching such a gentle woman mark me as she owns me.
Which she does.
Most of the marks remain hidden beneath my clothes or scars. Still, every once in a while, someone notices teeth marks along my neck and suddenly becomes very interested in looking literally anywhere else.
Ophelia treats my body like her personal canvas.
The second one mark fades, she adds two more.
And she gets excited about it.
Excited.
The woman once spent ten full minutes admiring the bite marks on my collarbone, as if she'd painted them herself.
Completely insane behavior.
My favorite kind.
I catch movement near the throne and realize Ophelia is still staring at me. Her cheeks slowly flush pink the moment she realizes half the court has noticed.
Including me.
Ah.
There it is.
Embarrassment.
Finally.
Her eyes widen slightly before she immediately rises from the throne so quickly she nearly trips over her dress.
She bows quickly toward me, avoiding eye contact entirely now, then turns and practically flees the throne room.
Elias watches her leave for exactly two seconds before laughing loud enough to echo off marble pillars.
"She's never surviving this emotionally," he says cheerfully while following her.
I snort.
Across the room, Veronica approaches calmly while surveying the destruction with the tired expression of a woman mentally calculating how many servants this mess will require.
Then her eyes slide toward the doorway through which Ophelia disappeared.
A pause.
"Is she alright?" I ask.
Veronica looks back at me.
"No."
"There is something deeply wrong in that woman's head," Veronica says with complete seriousness. "She and Elias get along for a reason. Same species. Different fonts. Two perverts in a pod."
I glance once more toward the hallway where my wife disappeared, then slowly shake my head.
Honestly, I should probably be concerned.
Instead, all I can think about is the way she looked at me during the fight.
Like she wanted to climb onto my lap and make catastrophically poor decisions.
I married a menace.
Unfortunately, she is my menace, and i love her.
The throne room slowly empties while servants begin scrubbing blood from marble. I finally hand my sword off to one of the guards and leave before Elias starts another argument for entertainment.
The walk back toward my chambers gives me too much time to think.
Which is dangerous.
Because now I keep replaying the expression on Ophelia's face while I fought.
That bright, fascinated look.
The way her eyes followed me.
The way her lips parted slightly whenever I touched one of the challengers.
Gods above.
The woman was practically drooling.
And somehow that affects me far more than it should.
I shower longer than usual.
Mostly because blood gets everywhere during throat wounds.
Steam fills the bathing chamber while water runs red down scarred skin, disappearing into the marble drains below. I scrub slowly at the dried blood along my arms and chest while thinking about my wife sitting somewhere in the castle, trying very hard not to think inappropriate things about me.
She is probably failing.
Spectacularly.
By the time I finish dressing, I already know exactly where she is.
Her office.
Unfortunately.
I dislike her office in principle.
Not because of her.
Because of the glitter.
The woman has somehow weaponized decoration.
The second I step inside, I'm assaulted by lavender, candles, colorful fabrics, stuffed animals, and what appears to be seventeen different shades of blue fighting for dominance.
There is glitter on the floor.
There is glitter on the furniture.
There is some glitter on official government documents.
I genuinely believe the room creates more of it when threatened.
Her bookshelves line nearly the entire far wall, organized not alphabetically or by subject like a sane person would do, but apparently by "emotion" and "level of passion."
I still do not know what that means.
I'm afraid to ask.
Two massive bowls of candy sit on the low table beside the couch because pregnancy has apparently transformed my wife into a sugar-hunting predator.
And there
curled sideways on the couch beneath a blanket with a book in hand
is Ophelia.
She doesn't even notice me enter.
That alone tells me the book is dangerous.
I close the door quietly behind me and walk closer.
Still nothing.
Interesting.
Very slowly, I lean down—
and snatch the book right out of her hands.
Ophelia gasps like I just stabbed her.
"Achilles!"
She twists around immediately, horrified.
"Give it back!"
"No."
"It's mine!"
"That sounds unfortunate for you."
I hold the book higher automatically when she lunges for it, and she glares at me with genuine betrayal while trying unsuccessfully to reach over my shoulder.
"My love," I say patiently, "what exactly has you so distracted that you failed to notice me entering the room?"
"It's nothing."
Lie.
I narrow my eyes suspiciously and glance down at the open page.
"Hm."
Several seconds pass.
Then several more.
Slowly
very slowly
I look back down at my wife.
"So," I say carefully, "you're reading about two people's sexual exploits."
Her face goes scarlet instantly.
"It's part of the story!"
I flip backward several pages.
Then forward.
Then farther forward.
My eyebrows rise higher with every paragraph.
"Gods, how long is this chapter?" I note calmly.
Ophelia groans loudly and buries her face into the couch cushion.
"It gets worse," I continue thoughtfully while turning another page. "Impressively worse."
"Give me my book back."
"I don't think I can."
She narrows her eyes at me suspiciously.
"This seems unhealthy for your innocent little mind."
"I am not innocent."
"Ohh, I know ."
"I need a favor," she says sweetly.
Ah.
There it is. The moment I realize I have made a mistake. A terrible mistake. Because now she's smiling. Grinning, actually. Wide enough that alarm bells immediately start ringing in my head. Before I can respond, she suddenly hops off the couch and hurries toward the office door.
Then
locks it.
I blink once.
Slowly.
"Ophelia."
She ignores me completely as she grabs the book again and flips through the pages rapidly, with intense concentration.
I watch her suspiciously.
"What," I ask carefully, "are you doing?"
"Research."
That is not reassuring.
At all.
She finally stops at one page, reads several lines intently, then nods to herself with visible satisfaction before looking toward me.
"Sit in the chair."
Absolutely not.
I should refuse.
Immediately.
Instead..
I sit down.
Because, unfortunately, I am deeply in love with my wife and also catastrophically attracted, and I lose all sense of logic when she gets that cute little evil expression. My mistake becomes significantly clear when she opens the bottom drawer of her desk and pulls out a rope.
I stare at it.
Then at her.
Then back at the rope.
"My love," I say slowly, "I know you're adventurous..."
She beams proudly.
"...but what in the seven hells do you plan to do with that?"
She looks genuinely confused by the question.
"It's for restraints."
" And who exactly are you restraining here?"
"You, of course ."
"And why in hell would i let you do that?"
She shrugs innocently.
"Well, because you love and you want me to be happy, and the girl in the book did it, and I wanted to try too."
Gods save me.
"Ophelia..."
"Shh."
She points at me sternly.
"You're distracting me."
The woman then ties my wrists firmly to the back of the chair with a concerning determination, muttering quietly to herself and occasionally checking the book again.
I test the bindings once.
Then again, harder.
My eyebrows rise.
"Woman," I say flatly, "I love you very much, but I do not trust you with this much power. And how the hell did you learn to tie a rope so tight?"
She laughs.
Actually laughs.
"I've been practicing."
"That sentence has never comforted anyone in history."
She tightens another knot.
Very tightly.
I stare at her in disbelief.
"You've been planning this."
"No."
"Yes."
"Maybe."
Ophelia has an imagination.
A deeply vivid one.
And every time she reads one of those ridiculous books, she discovers another idea she wants to "try."
Many of those ideas involve me.
Most involve questionable judgment.
All of them somehow become impossible to refuse because she asks with those sweet, hopeful eyes while climbing directly into my lap.
I have ended council meetings early because my wife found inspiration in literature.
I once abandoned three generals discussing border disputes because Ophelia walked into my office, carrying a book and wearing that same expression she wears now.
And every single time
It gets worse.
More creative.
More concerning.
More dangerous for my self-control.
Because that is the real problem.
Not her.
Me.
The woman could ask me to bend her over the throne itself, and I would.
I am not new to my wife's demands.
That is the problem.
If Ophelia asked for something normal, I would probably be able to handle it emotionally. But somewhere between her reading inappropriate books and realizing I would give her almost anything she wanted, the woman developed dangerous levels of confidence.
And unfortunately
I love her too much ever to tell her no.
Which means every fantasy she places into my hands becomes something I immediately want to fulfill.
Usually, that works out very well for me.
Because normally?
I am the one in control.
I am the one pinning her wrists above her head while she glares at me like she regrets starting fights she cannot win. I am the one tying knots around silk and rope while she pretends she dislikes how easily I overpower her, despite very obviously enjoying every second of it.
I am not gentle by nature.
That worried me at first.
Ophelia is soft in ways the world notices immediately. Delicate-looking. Sweet. Small enough beside me that I used to fear hurting her accidentally.
Then I learned my wife has issues.
Many issues.
Deeply concerning ones.
Because beneath all those polite smiles and soft dresses is a woman who enjoys provoking monsters for entertainment.
She likes pushing me.
Likes getting under my skin until I stop pretending patience exists.
The little menace intentionally mouths off sometimes to watch me lose my composure faster.
And when I finally do?
Gods help me...
The woman looks victorious about it.
She wants domination.
Not softness.
Not restraint.
She wants to be pinned down, growled at, overwhelmed until she forgets how to think properly. The more possessive I become, the more pleased she looks about it afterward, as if she had accomplished something emotionally important.
Which means even when she "wins," I usually take control back eventually.
That is why this situation feels wrong.
"This isn't even new," Ophelia says while adjusting something behind me. "We've used ropes before."
"Yes," I say flatly, "but I was not the one restrained."
I hear her soft laugh. Move closer.
Warm fingers trail slowly down the center of my chest beneath my partially open shirt, making my shoulders tense automatically.
"Sometimes," she whispers near my ear, "we need to switch the roles."
Absolutely not.
The issue is that she says things like that while touching me slowly enough to make coherent thought difficult.
I take a slow breath in through my nose while trying very hard to remember I am supposed to be the intimidating one in this marriage.
Then she kisses the side of my neck.
Lightly.
Testing.
Teasing.
Gods.
"Ophelia," I warn.
"Mhm?"
"You are enjoying this too much."
"Yes."
Honest little demon.
Her fingers slide lower beneath my shirt while her lips brush slowly upward toward my jaw, and despite the restraints, despite the blindfold, despite my growing suspicion that this will end terribly for me—
My body reacts instantly.
Traitorous.
Completely traitorous.
She hums softly as she notices.
"Untie me, woman."
"Shh," she whispers. "You talk too much."
I snort quietly. "That is rich coming from you."
"I can fix it."
That should concern me more than it does.
Before I can ask what she means, I feel her lean closer.
"Wait—"
Tape presses suddenly across my mouth.
I freeze.
Several seconds pass while I process the situation.
Then I groan loudly beneath it.
Behind me, Ophelia bursts into delighted laughter.
The tiny psychopath sounds proud of herself.
"There," she says happily before pressing a kiss on my mouth, "Much better."
I make another deeply unimpressed sound.
She pats my shoulder again.
"Now I can hear myself think."
Gods above.
I married an enemy of the state.
I shift against the ropes again instinctively, testing the chair harder this time while she moves around somewhere nearby.
Drawers open.
That immediately makes me suspicious.
Very suspicious.
Because Ophelia gets quiet when she is plotting.
And right now?
The room has become alarmingly quiet.
Then
Something cold touches my chest.
I jerk automatically against the restraints, instinctively trying to move away from it before logic catches up with me.
Ice.
The little monster has ice.
I make another muffled sound beneath the tape while trying unsuccessfully to twist away from the freezing sensation sliding slowly across my skin.
"Oh," Ophelia says softly, sounding fascinated. "Do you have something you want to say, my love?"
I glare uselessly beneath the blindfold.
I try speaking again, only for another irritated muffled sound to emerge instead.
Ophelia giggles.
Actually giggles.
Then the ice trails lower.
I jerk hard enough that the chair creaks beneath me.
The laugh she lets out this time is pure evil.
"You're very dramatic for someone who threatens people professionally."
I make another furious noise.
"Language," she scolds lightly.
Gods help me.
This woman spends half her time biting me like a feral creature, but somehow I'm the problem.
The ice disappears briefly before warm fingers replace it, smoothing slowly over chilled skin, making my muscles tense even harder.
This is the issue with Ophelia.
She experiments.
Curiously.
Enthusiastically.
And once she realizes I react strongly to something, she immediately becomes determined to explore it further, like a scholar researching a deeply inappropriate thesis.
"You know," she says conversationally while touching me entirely too slowly, "you really shouldn't have laughed at my books."
I narrow my eyes beneath the blindfold.
Ah.
Revenge.
Of course.
That explains the evil joy in her voice.
I knew the second she started laughing earlier that she was planning retaliation.
"You made fun of me," she continues.
I grunt.
"You called my reading material concerning."
Another grunt.
"You said it was corrupting my innocent mind."
That one might actually be true.
Her hand pauses against my chest.
Then lowers slightly.
I tense automatically.
"You know," she says thoughtfully, "I think the worst part is that you looked very smug while saying it."
Gods.
She's punishing me for being smug.
This marriage truly was designed to destroy me.
I hear pages turning nearby again.
Is she still referencing the book?
That somehow makes this worse.
"Hmm," she murmurs. "Interesting."
Absolutely not.
Nothing good has ever followed that tone.
I tug harder against the restraints again, enough that the wood beneath me groans faintly.
Ophelia immediately clicks her tongue disapprovingly.
"Stop trying to escape."
I glare harder beneath the blindfold.
"You're making this difficult."
Woman, I am tied to a chair.
You are the difficulty.
She moves behind me again, fingers brushing lightly against the back of my neck before sliding upward into my hair and forcing my head back with a sharp thug.