Page 112 of The Vespertine Treaty
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 thedungeons 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 orwrapped 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. Hestopped 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."
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.
