Page 23 of The Vespertine Treaty
Ophelia froze, her hand hovering over a heavy black fork.
"Your meal is prepared," I stated, my voice rougher than I intended. I walked past her to the head of the table, the scent of her fear and her arousal—faint, but unmistakable—hitting me like a physical blow. "You will eat the entire serving. My schedule demands efficiency, and I will not have you fainting from hunger."
I felt the surge of offence, a quiet but firm wave of emotion she couldn't suppress. "I am aware of your schedule, Cain. I am not a child who needs her portions dictated."
"You are a variable, Ophelia. And variables must be controlled." I sat, my back to the massive vaulted fireplace, the flames casting long shadows. "Furthermore, the house staff is bound by ancient Cenite law... Any attempt to use your Empathy on them or tamper with their routine will be interpreted as an assault on the House. The consequences will be severe."
“An assault on the House! Oh, the drama!” Friedrik crowed from the doorway. “He’s setting boundaries, dear. It’s all a defence mechanism... He's hoping you’ll run away, you know. He always does love the chase.”
I ground my teeth, my grip tightening on the edge of the table until the wood groaned. "If you do not cease your commentary, Friedrik, I will seal you to your archway with liquid obsidian," I muttered, focusing the sound so only Ophelia and the gargoyle heard the order.
"She will not run. She is a strategist, not a victim. The rock's assessment is wrong,"Rhana thought, her assessment clinical as she curled beneath the table near my feet.
"You have established the rules of the cage," Ophelia countered, sitting down opposite me, her movement slow and deliberate. She made a conscious effort to look past me at the insufferable gargoyle, acknowledging his presence with a small nod. “Now tell me the rules of the Cenite House. You said you would tell me what I need to know to survive here.”
I allowed a small, cold smile. She always returned to the point. I found myself almost enjoying the fight. It was better than the silence.
“As I previously stated, wife, what you need to know is the law of my will," I stated, lifting my grey eyes, holding her gaze. "Youmay not communicate with the outside world using High House channels. You may not cross the East Wing perimeter. And you may not under any circumstances enter the Library. Do you understand what you are forbidden?"
“Forbidden! Look at him like he’s just listing his favourite toys!” Friedrik shrieked. “She’s not asking for a lecture on your neuroses, Your Dark Lordship! She’s in need of a tour! You are all utterly hopeless.”
"Knowledge is the only currency here, Cain. And you are withholding it," Ophelia said, her voice steady, though I saw her fingers trembling in her lap. “I understand my value, and I also understand the value of what you hide.”
She paused, her stormy eyes narrowing, pressing the issue. “And what about the one communication line I should possess? Am I permitted to speak with my mother? Or is that, too, an assault on the House?”
I scoffed. It was a raw, sharp sound that tasted of bile and contempt. I could not contain the scorn.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on the table, invading her space even from across the expanse.
“You find that amusing?” Ophelia asked, her voice tight, a dangerous vulnerability entering her aura.
“Amusing, an Aenite?” I echoed, my voice low and cutting. “I find it profoundly pathetic. Your mother, Cecilia, demanded an audience with me yesterday. She stood there, attempting to weave a transparent illusion of grandeur, requesting a significant quarterly allowance to maintain the ruins she calls a home.”
Ophelia flinched—a sharp, instinctive wince that hit my core with a painful clarity. She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white, her gaze dropping to the desolate centrepiece of dead iron vines.
“She was not interested in you, Ophelia. She did not ask if you survived the binding. She did not ask if you were hurt.” I let the words hang there, heavy and poisonous. I wanted to strip her of every ghost she still carried, until I was the only haunting left in her world. “She was interested in the Alistair gold. I denied her request, of course. I informed her that the contract covers only you and your familiar. I suspect your mother’s need to 'communicate' with you evaporated the moment she realised she could not profit from the conversation.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Ophelia’s Empathy flared with an acute, crushing pain—the final, undeniable validation that she was merely a means to an end for everyone in her life. Her shoulders trembled, and though she didn't weep, the devastation was physical. It was a raw, bleeding wound in the room, and for a moment, the Pain-Eater in me stirred, wanting to consume it.
“Cain, you cruel beast!” Friedrik’s voice shook, no longer sarcastic, but genuinely enraged. “Can you not feel the female’s pain? It costs nothing to show a shred of dignity! Little Ophie, don't listen to the brute. I'm here. You mustn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this. No one is worth your tears, dear.”
My focus snapped to the gargoyle, the unexpected show of kindness igniting my deep-seated contempt for vulnerability. They were all conspiring to soften me.
“Spare me the display of weakness, Ophelia,” I commanded, my voice booming, echoing off the high ceiling. “If you intend to weep over the woes of your pathetic lineage, you are excused to your room. I have no tolerance for sentimentality.”
Ophelia pushed her chair back with a screeching scrape of metal against stone. She didn't look at me, but her movement was a raw, shaking declaration of defeat and pain. She turned and almost ran from the dining hall, her skirts swirling around her like storm clouds.
The second the heavy doors closed behind her, Friedrik’s fury returned, magnified and heavy.
“Insolent fool!” the gargoyle roared, shaking dust from the archway. “You are exactly your father’s son! You did not need to break her like that! You are not controlling her; you are only feeding the defiance you claim to hate!”
I gripped the table edge until my knuckles ached, the sound of splintering wood echoing in the empty room. I felt the hot, ugly truth of his assessment burn in my core.
I had failed protocol. I had punished her not because of her mother, but because I remembered the dream. I remembered how she felt against me, and I hated that I wanted it again.
I sat there, surrounded by the silence I had spent a lifetime perfecting, only to find it felt like a shroud I had woven for myself.
