Page 72 of The Vespertine Treaty
I marched to the chair opposite him—an expanse of mahogany that felt less like a dining table and more like a continental divide—and sat with enough force to make the heavy silver service rattle against the bone china.
The spread was a grotesque display of plenty. A wheel of blue-veined Stilton sat sweating on marble, flanked by dark, heavy breads and meats. But it was the pomegranates that turned my stomach; split in half like open chest wounds, their ruby seeds wept juice onto the linen. Their sharp, acidic tang mingled with Cain’s own scent, creating a cloying perfume that coated the back of my throat. I hated it. I hated how delicious it smelled.
“Good morning to you too,” I muttered, bypassing the feast to snatch a piece of dry, burnt toast—the only thing on the table that didn’t look like it was bleeding.
Cain did not look up from his documents. His hand, pale and elegant, hovered over a silver bowl before selecting a fig. It was a dark, bruised purple, swollen to the point of bursting.
“You are late, wife,” he stated.
As he spoke, a large death's-head moth detached itself from the shadows and fluttered silently just behind his head, a dusty, grey halo against the gloom. Cain ignored it. He lifted the fig to his lips and took a slow, deliberate bite. It was an act of absolute ruin. His teeth sank into the yielding pink flesh, tearing the skin with a quiet wet sound that echoed in the silence. The fruit burst. A thick, dark rivulet of nectar escaped the wound, sliding over the curve of his plump lower lip like a slow bead of blood.
He didn’t reach for the linen. Instead, his gaze snapped to mine, heavy and hooded. With agonising slowness, he dragged the tip of his tongue across his lip, catching the stray drop of juice before it could fall. He savoured it, his eyes never leaving mine, and let a slow, devilish smirk curl the corner of his wet mouth. Seeing the red interior of the fruit exposed, sticky and raw, sent a traitorous, heat-heavy shiver racing down my spine.
He chewed slowly, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to penetrate my bones.
“I was assaulted by your staff,” I countered, fighting the flush in my cheeks. I took my knife to the butter, scraping it across the scorched bread with aggressive precision. “Next time, tell them to knock. Or better yet, tell them not to come at all.”
Cain’s gaze was searing. His eyes turned glacial, rimmed with that dangerous silver light. “They are trained to be efficient. Unlike you.”
“I am efficient at things that matter,” I snapped. “Like empathy. And basic decency. Concepts you clearly excised from your curriculum forever ago, if you ever possessed them to begin with.”
He closed the document slowly. “Do not test me this morning, Ophelia. The air is thin.”
“Is it?” I leaned forward, the memory of Caspian broken on the floor yesterday fuelling my recklessness. “Is the great Prince of the Void feeling fragile again? Or are you just tired from torturing innocent boys to make yourself feel big and bad?”
The silence that slammed into the room was absolute. Even Poppy stopped chewing the grape she’d stolen.
Cain stood up.
He didn't rush. He moved with the terrifying, fluid grace of a landslide. He walked the length of the table, his steps silent, until he stood directly beside my chair. The air temperature plummeted.
“Innocent,” he repeated, the word spat with so much vitriol. “You call the boy who tried to steal my property innocent?”
“He tried to save me!” I shouted, standing up to meet him, though I had to crane my neck to look into his stormy eyes. “He loves me! Something you will never understand because you are incapable of feeling anything but ownership!”
“Love is a weakness,” Cain snarled, stepping closer, forcing me to back up until my legs hit the chair.
The sudden proximity, the sheermassof him blocking the light, sent a spike of old, jagged ice through my chest. A draft swept down from the high vaulted windows, carrying the heavy, metallic scent of the morning rain against the stone. That smell—damp earth and cold water—mixed with the heat of his body, and suddenly I wasn't in the dining hall.
I was fifteen again, trapped behind the Academy greenhouse. The suffocating scent of wet soil and cheap cologne filled my lungs. The way those boys had laughed as they cornered me, thinking 'no' was just a pause in the conversation. I had clawed my way out then, but the memory of being small and trapped against a wall by a male who felt entitled to my space never truly left.
I forced the memory down, turning the old fear into new, white-hot rage.
“It made him weak,” Cain continued, oblivious to the ghosts he had just summoned. “It made him fail. And it will destroy you if you do not purge it from your pathetic system.”
“I would rather be destroyed by love than survive on your hatred!”
Cain snapped.
He didn't hit me. He reached out, grabbing the back of my chair and hurling it aside with a crash that echoed like thunder. Before I could blink, his hand wrapped around my waist, not hurting, but unyielding. He bent, almost hitting my stomach, and threw me over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
“Put me down!” I screamed, pounding on his back with my fists. “You barbarian! Put me down! You cannot keep hauling me like this!”
He ignored me completely, striding out of the dining hall and down the corridor. He kicked open the double doors to the conservatory and marched inside.
The air inside did not hit me with its usual sweet humidity, not anymore. It hit me like the inside of a crypt. Dry. Stale. Tasting of death and dust.
He walked to the centre of the room, near the ruined cluster of what used to be his mother’s Vespertine Lilies, and finally dumped me onto a chaise lounge.
