"So that's Priscilla." Alaric's voice cut through the shadows, low and ice-cold, sending a shiver down Salviana's spine. He stepped forward, his form emerging slowly from the darkened doorway, and Salviana spun around with a startled gasp.
"Alaric—" she began, but he raised a hand, silencing her with a single, severe look.
"No," he said firmly. She paled, her heart pounding.
Had he overheard? Did he know everything?
The last thing she wanted was for him to be angry—she'd seen his temper, and she feared what he might do.
He closed the distance between them, his gaze sharp and calculating. Gently, he lifted her face in his cool palm, his touch unexpectedly tender against her stinging cheek.
Salviana's breath hitched as his thumb brushed over the reddened skin, tracing it with delicate care.
Though his eyes held an eerie calm, she could feel an electric fury simmering beneath his controlled exterior, charging the air between them.
"Does it hurt?" he whispered, his voice carrying a softness that belied the fury smoldering in his gaze.
He examined her face with unnerving intensity, his thumb lingering over the inflamed spot as if memorizing the injury.
Salviana hesitated, then gave a faint shake of her head. She couldn't bring herself to admit the truth—if he knew she was in pain, who could predict what he might do to the maid who'd hurt her?
"Don't lie to me," Alaric's voice thundered, the quiet intimacy replaced by a harsh edge that made her flinch.
His hand held her face in place, his gaze demanding honesty, but she lowered her eyes, unwilling to stir his wrath further.
She couldn't explain it, but somewhere within her, she still wanted to protect Priscilla, even after everything.
Alaric's jaw tightened as he watched her struggle. The sight of her bowed head, her quiet acceptance of mistreatment, sparked something deep and primal within him—a possessive rage he couldn't entirely understand, a need to shield her that felt as natural as breathing.
The thought that a mere maid—a nobody in his world—had dared to lay a hand on his wife made his chest tighten, his pulse hammering with dark intensity.
His hand moved gently down to her cheek, where he pressed a tender, lingering kiss to the place Priscilla had struck.
The gentle pressure seemed almost like a silent promise, as if he were erasing the pain and replacing it with something else, something unbreakable.
Without a word, he turned abruptly, stepping back with a dangerous glint in his eyes.
"Where are you going?" Salviana's voice wavered, her hand reaching for him as he moved swiftly toward the door, but all that was left was a rush of wind.
In a heartbeat, he was gone, his supernatural speed carrying him from her sight before she could blink.
She stood there, fingers still outstretched, her heart beating wildly as she realized he hadn't even needed to answer.
His purpose was clear.
Revenge. Punishment. She needed to talk to him at least.
Meanwhile,
Priscilla's heart skipped a beat as she rounded the corner, only to nearly collide with the dark figure standing before her.
"Your grace!" she gasped, her voice wavering as she looked up into Alaric's unyielding gaze.
He had appeared out of nowhere, moving with that eerie speed that only served to remind her of the stories she'd heard—the tales of the third prince who carried the blood of demons, a cold figure in the shadows.
Alaric's eyes narrowed as he assessed her, every inch of his posture exuding a silent fury that threatened to engulf her whole.
The weight of his stare settled on her like ice, and she shivered, instinctively taking a step back.
She could hardly believe this prince—'her' prince, as she liked to think—was finally paying her attention, even if it was in anger. She'd imagined him looking at her countless times, though admittedly, never like this.
Priscilla's thoughts raced back to the life she'd left behind at the girls' house, where she and the other maids had whispered about the princes in the castle.
She'd been the one to share the rumor that Alaric had once killed his only maid—a scandalous story of a servant who'd gotten too close and was found lifeless outside his chambers.
That alone should have served as a warning to her, but she couldn't help the thrill that sparked in her when she thought of being the exception to that tale.
"Just imagine, Priscilla," one of her friends had murmured, smirking as they lounged in the tiny quarters they all shared. "If he so much as glanced at you, it would be a one-way ticket to the royal court. You'd never have to scrub floors again."
"Glance at her?" another maid had snorted, throwing Priscilla a teasing look. "He doesn't even let people into his chambers, let alone his bed. You'd be lucky if he doesn't tear you apart."
Priscilla had laughed it off, but the idea had planted a seed in her heart. She'd spent sleepless nights picturing herself in Alaric's presence, feeling certain that if she just had a chance, he would be compelled to notice her, maybe even desire her.
So she'd made a plan, working her way into the castle's service and securing her position in the prince's quarters through sly charm and the influence of a palace attendant who'd taken a liking to her.
But now, as Alaric stared her down in the dimly lit corridor, every instinct in her was screaming that this was no fantasy.
She had crossed a line, one that she could feel the prince measuring with every second he held her in his gaze.
She tried to conjure up the seductive expression she'd practiced in the mirror countless times, but the fear twisting inside her made her voice falter.
"Your grace... I-I'm truly sorry if I—"
"Enough," he cut her off, his voice a low, deadly whisper. He took a measured step closer, each movement controlled and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. "Do you understand who you've wronged?"
Priscilla swallowed hard, nerves warring with a faint, desperate thrill. This was her moment, the opportunity she had fought for, dreamed of.
And yet she couldn't shake the memory of the other maids' taunts—'You'd be lucky if he doesn't tear you apart.'
Would he tear her apart now?