Cassel — POV
I sat on the couch, playing with Rosalia’s fingers slowly, almost absently.
Small and dainty, those hands seed far too tender for the kind of world we lived in. Her fingertips were cool against my skin, like petals, and each ti my thumb brushed over them, they quivered a little.
It wasn’t until the final rays of anger ebbed out of my body that the weight of what had just occurred finally settled in, hard and crushing. Along with that awareness ca a very primal, almost wild need to pull the girl closer-so I did.
I wrapped an arm around her waist, tugged her into my embrace, and settled her securely on my lap, as if that were the most natural place in the world for her to be.
I would never have admitted it out loud-not even under torture-but the truth was simple and humiliating:
I was terrified to let her out of my sight.
Even for a second.
Even for a breath.
Even for the ti it would take her to blink.
She didn’t grasp it, couldn’t possibly grasp the panicked thoughts still hanging in the back of my mind.
The fear still latches onto like a second skin, so unyielding and so heavy.
If I closed my eyes for too long, I saw again that mont-the threat, her frail body, the possibility of losing her-sothing that gnawed at , never to be loose.
At first, Rosalia had been so shy she’d hardly dared to move. Every little twitch of her body betrayed how flustered she was, how unsettled she felt being held so openly.
But after I tightened my hold around her and leaned forward, letting my breath brush against the shell of her ear, whispering sothing only she could hear-sothing that made her entire body stiffen and soften all at once-she finally grew quiet.
Fine.
I’ll admit it to myself, if not to anyone else—
I’m an utterly shaless bastard when it cos to Rosalia.
I had never, in my entire life, used that kind of... tactic, not once, with anyone.
Threats, teasing, whispering sothing bordering on wicked simply to get soone to behave?
No. Not my style.
But Rosalia wasn’t "soone."
She was... Rosalia.
And the look she gave, the faint quiver in her lashes, the helpless flush rising across her cheeks-it all gave such an unreasonable sense of satisfaction, it bordered on sinful.
If that makes a villain, a scoundrel, a heartless brute?
Fine.
I will gladly be all of those things.
"Cae... let go. Everyone is staring," she whispered in a soft voice, unbearably delicate, it could lt iron.
She really didn’t know what she was doing to .
Her tone, that shy pleading... was like pouring gasoline on a fire and expecting it to go out.
Instead of calming , it made sothing in coil tighter, hungrier, more possessive.
Hearing her speak like that, knowing she was embarrassed because of —
— bugger.
I wanted to do even more.
But I forced myself to be still.
Unfortunately.
If only these people weren’t here right now.
If only we were alone.
If only I could—
I let out a sigh, biting back a curse, and lifted my gaze reluctantly from the warm little creature in my arms.
Glowering, I tried to rein in irritation tightening my features as I stared across at the group seated opposite .
General Zan was the first to notice my displeasure.
His posture stiffened, and he cleared his throat with the nervousness of a man who’d realized he was intruding where he absolutely shouldn’t be.
"We are very sorry for what my son has done," he said, tone serious, contrite. "And... thank you for treating him.
Tsk.
If Rosalia hadn’t asked it of in person-soft eyes, small voice, trembling fingers- I wouldn’t have let these people take one step inside my house.
I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to treat the general’s son. The very idea of helping them made my blood boil.
In truth, I wanted nothing more than to grab the man by the neck and--
I gasped loudly.
No.
Not while Rosalia was around.
I dropped my gaze to the fragile girl in my lap. The re sight of her, warm and alive, seed to soften the edges of my rage.
The urge to strangle the general loosened only slightly, but enough.
"This favor isn’t free," I said, my voice low and uncompromising. "You’ll pay for it-and for your son’s mistakes as well."
Predictably, General Zan’s face constricted with concern.
His son, sitting at his side, appeared even more bitter—eyed, sharp-eyed, lips clamped.
Not that I cared.
Not one little bit.
Earlier, when I’d left the man, I’d been monts away from tossing them all out.
But Rosalia--sweet, soft, infuriating Rosalia--had asked to let him stay until he was fully healed.
Of course, I forbade her from using her powers again.
Not after what happened when she saved Henry. I wouldn’t let her risk herself that way, ever.
The mory alone was enough to make my stomach twist.
She herself didn’t want to touch that dangerous power again. Instead, she calmly instructed the little girl with minor healing abilities to help nd the wounds. It was not much but enough to stabilize the man.
General Zan’s voice broke through my thoughts, stripped of the powerful aura he always carried with him.
He looked like nothing more than a heartbroken father.
"He wasn’t like this," he said quietly. "My son... he wasn’t like this."
Gone was the man who had commanded armies, who stood unshaken before monstrous beasts; in his place was one who was trembling on the edge of fear and grief.
So we listened—whether I wanted to or not—to the tragic tale of his family.
Admittedly, I knew so of the truth already.
It’s one of the advantages of knowing the future. But I hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen it, so I didn’t know the finer details.
This son of the old man was once kind, responsible, and loved. A good son, a good father, a stable man.
But a few days ago, sothing unknown had happened. Suddenly he beca quick to anger, losing his temper upon every small provocation.
And whenever he grew enraged, he destroyed everything—walls, furniture, everything within reach.
Worst of all, he had raised his hand against his own wife.
That had been just last night.
His daughter, now the small sleeping child in the general’s lap, had seen it. Since then she’d been terrified, running from him every ti he returned ho.
Perhaps that’s why she’d tried to squeeze under the fence earlier.
The old man explained the symptoms:
The red eyes, his skin snaking with blackened veins, the unstable ntal state that was sweeping violently back and forth between fury and guilt, the amnesia after each episode...
I didn’t need to hear more.
I knew instantly what it ant.
I looked at the general, at his son, at the crushing sorrow which had fallen over them like a suffocating fog.
The General’s hand gently stroked his granddaughter’s hair as she slept, oblivious to the storm around her life.
Should I tell them?
Originally, I had wanted to wait until the tragedy unfolded further.
That way, their desperation would be greater, the debt they owed deeper. It was practical, efficient, and beneficial.
But then I saw Rosalia’s expression.
The softness in her eyes.
The way sadness tugged at her features.
And for her sake—
I sighed loudly.
"Your son didn’t change or go mad," I said coldly. "He’s simply under soone’s control."
General Zan froze. His eyes went wide.
His other son shot to his feet, panic and fury colliding in his voice.
"What do you an? What are you saying? How-how the hell could my brother be under soone’s control? What are you talking about?!"
"John sit down"
The old man’s beard shook with tightly controlled anger, but he held himself together, showing the discipline of a man who had survived countless battles.
"Please," he said, speaking through gritted teeth, "explain what you know, young man."
Their eyes-all of them-were fixed on .
Fearful.
Desperate.
Expectant.
I could have revelled in their helplessness. Instead, I bowed my head. I took Rosalia’s hand again, rolling each delicate finger between mine, turning them gently in every direction.
The simple act grounded more than I wanted to admit.
"Cae... stop," she whispered, mortified.
Her embarrassnt made my lips curl into a faint smile. But I forced myself to behave. Gently, I shifted her off my lap and settled her beside .
The ti had co for a serious talk.
I had already decided to help them, even though that went against my original plan. But that didn’t an I would do it for free.
I am not kind.
I am not a saint
And I am certainly not a hero.
Perhaps the title Rosalia mutters in her sleep—"villain"— That isn’t entirely incorrect.
Reviews
All reviews (0)