Married To Darkness
Chapter 255: Uncalled Guilt To Family

Chapter 255: Uncalled Guilt To Family

She narrowed her green eyes at him. "You’re just saying all this because you don’t want to admit you’re boring."

"Boring?" he repeated, feigning offense. "I am anything but boring."

"You don’t want to have fun!" she accused, leaning closer.

"Oh, trust me, my love," he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl, "I know plenty about having fun. Just not when it involves discomfort, dirt, and rain."

Salviana huffed, but before she could retort, he reached out and gently tucked a stray lock of her red hair behind her ear. "I’ll tell you what," he murmured, his tone softening. "Next time, we’ll ride horseback—when the weather is perfect, and the roads are dry. Deal?"

She pretended to mull it over, her lips pursing. "Fine. You win this round," she conceded, though her playful pout lingered.

Alaric grinned, his victory sealed, and he kissed the top of her head. "I always do."

The carriage rocked gently as they moved toward the bustling heart of the city.

Salviana shifted in her seat, her fingers absently twirling a strand of her red hair.

"You know," Alaric said, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone, "your hair is incredible."

She blinked, looking up at him. "My hair?"

"Not just the color," he clarified, leaning closer. "Though this particular shade of red is mesmerizing. Did you know that natural red hair is one of the rarest in the world? It’s said that less than two percent of the population has it. And yours—it’s vibrant, fiery. Unique, just like you."

A soft blush crept up Salviana’s cheeks, but she quickly masked it with a scoff. "And yet, it’s also the reason people keep calling me a witch."

Alaric’s expression darkened slightly. "People fear what they don’t understand. Your red hair, your green eyes—they’re not signs of witchcraft, Salviana. They’re signs of beauty, of rarity. You should take their whispers as a compliment. They’re just too small-minded to see it."

She studied him for a moment, his words wrapping around her heart like a warm embrace. "You always know what to say to make me feel better," she admitted softly.

"That’s because I mean it," he replied, his voice steady and sincere.

The carriage began to slow as they approached the marketplace. Salviana glanced out the window, noting the bustling crowd.

She bit her lip. "Do you think they’ll... react poorly to me today?"

Alaric reached for her hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "Let them stare. Let them gossip. None of it matters. You’re my wife, and no one in Wyffellon dares disrespect the wife of the third prince to his face."

A small smile tugged at her lips as his confidence bolstered her own. "You always make me feel safe," she whispered.

"And I always will," he promised.

Alaric’s mind wandered as the carriage swayed gently along the road.

His gaze rested on Salviana, who was now looking out of the window, her fiery red hair catching the soft light.

She seemed so at peace, her lips curving into a faint smile as the scenery passed by.

Yet, even her presence, the very light in his life, couldn’t stop the dark thoughts that crept into his mind.

He hated himself for it—this nagging guilt that refused to leave him.

He had been unable to carry out the ultimate punishment on his cousins and sisters after they had tried to kill Salviana.

The memory of their treachery burned in his chest like a festering wound. They had betrayed not only him but the sanctity of family itself.

They had attempted to poison his wife, the one person who had brought meaning and warmth to his cold, rigid world.

And yet, they were still alive. Alive because he couldn’t bring himself to deliver the death sentence.

The thought made him grit his teeth.

If anyone else had dared harm Salviana—any outsider—they would have been dealt with swiftly and ruthlessly.

There would be no hesitation, no mercy. Because Salviana wasn’t just his wife; she was his light.

The one person who had saved him from the abyss of duty, from the suffocating chains of royal ungrateful demands and expectations.

He glanced at her again, and before he could stop himself, he reached over and drew her into his arms.

She let out a small, surprised sound, but when she looked up at him, her eyes softened.

"What is it?" she asked gently, resting her hand against his chest.

He sighed deeply, burying his face in her hair. "Nothing. I just needed to hold you."

She didn’t press him further, and for that, he was grateful.

But his thoughts were far from settled.

The women—his cousins and sisters—were still in the dungeons, where they had been for the past week.

He had locked them away after their plot had been exposed, but now he found himself in a bitter stalemate.

He wanted them to stay there forever, to rot in the cold darkness of the castle’s underbelly if they were outsiders he would have drank them dry that day he found out.

Yet a part of him—the prince who had been raised to value justice, who had been taught to protect his family—hesitated.

He needed a royal reason to justify keeping them there indefinitely, one that would silence the murmurs of the court and the kingdom.

Without it, their imprisonment was fragile, their punishment incomplete.

His hand tightened slightly around Salviana’s waist.

She didn’t seem to notice, her gaze still on the window, but Alaric’s mind was already drifting to the dungeons.

Why had they done it?

The question haunted him. What had driven them to such hatred, to the point of attempting murder?

Was it jealousy?

Envy of Salviana’s position as his wife, of her influence over him?

Or was it something darker—something more insidious that he had yet to uncover?

He leaned his head back against the seat, his jaw tense. Maybe he needed to visit them again.

Confront them, face to face, and demand answers.

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