Married To Darkness
Chapter 310: Self Deprecating Thoughts

Chapter 310: Self Deprecating Thoughts

"Oh—Your Grace! You’re back."

Alaric barely stopped walking as he asked, "Where is Salviana?" His tone was cool, controlled, but his urgency bled through in the clipped way he spoke.

Sarah blinked, shaking her head. "I—I’m not sure, my lord. I haven’t seen her since earlier."

His jaw tightened. Not here.

He gave a curt nod and moved past her without another word, his strides quickening. Where are you, Salviana?

His mind raced, already considering where she could have gone, who she could be with. But deep inside him, something unsettled stirred—a feeling that something was off.

He should probably check the bedroom,

Alaric ascended the stairs two at a time, his patience running thin. His instincts were already on edge, and every wasted second gnawed at him.

As he reached the next floor, he almost collided with Thalia, one of the chambermaids, as she struggled to carry a pile of soiled blankets and bedspreads down the steps. She gasped softly at the near miss, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

For a moment, she hesitated—too long.

Alaric caught the brief flicker in her expression, something almost wary, almost knowing. Suspicion.

His eyes narrowed. "What?"

Thalia quickly shook her head, lowering her gaze. "Nothing, Your Grace."

Alaric exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. He didn’t have time for whatever nonsense she was thinking.

"Move," he ordered, stepping around her without another glance. If Salviana was upstairs, he’d see her himself.

And if she wasn’t—he would find out exactly why.

He reached the bedroom and threw the doors open.

Alaric stood in the center of their chambers, his sharp gaze sweeping across the dimly lit space.

The silk curtains billowed slightly from the night breeze filtering through the cracked window, but the room was empty.

His chest tightened. He had been hopeful.

"Salviana," he called again, his voice lower this time.

Silence.

His jaw clenched. Who was he kidding? He knew from the moment he arrived that he hadn’t heard her heartbeat.

Still, he checked. He threw open the wardrobe doors. Nothing. He stepped into the bathing chamber. Empty.

He turned, his pulse hammering against his throat. He had been hoping—praying—that maybe she had just been quiet, maybe resting.

But then he paused. Something felt off.

A frown etched itself onto his face as his sharp eyes darted to the side.

A chair slightly pulled out. A goblet tipped over. The edge of her shawl still draped over the chaise as if hastily left behind.

His fingers curled into fists. She had been here.

But now she was gone.

Or was it all in his head?

Alaric stood frozen in the center of their chambers, his fists clenched at his sides. His breath came shallow, chest rising and falling unevenly.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room, making everything feel more hollow—as if the walls themselves mocked his solitude.

His mind raced, a whirlwind of thoughts that spiraled deeper into the pit of self-doubt.

"She left me."

The words clawed at his throat, bitter and raw.

"Maybe she finally realized what I am."

His hands trembled. A monster. A creature that drinks blood, that survives in the darkness, that doesn’t belong among the living.

"Did I ever make her happy?"

His mind replayed every moment—every time he had reached for her, every time she had smiled, every time she had whispered his name in the quiet of the night.

But then came the memories of her suffering.

The glares she endured. The whispers behind her back.

His enemies had made her a target, simply because she was his.

And what had he done?

Not enough.

"I didn’t fight hard enough for her."

His fingers curled into his palms, nails biting into his skin. He should have protected her better.

He should have silenced the tongues that spoke ill of her, should have crushed the ones who thought to harm her.

But he hadn’t.

"I let her be hated."

His jaw clenched as the weight of that truth pressed down on him.

He had been selfish.

He had brought her into his world—a world where blood and darkness reigned, where he was feared and despised in equal measure.

He had tied her to himself, made her a queen in a kingdom that would never truly accept her.

"What if she regrets it?"

A sharp, suffocating ache bloomed in his chest.

Had she grown tired of this?

Of him?

Of waking up every day to a man who was neither human nor fully beast, a man who fed on blood, who carried centuries of curses in his veins?

"Did she lie when she said she loved me?"

The thought alone made him stagger back, as if struck. His knees almost buckled.

No. She wouldn’t lie.

But love... love wasn’t always enough.

He knew that better than anyone.

His throat tightened. His eyes burned, but no tears came.

His kind didn’t weep—not in the way humans did. But the pain was there, heavy and unbearable.

He exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face. His fingers grazed his lips, and a bitter laugh escaped him.

"You drank her blood."

The memory of it surfaced like a cruel reminder—how her body had tensed the first time, how her breath had hitched, how her pulse had thrummed beneath his lips.

He had taken from her.

Marked her.

What kind of love was that?

Maybe she had finally understood what the world had been trying to tell her—that she deserved better than him.

He inhaled sharply, chest rising with the force of it, trying to shove the thoughts away. Trying not to let the fear win.

But for the first time in centuries, Alaric Velthorne—the Third Prince of the Velthorne Kingdom, the feared Demon Prince—felt utterly, completely powerless.

As Alaric stood motionless in the dimly lit corridor, his fingers curled into fists at his sides, a soft voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Your Grace?"

He turned to see Emma, ever composed, standing with her hands neatly folded in front of her. She studied him for a moment before tilting her head slightly.

"Would you like tea? Or perhaps coffee? Wine?"

Alaric barely registered the offer, his voice low and distracted. "My wife..."