Married To Darkness
Chapter 334: Anger For Loss

Chapter 334: Anger For Loss

Why hadn’t he noticed the sound when the burglary fell?

She’d screamed—loudly—when she nearly fell to her death. The iron bars had clattered against the wall like thunder.

But he hadn’t come.

Which meant... magic.

Of course.

Whatever spell was bound to this place must have muffled the noise—keeping her hidden even in the middle of her chaotic escape attempt.

Now the question was—why was he coming now?

Her heart thudded like a war drum against her ribs.

What did he want this time?

What cruel words would spill from his mouth now?

She braced herself, steeling her spine even as her legs threatened to buckle beneath her.

The door creaked open, slow and deliberate, like the person on the other side wanted her to feel the weight of their presence before they even stepped inside.

He entered.

The man—her captor—moved with a certain arrogance, his shoulders squared, his mouth curled into a perpetual smirk. His clothes were simple but neat, though the scent of something stale and sour clung to him—like he’d been too preoccupied with cruelty to bother with hygiene.

In his hand was a small tray.

Bread, a hunk of cheese, and a cup of water.

For a brief, shameful moment, Salviana’s body betrayed her—her stomach clenched so hard she swore he could hear the hollow echo of hunger inside her. Her throat burned at the sight of the water, so clear and cold, tiny droplets sliding down the side of the cup like a cruel reminder of how painfully dry her lips were.

But she clenched her jaw, refusing to reach for it.

Not yet.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He set the tray down with a thud, the cup wobbling but not spilling. "Eat," he said, a mockery of generosity. "Drink. Or don’t. Either way, you’ll be here a while."

Salviana stared at the food, her nails digging into her palm to resist the urge to lunge for it.

He noticed. Of course, he did.

And that damn smirk deepened.

"Your precious Alaric must be tearing the kingdom apart by now," he mused, his voice like oil. "But you? You’re right here, starving and thirsty like a pathetic little mouse."

Her lip trembled—not from fear—but from the effort it took to bite back a snarl.

He leaned in, too close—too close—the stench of sweat and something rotten invading her space. "Tell me, Salviana," he sneered, "how do you think your husband is doing?"

The words were out before she could stop herself. "How is Alaric?"

He barked out a laugh, a cruel, sharp sound that made the walls feel smaller.

"Oh," he drawled, "you’re not ready for that answer." His teeth flashed like a wolf about to bite. "You just might stay here long enough to forget his face."

Salviana’s heart pounded so hard it made her ears ring.

Her silence was a victory to him—she could tell by the way he fed off it. His shoulders loosened, his stance more confident, as if her fear was a fine wine he was savoring.

"You know what I love about this?" he continued, his voice softening into something almost tender—almost. "This magic? It’s impressive. Keeps you tucked away nice and neat, like a secret no one will ever find."

He bent down slightly, his face level with hers, his breath hot and rancid against her cheek. "Your stupid love story?" He grinned. "It’ll die here before you ever leave."

Salviana didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

And then—she smiled.

A slow, deliberate smile that made his grin falter—just for a flicker of a moment.

"You stink," she said, her voice soft but sharp enough to cut through his gloating. "You should bathe."

The smirk vanished.

His jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring.

He stepped back, wiping his mouth as though her words had physically soiled him. "Rot here, then," he snapped. "Maybe the smell will suit you."

He turned sharply, his boots slamming against the stone floor as he stormed out, the door creaking and then slamming shut behind him.

Silence.

Salviana’s knees buckled the moment he was gone.

Her heart was still racing, but her lips remained curled into that small, defiant smile.

He may have had the magic.

He may have had the upper hand.

But he didn’t have her spirit.

Not yet.

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The air was thick—too thick—with tension, like a storm about to break. The scent of steel, old stone, and burning torches did nothing to calm the violent thrum in Alaric’s chest. His heart didn’t beat—it pounded.

"Alaric," Lucius said, his voice calm but firm, "you have to think."

"I am thinking," Alaric growled, his teeth bared, his fangs dangerously close to extending. "I’m thinking of how many Tackeros throats I can rip out before their king finishes his damn speech."

Samion shifted uneasily, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword—not a threat, but a reminder. A silent warning. "You can’t kill them. Not yet. They came with a white flag."

Alaric let out a short, humorless laugh. "A white flag doesn’t mean a damn thing if they have my wife."

Lucius stepped closer, his voice dropping low so no wandering ears would catch the words. "And what if they don’t? What if you burn down the kingdom and still have no idea where Salviana is?"

That did it.

Alaric’s head snapped toward Lucius, a flash of something feral in his darkened eyes—like a predator who’d just been cornered. His lips curled back, the snarl trapped behind his teeth.

Samion’s voice was softer, but no less urgent. "Alaric... if you lose control now, it won’t bring her back. But it might cost us the only leverage we have."

Silence.

The kind that hurt.

The kind that made Alaric’s skin itch because every muscle in his body wanted to move, tear, destroy—not wait.

His fingers twitched at his side. His jaw clenched so hard it could crack bone.

Lucius stepped forward again, gently. "Rest, even for a moment. Think. Plan your next move."

Alaric’s voice was a blade. "The only plan I have is getting her back."