Chapter 91: Cold Possession

Her eyes widened in sheer, paralyzing shock as they locked onto his. She snapped her gaze back to Cedric, recoiling another two steps as if his touch had left a physical burn. The thought clawed at her—the one thing she loathed above all else was the idea of him seeing her as a woman without a shred of morality, flitting from one man to another like a common flirt.

The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place with a sickening snap. This was Elvira’s design from the very beginning, a masterwork of ruin, and it was painfully clear that Cedric was her willing accomplice.

“Matthias, I…” The words died in her throat. She watched him stride toward her, his silhouette cutting a jagged line through the darkness. It was too late. The time for explanations had been swallowed by the shadows.

Matthias reached her, his expression unreadable as he held her fallen shawl. He stepped into her space, his hands firm but remarkably steady as he draped the fur around her, meticulously covering her bare shoulders and the exposed skin of her back. It was an act of cold, protective possession.

“Hold your shawl tightly,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating hum of controlled fury. “And do not let it slip again.”

She nodded wordlessly. After the wreckage of the night, she found no strength left to argue, no breath to defend herself.

Then, with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator, Matthias turned to face Cedric. A sharp, artificial smile cut across his face—a smile that held no warmth, only the promise of violence.

“Welcome, Duke Aleister,” Matthias drawled, his tone dripping with lethal sarcasm. “What a peculiar surprise to find you lurking here.”

Cedric opened his mouth to offer a confident retort, his lips curling into a smug grin, but it was shattered instantly. A brutal, heavy-handed punch collided with his jaw with enough force to make his head snap back, sending him reeling.

Before he could recover, Matthias lunged. He seized Cedric by the collar, hauling him upward until they were nose-to-nose. Even as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, Cedric began to laugh—a dark, twisted sound of pure enjoyment.

Matthias’s features contorted into a mask of raw, unadulterated rage, a face so terrifying it seemed forged in the pits of hell. He pulled Cedric closer, his grip tightening until the fabric groaned, and leaned in to whisper a promise directly into his ear.

“If those filth-ridden hands of yours so much as brush against my wife again, I will sever your head from your shoulders. I will not hesitate. Not for a single heartbeat.”

Instead of flinching, Cedric spat a glob of blood onto the earth with a mocking flourish. A dark, treacherous smile—wicked yet hauntingly handsome—curled across his lips. “Do not fret, my dear Duke,” he crooned, his voice dripping with malice. “She is the one who will come to me. She will throw herself into my arms of her own accord. We shall see, in the end, who truly has the last laugh.”

The fury in Matthias’s veins turned to molten lead; the veins in his neck pulsed with a lethal rhythm. He reared back to strike again, but Olivia’s voice cut through the red mist of his rage.

“Matthias… stop! You will end up in a dungeon if you maim him.”

With a grunt of pure loathing, Matthias shoved Cedric away. He turned to Olivia, “Wrap your arms around me,” he commanded.

“What?”

Without another word, he bent down and hoisted her up with a single, effortless arm. Reflexively, her hands locked around his neck. He began to stride away, carrying her past Cedric’s narrowing eyes. The sight of them—united, however tenuously—sent a flicker of genuine irritation across the other man’s face.

As the couple vanished into the gloom, Elvira stepped out from shadows, her expression a mask of mocking derision. “It seems your little charade didn’t quite yield the results you desired, Duke.”

Cedric adjusted his collar, his jaw tight as he fought to suppress his bile.

“Do not worry. I will take Olivia from him, even if I have to use every ounce of brute force I possess. I will pull the House of Locron down stone by stone.”

“I have no doubt you will,” Elvira whispered, her eyes dancing with chaotic light.

The journey back was a harrowing exercise in silence. Matthias carried her the long distance to the outskirts of the village, his grip firm and unyielding.

Olivia’s eyes drifted to his free hand; it was raw and blistered—angry burns he must have sustained while fighting the fire she had started. He, meanwhile, kept his gaze anchored to her bare feet, watching the angry red scratches left by the forest floor.

When they finally reached the carriage waiting at the end of the road, the driver scrambled to open the door. Matthias placed her inside with a chillingly slow, deliberate care before seating himself opposite her. As the carriage lurched forward, he fixed his eyes on her. A thousand questions burned behind his iris, yet he chose the cruelty of silence.

Olivia, trapped in that airless space, wished the earth would simply open up and swallow her whole. Anything was better than this.

By the time the iron gates of the castle groaned open, the world was bathed in the ink of late night. The halls were silent, the servants long since retired, leaving only the stoic sentries at their posts.

“Wrap your arms around me.”

He repeated the command, his voice devoid of emotion as he reached in to lift her once more, carrying his silent, enigmatic Duchess back into their cold, stone fortress.

She offered no resistance, no sharp-tongued retort. For once, she simply surrendered to his will.

Matthias carried her through the echoing corridors of the castle, ignoring the startled, heavy gazes of the sentries. He moved like a man whose spirit had been flayed, his jaw set in a grim line of exhaustion. When they reached the sanctuary of her chambers, he placed her upon the silken expanse of the bed with a tenderness that felt almost agonizing.

Without a word, he retreated to the washroom, returning with a basin of warm water. He knelt on the floor at her feet—a Duke reduced to a servant by his own bewildering devotion. As he began to wash the grime and blood from her soles, Olivia instinctively tried to pull away.

“Stay,” he commanded, his grip firm but gentle. “You should never have gone barefoot. Look at what you have done to yourself.”

“I… I didn’t notice,” she stammered, the words feeling thin and fragile in the heavy air.

He continued his task in haunting silence for a moment before speaking again, his voice a low, steady thrum of pain.

“You dragged my name through the mire today, Olivia. I cannot begin to fathom what goes on in that mind of yours—to burn the home of people you barely know, and then to humiliate them with such coldness?”

Olivia looked away, her throat tight. She could not offer the truth, so she offered nothing but the curve of her neck and the avoidance of his gaze.

“Fine,” he whispered, his patience fraying.

“If you will not answer for your crimes, answer me this one thing.” He looked up, his eyes glassy with a desperate, raw vulnerability. “Did you insist on coming with me today just to meet him? Tell me the truth. I will accept it, whatever it may be.”

The weight of his despair broke through her resolve. Olivia reached out, cupping his face with both hands and pulling him forward until their foreheads rested against one another.

“I came with you because I chose to,” she whispered fiercely. “And I did not go to see that wretch. You know this, Matthias. Deep down, you know.”

The tension in his shoulders bled away, just for a second. He stood up and retrieved a damp cloth.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her curiosity piqued by his sudden movement.

He swept her hair over one shoulder, exposing the pale, bare skin of her back. He began to rub the cloth over her skin with rhythmic, almost obsessive strokes. “I am erasing the traces of that cur,” he rasped. “He touched you with his filthy hands. I will not have it.”

“Matthias, stop… I shall bathe regardless.”

He stood abruptly, the sudden distance between them feeling like a chasm. He turned to leave, but Olivia reached out, her fingers catching the hem of his tunic. “You are injured,” she said softly. “There are burns on your hand. At least… let me tend to them.”

He looked down at her hand on his sleeve, then at his own raw, blistered skin. A short, jagged laugh escaped his lips—a sound of profound, bitter irony.

“You wish to heal the wound that you caused?” He shook his head, his eyes dark with a pain that went far deeper than his charred flesh. “What you did to me today, Olivia… it hurts a thousand times more than any fire.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep