Chapter 32: The Lullaby

Catherine opened her eyes, fingers flying to her nose.

“OW—WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Maximilian leaned back with infuriating leisure, entirely unapologetic, eyes alight with mischief. Catherine froze.

That smile.

That damned smile.

It was the same one from another lifetime—the boy who delighted in provoking her, who took unholy pleasure in watching her bristle while she struggled to behave like a proper lady instead of throttling him with royal decorum.

“Payback,” he said calmly. “For biting my nose.”

Her expression went utterly blank.

That story.

That accursed story.

Her royal mother had told it so many times it was practically enshrined in the family archives. Apparently, she’d been eight months old when she was presented to that wretch as his future bride. And apparently—apparently—he, at 4, had been absurdly pleased with the idea of having a wife. She, meanwhile, likely hungry and deeply unimpressed, had mistaken his approaching nose for a convenient snack when he leaned in to kiss her cheek.

Her mother had told her how the room had erupted in laughter— both queens, the ladies-in-waiting, and servants alike.

And that disgraceful prince?

He had burned with fury.

Too cute, her mother always said. A sign, the mothers decided, that they’d get along splendidly in the future.

Oh. How catastrophically wrong they were.

“Payback?” Catherine murmured, her voice hollow. Hadn’t he taken an entire lifetime of it already? Must he continue in this one too?

And worse—worse

—he had claimed not to remember.

And now…

Her hands trembled as fury surged, sharp and breath-stealing.

“You were my fiancée…” Maximilian said softly.

The words fell between them like shattered glass.

Shock rippled through him, unmistakable this time, blue and violet clashing violently in his gaze, as if two lives were colliding behind his eyes.

“What else do you remember?” she asked tightly, each word dragged from her throat. She refused to let him clutch his chest and flee. He had opened the door. She wanted everything behind it.

He shut his eyes, fingers pressing hard into his temples, body bending as though something inside him had torn.

There he goes, Catherine thought bitterly. Pretending again.

She scoffed, sharp and dry, shoved past him, and dropped onto the couch like a dethroned empress, her arms crossed so tightly she could’ve passed for an elaborate knot.

She was done.

And she now had a very valid reason to believe he had something to do with the curse biting into her wrist.

Behind her, Maximilian made a strangled sound—half groan, half laugh, half “oh dear God, my life is imploding.” He straightened slowly, rubbing his chest. Not theatrically this time. Annoyingly genuine.

“For the record,” he said, breath uneven, “if I were pretending, I’d be far more dramatic. There would be fainting. Possibly a chaise lounge.”

“Touching,” Catherine replied flatly. “Do collapse somewhere else.”

He studied her for a long moment, then sighed and sat, carefully, on the opposite armchair, as if approaching a feral animal with a doctorate.

“I don’t remember everything,” he said quietly. “Just… flashes. You biting my nose. Later… you with your rosy cheeks, glaring at me like I personally invented disappointment.” His voice softened, traitorously. “And you—calling me insufferable before you could even pronounce it properly.”

“…and still… I remember how I wanted to have your attention all the time…” That was the light version. He could feel how happy he was that she was to be his wife in the future.

She didn’t look at him. If she did, she might throw something. Or worse… believe him.

Childhood memories meant nothing. Not when adulthood had been a battlefield soaked in her blood.

Silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Intimate. Infuriating.

Then Maximilian cleared his throat, cowardly retreating into practicality. “You’ve been awake for… what, twenty hours?” His gaze flicked to her dress. “Do you need a change of clothes?”

She finally looked at him.

“That dress,” he added gently, “looks uncomfortable to sleep in.”

“Stop this,” she snapped, teeth clenched. “Stop this pretense. Just tell me what you want and let me go.”

Something broke in him.

Maximilian growled and clutched his chest. “Please…” he gasped. “I can’t bear… this pain…”

“Then let me go!” she shouted. Being near him felt like reopening old wounds with bare hands.

“I am not holding you,” he shot back. “I can walk away—but then you would be the one hurting. And I will not allow that.”

His tall frame was crumpled into the armchair, breath ragged, pain etched too deeply to fake.

And damn it… His words… those traitorous things, slid over her anger like balm.

Her fury ebbed despite herself.

He lifted his head, strength creeping back into his gaze. “What…” he asked hoarsely. “What did I do to you? We got married, didn’t we? It was political; it should have happened. How did I hurt you?”

Catherine’s lips trembled. She tilted her head back, swallowing tears.

And he grunted, clutching his chest as if her pain echoed inside him.

“A lot,” she whispered. “You ruined me.”

Maximilian stared at her, panting like a man drowning on dry land, fingers digging into his heart as if trying to pull the truth out by force.

“Maybe you deserve this pain, Maximulus,” she said cruelly.

“Maybe…” he murmured.

He almost smiled at that—almost. She had twisted his name with surgical precision, turning Maximilian into the smallest Max

. A childish pun. A lethal one.

And he noticed, distantly, painfully, that she had never once called him by his real name. Not even now.

Smart. Dangerous.

Maximilian released a long breath. Catherine flopped onto the couch with her back to him, rigid with defiance… and then, impossibly, exhaustion claimed her. Sleep took her like a thief.

The moment it did, his lungs finally remembered how to work.

He rose quietly, draped a blanket over her, and sat there watching, unable to reconcile the reality of her presence. Here. In his home. Asleep. Vulnerable. Alive.

Rain began to fall against the windows.

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

No thunder. No lightning.

Still, her body stiffened.

Pain bloomed in his chest, familiar and vicious.

“I ruined you, huh?” he whispered, moving to her side, lowering himself carefully beside her.

“Lalla, lalla, dormi, parve,

Sol te fovet inter arva.

Lalla, lalla, claude lumina,

Mater vigilat sub luna…

Crastino mane, sol redibit,

Mala rubra de ramis cadent.

Tu leges, tu ridebis,

Dormi nunc, cor meum, dormi…”

He sang softly, the words curling low through the room. He hesitated, then gently rubbed her earlobe as he sang, the way he had once seen her mother do. And slowly… mercifully… her breathing eased.

He leaned close, voice barely there.

“Dream of the orchards, Katerina,” he murmured. “I’ll bear your pain from now on.”

His eyes closed.

“After all,” he whispered, “I do deserve it.”

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