Chapter 22

Viktor strode through the dimly lit corridors of the palace, his heavy boots echoing against the stone. His steps were deliberate, his expression cold. The sharp scent of blood still clung to him from the battlefield, mixing with the faint, perfumed air of the castle halls. When he reached Sofia's chambers, he paused for a moment before pushing the door open without ceremony.

Inside, Sofia lounged upon a plush chaise draped in silken fabrics, her long, dark hair cascading over one shoulder. Servants knelt at her feet, one carefully cleaning her toes while another painted her nails a deep crimson. She glanced up at Viktor's entrance, her expression one of mild boredom that turned into a practiced smile.

"My lord," she greeted, her voice soft, lilting. "You honor me with your presence."

Viktor said nothing, his gaze sweeping the room. Without acknowledging her further, he strode toward the bathing chamber. Sofia's eyes narrowed slightly, but she maintained her composure, dismissing the servants with a wave of her hand.

"Leave us," she commanded, her tone sharp. The servants scrambled to obey, gathering their tools and slipping silently from the room.

By the time Sofia rose from her seat and followed, Viktor was already sinking into the steaming bath. He leaned back against the edge, closing his eyes as the hot water soothed his battered body.

Sofia lingered in the doorway for a moment, her dark eyes studying him. "You might have spoken a word upon entering," she said, her tone teasing but edged with irritation.

Viktor opened his eyes, his expression stony. "I did not come here to exchange pleasantries."

Sofia arched a brow, her lips curving into a sly smile. She moved closer, her gown whispering against the floor. "As you wish, my lord," she murmured, lowering herself gracefully onto a stool beside the bath.

The silence stretched between them as Viktor finished his bath. When he finally rose, water streaming from his broad shoulders and muscular frame, Sofia didn't look away. Instead, she leaned back slightly, her gaze lingering on the scars and bruises that marred his skin.

"Fetch the ointment," she called over her shoulder. A maid appeared moments later, bowing low before handing her a small jar of salve.

Sofia waved the girl away before turning back to Viktor, who had wrapped a towel loosely around his waist. He stood near the fire now, his back to her as he rubbed at his damp hair with another cloth.

"Come," she said, her tone soft but commanding. "Sit, and let me tend to you."

Viktor hesitated for a moment before lowering himself onto a chair by the hearth. Sofia approached with the ointment, her movements slow and deliberate. She knelt beside him, dipping her fingers into the jar and warming the salve between her palms.

Her touch was gentle as she began to apply the ointment to the worst of his bruises. "You fight like a madman," she said quietly, her fingers moving over his shoulder. "Do you ever consider that the kingdom needs you alive?"

He grunted in response, his jaw tight.

Sofia's lips twitched into a faint smirk, but she didn't press him further on the matter. Instead, her hands worked deftly, moving to a cut near his ribs. As she worked, her tone grew more conversational.

"You've been avoiding her, you know."

Viktor's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"Your new bride," Sofia continued, her voice dripping with feigned innocence.

He stiffened under her touch, his hands clenching into fists.

"Have you not yet bedded her?" she asked, her tone turning playful. "It is quite the scandal, you know. The court whispers about it endlessly."

Viktor's voice was low and strained when he finally spoke. "Leave it."

But Sofia, undeterred, leaned closer. Her fingers lingered on his skin as her lips curved into a seductive smile. "Why should I leave it? It is my concern as your wife-your 'first' wife."

Viktor turned his head sharply, his gaze cold as steel. "I have no patience for this tonight, Sofia."

Her expression hardened, though her hands remained steady. "No patience, you say?" she repeated, her tone bitter. "Is it patience you lack, or desire? Have I become so unworthy of your attention?"

He rose abruptly, pushing her hand away as he turned to face her fully. The towel hung low on his hips, his broad chest heaving with restrained anger.

But Sofia rose as well, stepping closer until she was mere inches from him. Her eyes burned with fury as she grabbed his forearm, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Do not insult me, Viktor," she hissed.

He tried to pull away, but her grip tightened. "You think me blind?" she demanded. "You barely touch me anymore, and now you insult me."

"I am your wife. I bear your name, your titles, your burdens-and for what? To be cast aside?"  She continued.

Viktor's face twisted with frustration as he wrenched his arm free. "What would you have me say?" he barked, his voice echoing through the chamber. "That I find joy in bedding a woman who will not bear me a child?."

Sofia recoiled slightly, her eyes widening. For a moment, the room was deathly silent, save for the crackling of the fire.

"I have endured much for you, Viktor," Sofia continued, her tone colder now. "But I will not endure this."

---

Amelia stirred awake, her body stiff and aching from sleeping on the cold floor. She blinked against the faint light filtering through the curtains, her senses groggy and disoriented. The air in the room was cool, carrying a quiet stillness that felt oppressive. Pushing herself up, she glanced toward the window.

The morning light crept hesitantly over the horizon, casting a muted glow across the stone walls of her chambers. The view outside was gray and lifeless, the garden below shrouded in mist. Dew clung to the edges of the leaves, glinting faintly in the weak light. Beyond the garden, the distant outline of the forest stood like a wall of shadows.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open. Two maids entered, their heads bowed, their movements efficient and practiced. They said nothing as they began their tasks-one tidying the room, the other bringing out a fresh gown of soft lavender. Amelia stood silently as they approached, their hands gentle yet mechanical as they removed her wrinkled dress and guided her into the new one. The fabric felt foreign against her skin, its finery an unwelcome reminder of her station.

A tray of food was set on the table, laden with an assortment of bread, fruit, and warm tea. Amelia's stomach churned at the sight, the thought of eating making her queasy. She ignored it, her gaze fixed on the window once more.

The maids had just finished adjusting her hair when the door opened again. This time, a guard stepped in, his face as impassive as stone. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his armor polished and imposing. His cold eyes swept over her briefly before settling into a blank stare.

"The king commands your presence," he said, his voice clipped and formal.

Amelia froze, her hands clutching the folds of her gown. Her breath hitched at the mention of Malcolm.

What could he want from me now? she thought, panic blooming in her chest. She didn't want to see him. She didn't want to see anyone. Her life had spiraled into a nightmare because of him.

She looked up at the guard, her lips trembling. "Why?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The guard didn't respond. His expression didn't waver, his gaze fixed and unyielding.

She stood slowly, smoothing her gown as she did. The weight of inevitability bore down on her as she followed him out of the room.

The walk through the palace was silent and heavy, the guard's boots echoing against the marble floors with each step. The walls were lined with ornate tapestries and gilded frames holding portraits of long-dead nobles. Amelia kept her head down, her fingers twisting nervously.

The air grew colder as they moved deeper into the palace, the familiar warmth of the upper halls replaced by a chilling draft. It was as if the stone itself absorbed the life around it, leaving nothing but an oppressive stillness.

They stopped in front of a set of large, dark wooden doors. Intricate carvings of swirling vines and predatory beasts decorated the surface, their craftsmanship both beautiful and unnerving. The handles were shaped like snarling wolves, their teeth gleaming in the dim light.

Amelia's heart sank. Why is he taking me to Malcolm's chambers?

The guard opened one of the doors with a deliberate slowness, revealing the room beyond. It was grand but stark, its opulence muted by an underlying sense of cold detachment. A large piano dominated one corner, its black lacquered surface gleaming under the light of a chandelier. The room smelled faintly of leather and ink, with the faintest trace of something metallic lingering in the air.

Malcolm sat at the piano, his fingers moving across the keys with precision. The melody was haunting, each note resonating with a deep melancholy that seemed to fill the space. He didn't look up as they entered, his focus entirely on the music.

"Leave us," he said without turning, his voice low but commanding.

The guard hesitated, his face briefly twisting in an expression of disgust before it was smoothed away. He inclined his head and stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Amelia remained where she was, her feet rooted to the floor. Malcolm continued to play, his back to her, his posture relaxed yet imposing.

"Come here," he said, his tone sharp and expectant.

Amelia froze, her breath catching in her throat.

"Amelia," Malcolm repeated, his voice harder now. "Come here."

Swallowing her fear, she moved forward, each step feeling heavier than the last. She stopped a few paces from the piano, unsure of what to do.

"Sit," he instructed, nodding toward the bench beside him.

She hesitated but obeyed, perching on the edge of the bench like a child awaiting reprimand.

Malcolm continued playing for a moment before his fingers stilled. He turned his head to look at her, his dark eyes scanning her face with an intensity that made her stomach churn.

"Do you remember this piece?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft.

Amelia nodded hesitantly, her mind flashing back to their childhood. He had taught her this melody long ago, his hands guiding hers across the keys. It had been one of the few moments of warmth she associated with him.

"Good," he said, the word sending an unexpected warmth through her chest.

Malcolm reached for her hand, his touch firm but not unkind. He guided her fingers to the keys, his gaze never leaving her. "Play," he said simply.

Amelia's hands trembled as they hovered over the piano. It had been so long since she'd played, so long since her fingers had danced across these keys. But as she began to press them, the melody came back to her, familiar and comforting.

Her body relaxed, her mind easing with each note. The music flowed through her, pushing away the tension and fear that had gripped her moments before. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt a faint smile tug at her lips.

Malcolm's hand moved to her braid, his fingers brushing it aside to reveal the curve of her neck. His touch was deliberate, his movements slow as his gaze lingered on her.

Amelia finished the piece, her hands stilling on the keys.

"Good girl," Malcolm said, his voice low and approving.

The words sent a strange warmth through her, unexpected and unsettling. It had been so long since anyone had praised her, so long since anyone had shown her any kind of approval.

But there was something in his tone, in the way his eyes lingered on her, that made her stomach twist in a way she couldn't quite place.