Marianne's eyes narrowed as she spotted them—Lord Azrael, standing too close to Evelyn, his hand wrapped around hers. A quiet, unfamiliar anger curled in her chest, but she smoothed her expression before it could show.
She didn't wait. She strode forward, her movements graceful, controlled. "Lord Azrael." Her voice was silk, her smile polite. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything… important."
Azrael merely glanced at her, his golden eyes unreadable. Evelyn, however, stiffened.
Marianne let her gaze flick to their hands before turning back to Azrael with a serene smile. "If you'll excuse us, my Lord, we have duties to attend to."
Azrael released Evelyn's hand without protest.
Evelyn didn't argue either. She didn't even look at him as she followed Marianne through the corridor, her steps careful, her silence heavy.
Marianne waited until they were far enough before she spoke. "Since when did you start holding hands with other men?"
Evelyn sighed. "Marianne, don't start."
Marianne smirked, tilting her head. "Forgive me, I must have forgotten—you're a free woman, aren't you?" Her voice was sweet, mocking. "No husband, no vows, no duties."
Evelyn exhaled sharply. "I don't owe you an explanation."
"Oh, but you do," Marianne said, stepping in front of her, blocking her path. "Tell me, Evelyn, does Lord Lucifer know? Or does he simply not care what his wife does behind closed doors?"
Evelyn's jaw tightened. "Do I look like someone with a husband?"
Marianne chuckled darkly. "You look like someone who doesn't know where she belongs."
Evelyn's eyes flashed. "And you do?"
Silence.
For the first time, something wavered in Marianne's expression, but she quickly masked it. She glanced around, lowering her voice. "Let's leave."
Evelyn blinked. "What?"
"Let's run," Marianne said, voice firm. "Get out of this place before it's too late."
Evelyn frowned. "Too late for what?"
Marianne took a step closer, her voice urgent. "You think we'll survive here forever? You think they'll let us?" She shook her head. "This place, these people—they're going to kill us one day, Evelyn. And I don't plan on waiting around for it."
Evelyn stared at her, the weight of her words settling like a stone in her stomach.
Then, slowly, she shook her head. "No."
Marianne's lips parted slightly, as if she hadn't considered the possibility of refusal.
Evelyn inhaled deeply, steadying herself. "If we try to escape, we won't make it." Her voice was quiet but certain. "You know that."
Marianne's gaze darkened. "Well, at least I won't die kneeling."
The words cut deep, but Evelyn didn't react. She just watched as Marianne turned on her heel and walked away, her posture tense, her steps sharp.
A heavy silence settled between them.
For the first time, Evelyn wondered if she had been too harsh on Marianne.
But another part of her knew—Marianne wasn't angry because of Lord Azrael. She was angry because she was trapped, just like the rest of them.
Straightening her shoulders, Evelyn turned toward the King's wing. She had to reach him before he returned to his palace.
Evelyn stood among the maids, waiting in the King's wing. The air was heavy with silence, the only sound the faint rustle of fabric as they adjusted their postures. She kept her hands clasped, fingers curled inward as if to shield the missing one from sight. The memory of pain lingered, but she refused to acknowledge it.
The arrival of the King was announced. The maids bowed low as he passed, his presence commanding without a word. Only when the General returned did she lift her head.
"The King has sent for you," he said, his tone unreadable.
Evelyn followed in measured steps, heart steady. When she entered, the room was dimly lit, the weight of the day evident in the way he sat, shoulders tense. She did not need instruction. She poured his wine, her movements practiced, precise. The silence stretched between them, heavy but familiar.
She stepped behind him, letting down his silver hair. It cascaded like silk between her fingers as she lifted the comb. Slowly, she began brushing, the rhythmic motion soothing. The last time, she had hummed absentmindedly, and he had not stopped her. So she did again, soft and quiet, the melody barely above a whisper.
His shoulders eased.
She allowed herself the smallest glance at his reflection in the polished glass before her. His eyes were closed, but she knew he was aware of everything. When his hair brushed against her hand, a sharp pain shot through her, and the comb slipped from her grasp.
The clatter was deafening in the quiet room.
Evelyn froze. His eyes opened, gaze unreadable as he turned slightly toward her.
"Is the task too much?" His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it. Something she couldn't name.
She quickly hid her hand behind her back. "No, my Lord. It's nothing."
He did not respond immediately. Instead, his gaze dropped to where her fingers had been. The silence stretched, suffocating.
Then, without a word, he reached for her hand.
She stiffened, but did not pull away. He unwrapped the cloth carefully, revealing the wound beneath. The sight of it—bare, vulnerable—sent a flicker of something through his expression. He did not speak, but she knew. He already understood.
A moment passed, then a cool sensation wrapped around her skin. A quiet hum of magic, and then—her breath caught—the ache was gone. She looked down, and her pinky was whole once more.
Her lips parted, but no words came.
His fingers lingered briefly before he released her hand. "Continue," he said, as if nothing had happened.
Evelyn swallowed, picking up the comb again. Her hands were steady, but something in her chest was not.
Evelyn finished brushing his hair, placing the comb back where it belonged. As always, she prepared to leave—silent, unnoticed, like every other night.
But tonight was different.
"Sit."
Her heart stilled at the command. It was quiet, but firm. A touch of finality.
She turned, expecting to see him occupied, distracted. Instead, his golden eyes were on her, unwavering. He tapped his lap once, a deliberate gesture.
Her breath hitched. He wasn't talking to her. He couldn't be. And yet, the air between them thickened, charged with something she didn't know how to name.
"Here?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, uncertain.
He didn't repeat himself. He didn't need to.
Evelyn hesitated, but her body betrayed her before her mind could stop it. Slowly, carefully, she moved toward him. Each step made her pulse quicken, a dangerous rhythm echoing in her ears. When she was close enough, he reached out, fingers brushing against her wrist—light, yet searing.
Last night.
A fleeting memory. A scent that clung to her skin. The warmth that pressed against her in the dark. It had felt too real to be a dream.
Was it possible…?
She lowered herself onto his lap, careful not to meet his gaze. But he didn't let her keep the distance. One arm wrapped around her waist, firm but not forceful, while the other tilted her chin up—forcing her to look at him.
"Why do you look afraid?" His voice was deep, a whisper against her skin.
"I—" She swallowed hard, her pulse unsteady. "I'm not."
A lie. They both knew it.
His fingers traced the curve of her jaw, slow, deliberate. "You should be."
Her stomach flipped. A thrill, a warning—she couldn't tell which. The only thing she knew was that there was no escaping this. No escaping him.
And for the first time, she wasn't sure if she wanted to.