CHAPTER 66: THE RADIANT GLOW

Cedric stared at the shifting shadow behind the archway, watching it pace...again... from one side to the other.

It was well past midday.

They had arrived at sunrise. Since then, the raunchy noises would rise and fall in waves. Each time they lulled, Cedric dared to hope it was over. And each time... it resumed. Fiercer. Longer. Louder.

He pressed his head to the stone railing of the stairwell and sighed into his palms. How long were they going to go on?

And more importantly... why was he still here? He should’ve fled hours ago. Far away from whatever that was.

He had endured torture. Real torture. Whippings. Endless drills. Sleep deprivation. But this? This was worse.

Finally... finally, the ordeal ended. The divine archway stirred, and from its shadows emerged the crown prince of Kaltharion.

His hair was tousled. His coat was wrinkled. His boots were barely laced. And yet...

He was glowing. Glowing like he had just conquered a war camp with nothing but a feather and a smirk.

No, worse. He looked rejuvenated. As if he had drunk every elixir known to man and still asked for more. And the scent around him...

Cedric didn’t want to know. He absolutely didn’t want to know.

He averted his eyes, heart pounding with secondhand shame. He had always seen his prince as a stoic, disciplined warrior. Unbending. Cold. Regal.

Not... whatever this beast of carnal appetite was.

He followed at a safe distance, stunned and disturbed, until they reached the carriage. It was then that Cedric noticed it.

"Your braid pin," he said, hesitantly. "You must’ve missed it back there."

That braid that was half-hanging from the prince’s left ear was sacred for him. Leroy never let a single knot unravel. He’d once halted an entire meeting of generals just because a single hair got out after a long battle.

But now... the pin was gone. Some of the knots had come loose. Cedric braced for an explosion. Surely the prince would rage. Rush back. Demand it back like a dragon missing a scale.

But instead... Leroy chuckled. Low. Dark. Like thunder rolling far away over the hills. "She must’ve taken it," he murmured, lips curving into something dangerously close to a fond smile.

Cedric nearly tripped over his own feet. She must’ve—?!

That wasn’t just any pin. It was uniquely crafted—an heirloom of the royal line. Everyone knew it belonged to the crown prince of Kaltharion.

And now it was in her hands?

Cedric’s stomach flipped.

"That’s... dangerous," he said, voice high. "We should get it back."

But Leroy was already walking ahead, humming. Humming. A happy, absurdly content tune.

Cedric stared after him, dumbfounded. "What has gotten into him...?"

And then he saw it. "Blood," Cedric muttered. "There’s blood on your coat."

Leroy paused, glanced down casually. "Hmm," he said, as if noticing a leaf on his shoulder. He peeled off the coat, folded it neatly, and resumed walking. Coatless. In his undershirt. Unbothered.

Cedric reached out instinctively. "I’ll send it for—"

Leroy gave him a look. Not a glare. Not a command. But something darker. Warning. Final.

Cedric pulled his hand back, heart thudding. He ignored the coat like it was a cursed relic and followed silently, pretending not to think about the blood. Or the pin.

Or the sounds from that room.

Or the divine woman who had clearly changed everything.

But deep down a bitterness developed in his heart as Zara’s face popped in his mind.

-----

"You look like you were ravaged by a beast!" Emma gasped, her voice shrill with disbelief as she stood at the edge of the bath.

Lorraine barely opened her eyes.

Steam curled off the surface of the scented water, mingling with the scent of oils and wildflowers. Her skin, usually pale with old scars, was littered with deep, blooming marks. Not teeth marks, no, but love bites and bruises, blooming like red violets down her neck, across her collarbone, trailing beneath the water’s edge. On anyone else, they might have looked romantic. On Lorraine, with her alabaster skin and noble frame, they looked like she had survived war.

Or worse... enjoyed one.

Sylvia’s hand shook as she rubbed the princess’s back with the soft sponge. Her touch was gentle, tentative, almost afraid to press harder, as if any more pressure would peel skin from bone. And perhaps, it might.

She remembered how she’d found Lorraine. She was crumpled on the floor of the divination chamber, loosely wrapped in her dress. Trembling. Too exhausted to speak, let alone stand. Her legs had buckled beneath her as if her very bones had been turned to water.

Sylvia had wrapped her in silence and shame, but the princess had only smiled. That smile unnerved her.

She wanted to scream.

Yes, maybe she had enjoyed it. But wasn’t it the man’s responsibility to be mindful? To have care? To understand the fragility of a woman’s body and soul before taking her like a storm?

Sylvia’s throat tightened. Her own past, her own suffering, spilled like ink into her mind. That beast of a husband had treated her body like property, like it was his to consume. To bruise. To take.

Were all men this way?

Did they all think they were owed pleasure simply because they had strength?

Anger simmered beneath her ribs. It burned bright and quietly, like embers stoked from old coals.

"I suppose," Lorraine drawled, leaning her head back against the tub’s porcelain edge, "a very ravenous one." She smiled languidly, like a cat stretched in the sun. "I enjoyed every moment of it."

Sylvia nearly dropped the sponge. Emma stood frozen, mouth ajar, staring as though she had glimpsed something sacred... or profane. Her wide eyes flicked to Sylvia, desperate for explanation, for context, for some anchor in a world that suddenly felt upside down.

But Sylvia simply waved her off, murmuring something vague about herbs and towels.

Emma fled, overwhelmed.

And Sylvia remained.

She watched as Lorraine exhaled with a sigh that sounded too much like contentment. Her eyes fluttered closed again. Her arms floated in the bath, fingertips barely peeking through the petals. The bruises on her collarbone, the faint marks beneath her throat—against her pale skin, they bloomed like nightshade.

She looked radiant. Untouched by shame. Like a woman newly blessed by the gods.

But Sylvia could not find that peace. She could not share in it. The scent of musk still clung to Lorraine’s skin—faint, but unmistakable. The bruises were not imagined. The silence that followed him, the cold echo of his presence, was real.

After accusing her of betraying him, after doubting her faithfulness, he had done that to her?

It couldn’t be a coincidence. He had punished her, hadn’t he? Claimed her as if to erase someone else from her skin.

Was he breaking her while she was too in love to notice?

Lorraine sighed again, her voice soft, dreamy. "He’s the most handsome man in the world... isn’t he?"

Sylvia didn’t answer.

Because all she could think was:

No amount of beauty should ever give a man the right to be a beast.

"Did he find out who you are?"