"Even Devils Belong to Someone

Isabella stood silently at Anne's bedside, her fingers gently smoothing a wrinkle on the blanket. The child had finally succumbed to sleep after what felt like an endless hour of trembling sobs and frightened murmurs. A heavy sigh escaped Isabella's lips—more a release than a breath—as her mind returned to the night before: the burns, the bruises, the grotesque map of pain etched across Olivia's skin.

She was still lost in that harrowing image when the door behind her creaked open without a knock. Startled, she turned her head slightly, just enough to recognize him. Their eyes met for only a second before she instinctively lowered hers, pretending to be entirely focused on the sleeping child.

He approached quietly, his footsteps muffled on the carpet, and then—without warning—he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.

"Let's go to the next room. I need to speak with you."

His tone was low. Not cold, but firm—urgent, even. Something in it made her throat tighten as she swallowed hard, anxiety already rising in her chest. He wasn't usually like this. Whatever it was, it wasn't casual.

Without a word, she followed him into the adjacent room. It was dimly lit, the fireplace reduced to a few glowing embers. He didn't offer her a seat. Instead, he dropped onto the couch, elbows on knees, hands clasped together as he stared at the floor. Silence pulsed between them like a drumbeat.

Then he spoke, each word heavy, deliberate.

"What were you doing in Olivia's room last night?"

The question sliced through her like a blade. A shiver traced her spine. Her lips parted, but nothing coherent came out.

"I... I was just trying to help with Anne. You saw how she was—"

"She has her own maid," he interrupted, his voice laced with disbelief. "Why did you need to be there?"

She hesitated. There were answers, perhaps, but none she could speak aloud. So she said nothing.

Seconds stretched.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flashing with a restrained fury that now boiled to the surface. His voice rose, sharp with anger.

"For God's sake, Isabella! Why were you there? Why were you sleeping in her bed? Do you have any idea what this looks like?"

Her shoulders stiffened.

"You're making it sound like I—like I was in bed with a man!"

"And how should I make it sound?!" he thundered, slamming his fist down on the table. The sound made her flinch.

"My mother is dead," he said, voice trembling now—not with fear, but with the weight of something darker. Grief. Fury. "She was murdered. And that means the killer walked freely through this house last night. Through these halls. Past those rooms. And you—"you—chose to stay with the one person I cannot account for?"

His chest rose and fell in rapid succession.

"Do you think me a fool? The physician said her injuries—her body—it looks like someone beat her. Not days ago. Last night." His eyes bored into hers, seeking truth, seeking betrayal.

"What happened, Isabella?" His voice dropped, almost a whisper now, but far more dangerous. "What in God's name happened last night?"

She stood frozen, heart racing, a thousand answers colliding at once—yet none that would quench the fire in his eyes.

"What?" she gasped, her eyes wide with disbelief. "I don't know what you're talking about. And—what doctor?"

He let out a sharp, joyless laugh. "Ah, of course. I forgot—you're always the last to know." He folded his arms and leaned against the edge of the fireplace, his tone suddenly mocking. "That lunatic and my brother had some kind of screaming match this morning. He accused her—Olivia—of killing our mother. And from what I've heard, she tried to kill herself afterward. Or something close enough."

She stared at him, horror creeping into every line of her face. Her voice was barely more than a breath.

"What did you just say? Olivia… tried to take her own life? And he—he accused her of murdering his mother?"

He arched an eyebrow, clearly unmoved by her reaction. "Strange. Normally, you'd brush off this kind of drama like it was beneath you. And now? You're shaken to your core because she might have tried something stupid?"

Isabella took a step toward him, her composure unraveling with every second. Her voice cracked with restrained rage.

"I was with her all night. You know she didn't do it. You've seen how hard she's trying—trying to be better, to change."

He met her fury with an infuriating calmness. "I know she didn't do it. But that's not the point right now."

Her tears came suddenly, not from weakness, but from a depth of betrayal that words could barely contain. Her eyes burned as she stared at him, fists clenched at her sides.

"You knew. You knew she didn't do it. And you still let your brother tear into her. You stood there and let all of this happen. What does that make you, then? A coward? A monster?"

He was stunned. It was the first time he had ever seen her like this—her mask shattered, her voice raw, her eyes alive with more than indifference. She had always been so composed, so quietly detached from everything. But now? Now she was fire and fury and tears.

He looked away for a moment, then slowly met her gaze again, softer this time, almost human.

"I didn't know it would go that far," he said quietly. "I didn't think…" He exhaled, then shook his head, as if trying to clear the fog of guilt and confusion.

"I lost my mother today," he whispered. "And instead of being allowed to grieve, I'm standing here being blamed—as if I haven't lost enough."

Isabella looked at him, her heart softening as the truth finally struck her—his mother had died today.

In the flurry of emotions, accusations, and confusion, she had lost sight of that one unshakable fact. No matter how disappointed she had been in his silence, no matter how angry she had been at his lack of action… he wasn't the one who had made the decision. She had chosen to go to Olivia. She had chosen to care.

And he… had simply grieved in silence.

Her eyes lowered, filled now with remorse. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, tinged with guilt.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said earlier. It's just…" she hesitated, "I don't like the thought of someone I know dying. I couldn't bear it."

He turned his gaze away, staring blankly at the flickering shadows on the far wall. His voice came low and steady.

"It's fine." A pause. Then: "She wasn't… kind. Not exactly. But she never hurt me, not directly. Most of her wrath was reserved for the servants." He gave a short, hollow laugh. "Still, I can't deny she gave my mother something no one else could have—a final moment with her daughter."

His words carried no bitterness, only the numb weight of grief.

Isabella moved closer, lowering herself onto the couch beside him. She reached out and gently took his hand in hers, her thumb tracing over his knuckles.

"Leon…" she said softly, "I just wanted to ask… are you okay?"

The question barely left her lips before his arms wrapped around her. He pulled her into a sudden, fierce embrace, so tight it nearly knocked the breath from her lungs.

She froze at first, stunned by the unexpected vulnerability. But then she wrapped her arms around him in return, holding him as though she could keep the world from falling apart.

His voice cracked against her shoulder.

"She wasn't the best mother. I always felt like I was the stepson, not Matthew. Like I didn't quite belong in her world." He took a trembling breath. "But she was still my mother. And now she's gone. I've lost her. She's gone."

His words came haltingly, each one pulling tighter at the knot in his chest. He had never been one to cry. Even as a child, tears seemed foreign to him. But now… now his grief came not in sobs, but in the desperate, almost crushing way he clung to Isabella—as if she were the last solid thing in a world slipping through his fingers.

And she didn't move. She didn't speak.

She simply held him, becoming the shelter he didn't know he needed.

In that moment, neither of them cared about the tangled past or the chaos waiting just beyond the door.

There was only sorrow.

And the quiet, fragile act of sharing it.

On the other side of the estate, in a dim room thick with silence, Matthias sat across from Olivia. His shoulders were slumped, his suit wrinkled, the faintest red smudges lingering beneath his exhausted eyes like dying embers. The man before her was not the cold strategist she had come to know—but someone unraveling.

Olivia studied him in silence, her gaze tracing the lines of fatigue etched into his face. She knew this look well—it was the expression of a man standing at the edge of collapse. The weight he bore tonight was more than grief—it was suspicion, betrayal, helplessness.

When he finally spoke, his voice came low, nearly swallowed by the hush between them. The words seemed to drift away as he said them, as though part of him wasn't ready to let them go.

"I'm not going to put you in prison... whether you did it or not."

Olivia blinked. "What?"

He didn't flinch. His eyes remained locked on some distant point just beyond her shoulder.

"I don't care if you killed her," he said, his tone strangely calm. "Even if every soul in this house turns their fingers toward you, even if the evidence stacks high as the walls—I could never send you away." He paused, breathing unevenly. "I wouldn't do that to you. But why, Olivia?" His voice cracked, and for a brief second, his pain flickered through. "Why did you do it? Why did you hurt yourself like that?"

His eyes, so rarely expressive, now glistened with the sheen of unshed tears.

She turned her face away, biting down on the wave rising in her chest. But her answer came cloaked in a smirk—a poor mask, one they both saw through.

"What's this? Are you planning to let your mother's murderer walk free in your palace?"

His answer came without pause, sharper than she expected.

"Yes. Even if you had done it... I wouldn't care. I just—" he hesitated, looking as if he was battling his own thoughts. "I just wanted a damn answer. But you… you swallowed poison like it was nothing. As if your life meant nothing to you." He shook his head, disbelief and anguish mingling in his voice. "Maybe we aren't in love, Olivia. Maybe we never were. But you've ensnared me all the same. Even if you were the devil herself… you're still family. My family."

His words hit her harder than any accusation ever could.

"Matthias…" she whispered, voice trembling, "are you drunk?"

A crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "And if I am?"

She chuckled softly, wiping at the corner of her eye before it could betray her. "If you were sober, we'd be arguing right now. You always reveal your other self when you've had too much to drink."

She lifted her hand, beckoning him gently. "Come here."

He hesitated, brows knitting together in confusion—but obeyed.

As he neared, she reached for him and pulled him into her arms. Without resistance, he let her guide him until his head came to rest against her lap. Her fingers moved gently into his hair as his breathing slowed.

"What do you think you're doing?" he mumbled, almost defensively.

"Holding what's left of you together," she murmured. "Just for tonight."

He didn't answer—not with words. But the way his hand clutched the edge of her dress, the way he let himself break just a little more in her embrace, said everything.

In that fragile moment, no questions remained. No accusations. No masks.

Only two broken people, clinging to the softness they had once thought themselves unworthy of.

The silence between them stretched, tender but trembling, like a fragile bridge suspended over chaos. Olivia's hand moved slowly through Matthias's hair, and for a while, neither of them said anything. The fire crackled faintly in the hearth, casting their shadows on the floor like old ghosts returning to watch.

Matthias closed his eyes.

"You know," he whispered, "when I was a child… I used to imagine my mother's love like a ledger. Every time I did something wrong, I believed she just drew a little mark against my name. Eventually, I stopped trying."

Olivia said nothing, but her touch softened.

"I think that's why I can't hate you," he continued. "You were always honest in your cruelty. You never pretended to love me, but you never pretended to hate me either."

Her fingers paused.

"That's a strange thing to say," she murmured, "especially now."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Well, it's a strange night."

She looked down at him, brushing a lock of his dark hair behind his ear. "You said I'm your family. But you do realize families can still destroy each other."

"I'm aware," he muttered.

"And yet you still want to protect me?"

His eyes opened, and for once, there was no mask in them—no calculation, no bitterness. Just exhaustion… and something dangerously close to affection.

"I don't know what I want," he admitted. "But I know I don't want you dead. And I know I don't want to lose you—not to guilt, not to poison, not to the cold judgment of everyone else in this cursed house."

He sat up slowly, lifting himself from her lap, but their hands remained loosely entwined.

"I keep asking myself," he said, voice quieter now, "who killed her? Who hated her enough to do it? And the truth is…" He shook his head. "I think I'm terrified that I already know."

Olivia's breath caught.

There it was—the shadow between them returning, thick and cold.

"You think it was me," she said, not a question, but a confession.

He looked at her. And for a moment, he didn't answer.

"I think it could've been anyone," he said finally. "That's the worst part. This place, this family… everyone has their secrets. And everyone has a reason to bury the truth."

She stood, letting his hand fall from hers.

"So what now?"

He leaned back, his voice almost too soft to hear.

"Now… we wait. And watch. And pray the truth doesn't ruin what little is left of us."

Olivia lingered a moment longer, her silhouette outlined by the firelight, then turned toward the door. But before she stepped out, she said over her shoulder:

"You may not believe me, Matthias. But I didn't kill her. I swear it."

He didn't move. Didn't speak.

But after the door closed behind her, his hand slowly rose to his lips—where the bitter taste of wine had long faded—leaving only the ghost of her presence, and a question that refused to die.