Inner Storm ❧

Merrick was a storm unleashed.

He tore through the silent halls of his estate with blistering speed, a phantom of fury that left nothing in his wake but a breathless vacuum and the sharp whistle of disturbed air. His vision burned red with rage, his hearing narrowed to the rhythmic thump of a single heartbeat—the mark of his quarry. A single human, he could sense it from anywhere on the estate. The castle, bathed in the wan light of the approaching dawn, seemed to tremble beneath the weight of his wrath.

Servants pressed themselves flat against the stone walls as the tempest of their king passed them by, none daring to breathe too loudly, lest they draw his eye. They knew better. They had seen him in these humors before—though never, never with such a poisonous chill threading through his presence.

Merrick searched floor by floor, wing by wing, his senses fanning out like sharpened knives, slicing through the lingering scents of candle smoke, bloodwine, perfume, parchment, and flesh. And then—he caught it. A faint, familiar trace. The scent of lavender soap, worn linen, and trembling fear.

Lydia.

His pupils narrowed, vision sharpening until the hallway ahead seemed to slow. There she was—moving like a ghost of herself, her head bowed, clutching a worn apron to her chest. Her feet dragged with exhaustion, her shift long over, the burdens of the night written in every weary step. The sunlight had begun its timid crawl through the sky.

She thought she was safe now. She thought the worst had passed. The princess and her King were in good spirits, and by the look on his face when leaving her chambers, he was even more taken than she. It warmed her heart to know that after all these years their king might actually find love with the girl, instead of only winning her love for his own conscience's sake.

Foolish woman.

In a heartbeat, he closed the distance.

Lydia barely had time to gasp before the world around her blurred. Air was stolen from her lungs as an iron grip seized her, dragging her into motion faster than her mind could comprehend. Her feet never touched the ground. Her vision spun. And when it finally stopped, she was thrust into a dark, empty chamber—the heavy door slamming shut behind them like the jaws of a great beast.

The shock paralyzed her.

The dim light filtering through the chamber revealed nothing but bare stone walls, a barren hearth, and a single broken chair tipped on its side in the corner. There was nowhere to run. No one to hear her scream.

Lydia's breath hitched in her throat as she turned, her back pressing to the door, eyes wide as dinner plates. She could feel him—feel his presence swelling like a monstrous tide in the narrow confines of the room. Her stomach twisted as the familiar sensation of something ancient, something predatory, crept over her skin like icy tendrils.

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

And then— nothing.

No sound. No breath. No movement.

He didn't advance. He didn't speak.

He waited.

Tears welled in Lydia's eyes, spilling down her cheeks in silent streams as the crushing truth of her predicament settled like lead in her gut. She knew the rules. She knew the price of betrayal. She had served in this household long enough to understand the delicate balance of survival—and she had crossed a line she could never uncross.

Her knees buckled, folding beneath her as she collapsed to the floor. Her forehead pressed to the cold stone, shoulders shaking as she surrendered fully.

"Please—" she whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling like dry leaves in winter. "Please, my lord— have mercy."

The silence stretched, suffocating.

"I beg you," Lydia choked out, pressing her trembling palms to the ground before her. "Spare me— I did not mean to offend— I only sought to protect her— I beg you— please—"

Her tears spilled freely now, darkening the stone beneath her cheek. She did not dare lift her head. She did not dare breathe too loudly. She had seen others—too many others—reduced to little more than stains on these very floors when they had displeased their king.

And yet, none had struck so deep a wound as the transgression she had allowed to unfold beneath her watch.

The weight of his gaze bore down on her like a crushing mountain, stealing the breath from her lungs. She knew he stood just beyond her line of sight, looming, calculating, deciding whether she would leave this chamber alive.

She had never felt closer to death.

The air in the room seemed to grow colder as Merrick's heavy boots crept forward in a slow, deliberate pace. Lydia remained frozen on the floor, her trembling hands pressed flat against the cold stone. The eerie silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Merrick stood just behind her, looming like the shadow of death itself. His voice, when it finally came, was silk laced with steel—low, commanding, and full of a terrible promise.

"Think long before you speak," he warned darkly, his voice curling around her like a noose tightening at her throat. "And choose your next words with care. If I am not satisfied—" He leaned down, his breath cold as ice against the shell of her ear.

"I don't think I need to tell you. I can simply compel the truth from you, but I am doing you the simple courtesy, with the expectation that the simple show of kindness will be reciprocated by showing the bare minimum of respect in return, with an honest tongue that dares not to insult my intelligence with falsehoods, instead speak truth to your king, as this much at least I am deserving of not owed by you."

Lydia flinched, a choked whimper catching in her throat.

"And if I find even a hint of deception," Merrick growled, his fangs flashing as his temper coiled tighter, "it will be your end."

Lydia swallowed hard, sobbing softly as she nodded, never daring to raise her head from the floor. Her voice cracked as she whispered, "Y-yes, my lord— I understand."

Merrick stepped back, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Did she feed from the human slave, Lydia? Did the princess consume the blood of Donovan Crossoux?"

Lydia's whole body shuddered, a sob tearing from her lips before she could stop it. Through her tears, she gasped, "Y-yes, my lord— she did."