Chapter Five: Threat of a Husband
The moonlight poured silver across the floor of their chambers, painting sharp lines across the stone tiles. The silence between them was thick — not peaceful, but coiled, tense, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Cyrien stood by the window, arms crossed, his silhouette outlined by the glow. He didn't turn when he spoke.
"You smiled at the King. Flinched when the Queen praised you. Lied about the court, but not well."
Rhea, who'd just slipped out of her shoes near the bed, froze mid-motion. "I didn't lie—"
"You did," he said, not cruelly — just plainly. "You just don't realize it yet."
Only then did he face her, and the full weight of his gaze slammed into her like cold water.
"I don't know what you're hiding, Rhea. But I will find out."
She swallowed hard. "I'm not hiding anything."
He stepped forward.
Just one step. But it was enough to steal the air from her lungs.
"You wear secrets like perfume," he murmured. "Pretty. Faint. But not invisible."
She instinctively stepped back — a nervous, human reaction. But he didn't follow.
He simply watched her, every inch of him sharp and unreadable.
And then, something shifted.
He moved toward her suddenly — fast, but not threatening. His hand came up, brushing her jaw as his thumb grazed the corner of her lip. The touch was deliberate. Controlled. Dangerous.
"Even your mouth lies," he said quietly. "But your eyes… they haven't learned how yet."
His fingers trailed upward — not quite affectionate, but with the terrifying precision of someone who wanted to see how easily she'd tremble. And she did.
Her skin lit up like a spark had been dragged across it.
"Tell me something real," he whispered, his face inches from hers. "Just once."
Rhea's breath hitched. Her body felt too still, like it knew moving would shatter something fragile. Or provoke something lethal.
"I don't belong here," she whispered back, the words escaping before she could catch them.
A beat.
Something flickered across Cyrien's face — confusion? Understanding? Or suspicion deepening?
He leaned in closer. Their lips almost touched — not a kiss, but the ghost of one. Like he was testing if she'd flinch again.
She didn't.
"If you're truly her pawn…" he murmured, voice low as the night, "then I'll break you."
And just like that — the warmth vanished.
He stepped back.
Cold returned in a breath.
Without another word, he turned and crossed the room, opening the door wide before walking into the dark hallway beyond.
He didn't slam it. He didn't close it.
He left it open.
Like an unfinished sentence.
A silent warning.
Rhea stood there, her pulse drumming in her ears, her skin still humming where he'd touched her.
The moon had shifted by the time Rhea moved again.
The room was still. The door remained cracked open, as if Cyrien's presence lingered behind it. But the echo of his words—"I'll break you"—clung to the walls more stubbornly than the cold.
She paced, arms wrapped around herself, pulse still uneven. Her thoughts spun—about the Queen, about Cyrien, about the way her body responded to the briefest touch like she hadn't been touched in a hundred lifetimes.
But something else itched at her.
That book.
The one she'd fallen asleep reading… the one that had led her here.