The kiss had burned through every shred of restraint I had left. His presence was magnetic, suffocating, and intoxicating all at once. My body moved with him before my mind had a chance to catch up, a jolt of instinct overriding all reason. The air between us was thick, saturated with heat and the unspoken tension that had been building for weeks, maybe months.
And then—enough.
A surge of raw, unfiltered emotion erupted inside me: anger, betrayal, hurt, and something primal I couldn't name. I lashed out—not with words, but with the only weapon I had within reach. My teeth clamped down on his lower lip. BITE. The metallic tang of blood stung my tongue and nose, and for a fleeting heartbeat, everything froze. His eyes widened, shock flickering across them before the haze of passion reclaimed his focus.
He exhaled sharply, a sound caught somewhere between a hiss and a groan. His grip loosened on my clothes, allowing a small space between us, yet the tension didn't dissipate. We hovered there, bodies nearly touching, breaths ragged and hearts hammering. Every inch of him radiated warmth, the heat that had already drawn me in, the same heat that now fueled the storm of my guilt and defiance.
When he spoke, it was as though nothing had happened, and that only made my anger spike. His voice was low, husky, teasing in a way that somehow mocked my own restraint. "Did you have a good trip?" he asked casually, as though we weren't lying in a tangled, charged heap on my bed. A tiny smirk tugged at his lips, and the faint smear of blood at the corner of his mouth only made him seem more infuriatingly untouchable.
I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to process the audacity. "And you're just going to ignore the fact that you left me waiting?" I spat, the words sharp, bitter, but somehow fragile underneath it all.
He tilted his head, those piercing eyes locking onto mine. "I didn't enjoy missing you," he admitted softly, his voice slipping into something more sincere, something that made the hardness in my chest tremble. "Waiting for you… it wasn't pleasant."
Relief warred with fury inside me. I wanted to push him away, to scream at him for leaving, for the silent absence that had left such a cold, hollow ache in me. But I couldn't deny the truth of my own longing. "You're speaking so sweetly… I missed you quite a bit too," I said flatly, though my eyes betrayed the simmering mix of relief and lingering anger.
Then the hurt returned with a vengeance. I leaned closer, chest tight, fists gripping the sheets under me, and let my voice rise, sharp with accusation. "And you're not in the wrong for leaving without a word?" The words stung, as much as they were meant to wound. "For this long… for making me wait, without even a single message?"
His gaze didn't falter. That infuriating, unreadable look of his—half-knowing, half-defiant—locked onto me. "You're one to talk," he countered coolly, as if reading my very thoughts. "You were planning to leave too. Without a word. For far longer than I ever would have."
I froze, the truth of his words stabbing into the rawest parts of me. And yet… the pain of being abandoned still burned. I leaned over him, pressing myself close but keeping just enough space to feel the tension between us. I let my chest rise and fall against his, accepting that he was right—but also refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing it entirely.
"I can understand why you couldn't tell me about it," I admitted quietly, voice threaded with bitterness and reluctant acceptance. "I know… the circumstances. But the end result is the same."
A shiver ran down my spine as the words hung between us, heavy and undeniable. The result was the same: the cold, empty, insidious weight of being left alone.
---
I loomed over him, my chest tight with frustration and fury. The remnants of our violent reunion lingered like smoke in the room—his blood, my teeth-marked lips, the charged, suffocating heat between us. His earlier words echoed in my mind, the accusation that I had been planning to leave him. They were true, and the sting of honesty burned sharper than any lie could.
"What are you trying to say?" he asked, voice low and calm, but under it simmered a latent edge I could feel.
I ignored him. There was only one command that mattered, one statement I had been fighting to assert above the chaos of passion and anger:
"Release Frederick."
For a moment, I thought I'd seen a flicker of surprise—or was it disappointment?—cross his face. His lips curved slightly, just enough to remind me of the arrogance I hated and yet couldn't look away from. "Hmm. Why should I?"
I pushed myself upright, settling on my knees above him, letting the authority in my voice anchor the room. My chest rose and fell rapidly, a mixture of fury and exhaustion fueling the words. The bite mark on his lip gleamed red in the dim light, a reminder of our collision moments ago, but he seemed almost unbothered.
"You know Frederick didn't kidnap me. I went to Flo Marina of my own volition," I pressed, each word sharp, cutting through the fog of desire and tension. "If you used Frederick to manipulate me into coming home… well, I'm home now. So let him go!"
He tilted his head, the expression of a wounded husband settling mockingly on his face. "Whether you left because you wanted to or someone forced you… my wife was with another man in a foreign country. Shouldn't I do my duty as your husband?"
The word duty slammed into me like a cold, hard fist. My jaw clenched. I could taste the remnants of our earlier violence, the metallic tang lingering, but nothing could mask the sharp pang of betrayal.
"Besides," he continued, calm and precise, "didn't the Artiazen police mention concerns about his residency that needed to be investigated?" The casual tone was chilling. He referenced legal bureaucracy as though he had orchestrated every step, every accusation, every thread pulling Frederick toward ruin.
My heart sank. My throat tightened. "How is Frederick an undocumented immigrant?! And why accuse him of kidnapping?" My voice broke, a mixture of fear, outrage, and desperation. "He'll be treated as a serious offender before they even start investigating!"
He didn't flinch. He stared at me, unreadable, yet I caught it—an almost imperceptible flicker of possessive jealousy.
"And what do you know about that man?" I challenged, my gaze sharp and unrelenting. The accusation cut deeper than any physical blow. My proximity, my words, the fire in my eyes—they seemed to provoke him more than any resistance I could muster.
He lunged, silencing me with another demanding kiss. I tasted blood again, the reminder of our earlier battle mingling with the rising tide of frustration and desire.
When he pulled back, I was the one speaking, determined, defiant. "What…? How confident are you? What do you know about him, really?"
I saw the words land, the flicker of doubt beneath the arrogant mask. He didn't know Frederick. Not fully. But he acted as if he had the absolute right to destroy him, as if my friend's life were a game he alone could control.
I stared down at him, exhausted by the fight, but unwilling to yield. "We may have been together every hour of every day once upon a time, but I still am a stranger to you."
My final question hung heavy, a silent accusation of our failed marriage. "Do you know anything about me other than my face and name?"
The question hit him, and for the first time, I saw a shift. Cold calculation replaced the anger in his eyes. His possessive heat retreated, replaced by something clinical, detached.
"You sound just like Frederick…" he remarked, voice losing the fervor of passion and becoming chillingly analytical. The comparison sent a shiver down my spine. Frederick had asked similar questions, probing the depths of honesty, demanding truth. The memory of Frederick's weary, burdened face flashed in my mind, sharp and fleeting.
Then his eyes hardened. The answer to my earlier question about Frederick hit me like a whip, precise and cutting.
"Frederick Bloom, 25 years old," he said, his tone as factual as reading from a dossier. "His full name is Frederick Calderan Maxter Bloom."
I froze. Every detail—the name, the age—was delivered with deadly accuracy.
"Do you know who he is, then?" I whispered, a pit forming in my stomach. The dread was tangible, curling into my chest.
He was silent for a heartbeat, letting the tension stretch, letting me writhe in uncertainty.
"Are you telling me that Frederick… actually isn't from Meuracevia?" I asked, desperation and fear coiling together.
His eyes lifted to the ceiling, indifferent, the weight of revelation in his voice. "He hails from the Republic of Buiterberg; formerly the Security Commander of the Republic, but now a fugitive."
The truth landed with the force of a physical blow. My world tilted. The name Buiterberg echoed in my mind, heavy and foreign. Fugitive. The word settled like lead in my stomach, dragging all air from my lungs.
He knew everything. Frederick wasn't just someone who had helped me; he was a man hunted by a nation, a former commander turned criminal in the eyes of governments. And my husband—this man who claimed love, who had just kissed me with fevered insistence—had used that secret with ruthless precision to bring me home.
The depth of our estrangement, the fragility of my trust, and the stark reality of political danger coalesced in that moment. I had asked if he knew anything about me beyond my face and name—but he had returned the challenge with devastating, undeniable consequences.
The word Buiterberg reverberated in my mind, echoing through the darkened room like a warning bell. I swallowed hard, grappling for context in the torrent of revelation.
"The Republic that Poet Natia Dali was from?" I asked, trying to anchor myself with a piece of knowledge, anything that could make sense of this political storm.
Memories flickered in quick, fragmented flashes—discussions, hushed whispers, news snippets. "As you suspected, Natia Dali wasn't from our kingdom," a man in the image had confirmed. "He emigrated from the Republic of Buiterberg several decades ago."
I remembered speaking then, uncertain but curious. "Oh… I heard people from that Republic come over to our kingdom from time to time. Frederick is from that Republic?"
Back in the bedroom, kneeling above him, the weight of his revelation pressed down on me. I whispered, voice trembling, "Republic, fugitive… what's all this about?"
He didn't answer immediately. The darkness around him seemed to thicken, bleeding red in my imagination, painting my fear in the colors of blood and dread.
"His code name is Black 9. Main areas of expertise: ferreting out spies, assassination, and torture," he said flatly, devoid of any emotion. "He is a notorious and highly skilled agent of the Republic's most central and secretive intelligence organization, B-ISA—their youngest ever hire."
Frederick. The gentle, quiet man I thought I knew—the one who had laughed softly and comforted me—shattered in my mind. My body recoiled as if struck, the shock forcing my hands to grip the sheets beneath me.
"It took me a long time to uncover this," he continued, tone disturbingly calm, "because the organization itself is so secretive that even high-ranking officials in the Republic often don't know it exists, let alone ordinary civilians." His lips twisted in a faint, cruel smile. "I still don't have all the details… but I learned enough to know he's not the kind of man who should be spending his days catering to your whims or washing your feet."
The weight of it hit me like a physical blow. I sank onto his chest, utterly defeated. DROP.
"You… knew from the start?" The words escaped me barely as a breath. The truth was unbearable. He had known. He had known the danger, the web of secrets, and yet he had allowed me to walk headlong into it—intervening only when his sense of ownership felt threatened.
My voice cracked as I spoke the question that cut through everything I had believed about Frederick. "So you knew Frederick came here because he was following someone's orders… and that he grew close to me for ulterior motives?"
The silence that followed was a confirmation I wasn't prepared for. I felt trapped, caught between two men, both dangerous, both manipulative, both seeing me as a target or a tool—one to control, the other to exploit. I had exchanged the deception of a political fugitive for the ruthless, possessive control of my husband.
"Hello, Serena."
I didn't move, lying back on the bed, chest tight with apprehension. "You're late," I said flatly, keeping my eyes on him as he leaned over me, the purple light glinting off his sharp features.
"You're impressive as always. You made me come home on my own without lifting a finger."
"Why. It makes me feel like I've lost, which is rather irksome," I said, voice steady despite the storm inside.
His presence pressed down, heavy, unyielding. His hand rose, gripping my jaw—a sharp, impatient assertion against the languid calm of his face. He kissed me, commanding, leaving me tensed, fists clenching the sheets. CLENCH. His forceful motion left me spinning, every movement pulling me further from control. He parted my closed lips, and I caught only a fleeting GLANCE at his face before the darkness swallowed me, and with a smooth, decisive SLIDE, he drew me closer. SLIDE.
A surge of raw emotion erupted. I bit down hard, tasting blood, a sharp protest in the midst of chaos. He released a HUFF of air, pausing briefly. I looked up to see the smear of red on his lip.
"Did you have a good trip?" he asked, then something softer crossed his face. "I didn't enjoy missing you, waiting for you to return."
"You're speaking so sweetly… I missed you quite a bit too," I admitted flatly, letting relief surface for a moment before anger eclipsed it. "And you're not in the wrong for leaving without a word? For this long, without contacting me at all?"
He leaned back, unconcerned. "You're one to talk. You were planning to leave me too. Without a word. For a very long time."
I forced myself to breathe, regaining control. "I can understand why you couldn't tell me about it, but the end result is the same. Release Frederick."
"Hmm. Why should I?"
"You know Frederick didn't kidnap me. I went to Flo Marina of my own volition. If you used Frederick to get me home… well, I'm home now. So let him go!"
His expression hardened. "Whether you left because you wanted to or someone forced you… my wife was with another man in a foreign country. Shouldn't I do my duty as your husband? Besides, didn't the Artiazen police mention concerns regarding his residency?"
"How is Frederick an undocumented immigrant?! And why accuse him of kidnapping? He'll be treated as a serious offender before they even start investigating him!" My voice rose, shaking.
"And what do you know about that man?" he cut me off with another kiss.
"What…?" I asked once he pulled back. "How confident are you? What do you know about him, really?"
"We may have been together every hour of every day once upon a time, but I still am a stranger to you. Do you know anything about me other than my face and name?"
His reply was chillingly precise: "Frederick Bloom, 25 years old. Full name: Frederick Calderan Maxter Bloom."
"Do you know who he is, then? Are you telling me that Frederick… actually isn't from Meuracevia?"
"He hails from the Republic of Buiterberg; formerly the Security Commander of the Republic, now a fugitive."
DU DUN. My world dissolved around me.
The weight of realization crushed me from within, folding me into myself. "I wonder if there are more truths left for me to discover," I whispered, my voice catching, almost strangled by the shame swelling in my chest. My gaze fell, tracing the floor beneath me as if I could vanish into it. "What a fool I must have seemed to you."
I thought back to the desperation that had driven me, the frantic need to protect myself from a danger I barely understood. "In an effort to protect myself from someone I thought was dangerous, I attached myself to a far more dangerous individual," I admitted inwardly, each word a jagged shard cutting through my sense of control. Now, the true depth of the lies and manipulations unfolded before me like a cruel tapestry.
I lifted my eyes to meet his, those intense, piercing blue orbs glowing in the dim light. I needed clarity. He had seemed so casual, so nonchalant about everything—letting it all happen, claiming he had merely observed, permitted.
"I never thought of you that way," he said, voice clipped and precise, confirming my worst suspicions. "We may have been indifferent to one another back then. I wouldn't have allowed him anywhere near you without looking into his background."
He leaned closer, the weight of truth slicing through the room, sharp and cold. "I simply let him be because you needed him back then, and having him there worked out better for me too."
Memories surged, black-and-white fragments of a different time. He looked down at me, expression grave. "Serena, the secret agent of a republic approaching the Serenity family is a big deal," he had said.
I remembered catching glimpses of them from my window, a hidden observer in my own life. "I would catch glimpses of you and Frederick outside my window from time to time," I murmured to myself, the recollection biting sharp.
He continued, explaining the reason behind his vigilance. "I needed to keep a close eye on him in order to find out…" My mind filled with the two men, one who had seemed my protector, the other a looming shadow over all we had shared. "…whose orders he was carrying out and what his ulterior motives were…"
Then, the truth landed with the weight of a sledgehammer. "…and most importantly, I knew he posed no danger to you."
I pulled back slightly, anger and confusion coiling in my chest. "Posed no danger to me?" My voice trembled, disbelief clear. His eyes held firm, unwavering, even under my scrutiny.
"He's clearly suspicious," I pressed, feeling the panic rise, "and if what you say is correct, he has undoubtedly killed many people. How could you be so certain that he wouldn't hurt me?"
His response was low, deliberate, and final, the last piece of the puzzle snapping into place and shattering my heart.
"Because he loved you."
The memory of Frederick's gaze returned—standing beside me on the marble stairs of the garden, soft devotion radiating from his every expression—was explained now in the coldest, most cynical terms. The look in Frederick's eyes had been enough. That alone controlled him, more than any rules or commands. I had been the unwitting shield in a far larger, deadlier game.
His words echoed, reverberating in my mind: Because he loved you. That single statement illuminated everything. Frederick—dangerous, lethal to the world, yet incapable of harming me—posed no threat because his feelings for me had restrained him.
I recalled the meticulous observations of the man before me, the one who had watched us all along. "I would catch glimpses of you and Frederick outside my window from time to time," he had admitted, noting what was already obvious to me but invisible in its depth until now.
He continued, analyzing Frederick's restraint, revealing an intimate truth I could scarcely bear. "The look he had in his eyes was clearly that of someone gazing at the person they loved." Even for a cynic, someone who trusted logic over emotion, it was undeniable.
"And I was once again convinced of it when I found out…" His pause carried weight, his eyes holding dark significance. "…that he was able to suppress his burning desire for you every night."
I recoiled, horrified, as he laid bare details of my private life with Frederick, exposing tenderness I had assumed was ordinary, yet was in truth extraordinary and calculated.
He did not soften the blow. "…Frederick didn't go all the way with you on any of the nights he spent in your bedroom."
A memory surfaced—Frederick's hand clenching the sheets beside me, the subtle, restrained gestures that spoke more than words ever could. FONDLE. FONDLE. The intimate restraint, his self-denial, was explained now through the prism of necessity and love.
"He was able to suppress his burning desire for you every night," the man said, voice carrying a dark, meticulous understanding. "Knowing that you knew nothing about who he really was likely made him even more hesitant."
My chest tightened as he continued. "I understand how much he must have agonized over that decision."
Finally, the devastating truth of Frederick's patience and restraint was laid bare. "Which means he understood the situation he was in. He knew that the moment he let his base instincts get the better of him, those memories would eventually have become nothing but pain and regret for you."
The last words sank into me, irrevocable. "That patience and consideration he showed you proves that he knew your relationship would take a turn for the worse at some point, and simultaneously disproves his affection for you."
The man's voice rolled through the room, low and dangerous, each word sharpened with precision and barely concealed fury. He dissected Frederick's every action, every restraint, leaving no room for doubt or comfort.
"He was able to suppress his burning desire for you every night," he stated, almost methodically, but the undertone of rage and disbelief made it impossible to ignore. "He must have agonized over that decision, especially knowing that you knew nothing about who he really was. That likely made him even more hesitant."
I could only listen, my chest tight, my breath shallow. There was no way to argue with this logic. The painful truth had been laid bare—Frederick's patience, his calculated restraint, had been deliberate, conscious, and relentless.
"Which means he understood the situation he was in," the man continued, his tone darkening further. "He knew the moment he let his base instincts take over, those memories would have become nothing but pain and regret for you."
The words struck like daggers. I felt frozen, caught between relief, grief, and something darker—a sense of betrayal that burned hotter than anything I had yet experienced in this room.
"Patience and consideration," he said, leaning closer, his eyes narrowing, "proves that he knew your relationship would take a turn for the worse at some point, and simultaneously disproves his affection for you."
I wanted to argue, to defend the man who had been my protector, my confidant, my heart—but the cold weight of his analysis left me mute, every rebuttal swallowed by the suffocating clarity of the truth.
Then, just as suddenly, his expression shifted. A flicker of something darker, more complex, passed over his face—a storm behind calm waters.
"But he never crossed that final line," he murmured, lowering his gaze to our clasped hands. His voice softened, yet carried an edge of raw intensity. "That resolve… was only possible because what he felt for you was real."
A sound effect—FLIP—seemed to punctuate the surge of emotion that flickered across him. He tightened his grip on my hand, jaw clenched, every muscle taut with a mixture of anger, disbelief, and something dangerously close to envy.
"And the sheer depth of his feelings for you…" His voice cracked ever so slightly, the heat of emotion unmistakable. "THAT'S WHAT INFURIATED ME EVEN MORE…"
He pulled me closer, his body radiating tension and unspoken fury. The closeness was suffocating, the air between us charged with both desire and menace.
"He irritates me," he muttered, and the words were more than just statement—they were a confession of obsession, of a threat barely contained.
A chill ran through me as he revealed the next piece of information, his voice low and menacing: "…when I heard the news that after leaving the manor, he had infiltrated, he was with you all the way in Flo Marina."
His eyes locked on mine, narrowing with the need for understanding, for control. "Why did he approach you again?" The question hung heavily, a blade poised over my heart. "Out of love… or some other objective?"
He pressed me into a close embrace, the intensity of his body pinning mine, as if he were attempting to fight or contain a ghost. His anger, his suspicion, his need for dominance radiated off him in palpable waves.
"This time," he whispered, his voice low, almost strangled, "I have no idea what he's thinking."
I remained caught in the suffocating heat of his presence, my mind spinning. Between the two men—one whose love was real, passionate, and dangerously uncontrollable, and the other whose intentions were opaque, calculating, and terrifying—I realized there was no sanctuary, no safety. Only tension, obsession, and the fragile illusion of choice.