CHAPTER 65: BENEATH THE VILLAIN’S SKIN

Cassel — POV

I sat on the couch, playing with Rosalia’s fingers slowly, almost absently.

Small and dainty, those hands seemed far too tender for the kind of world we lived in. Her fingertips were cool against my skin, like petals, and each time my thumb brushed over them, they quivered a little.

It wasn’t until the final rays of anger ebbed out of my body that the weight of what had just occurred finally settled in, hard and crushing. Along with that awareness came a very primal, almost wild need to pull the girl closer-so I did.

I wrapped an arm around her waist, tugged her into my embrace, and settled her securely on my lap, as if that were the most natural place in the world for her to be.

I would never have admitted it out loud-not even under torture-but the truth was simple and humiliating:

I was terrified to let her out of my sight.

Even for a second.

Even for a breath.

Even for the time it would take her to blink.

She didn’t grasp it, couldn’t possibly grasp the panicked thoughts still hanging in the back of my mind.

The fear still latches onto me like a second skin, so unyielding and so heavy.

If I closed my eyes for too long, I saw again that moment-the threat, her frail body, the possibility of losing her-something that gnawed at me, never to be loose.

At first, Rosalia had been so shy she’d hardly dared to move. Every little twitch of her body betrayed how flustered she was, how unsettled she felt being held so openly.

But after I tightened my hold around her and leaned forward, letting my breath brush against the shell of her ear, whispering something only she could hear-something that made her entire body stiffen and soften all at once-she finally grew quiet.

Fine.

I’ll admit it to myself, if not to anyone else—

I’m an utterly shameless bastard when it comes to Rosalia.

I had never, in my entire life, used that kind of... tactic, not once, with anyone.

Threats, teasing, whispering something bordering on wicked simply to get someone to behave?

No. Not my style.

But Rosalia wasn’t "someone."

She was... Rosalia.

And the look she gave, the faint quiver in her lashes, the helpless flush rising across her cheeks-it all gave me such an unreasonable sense of satisfaction, it bordered on sinful.

If that makes me a villain, a scoundrel, a heartless brute?

Fine.

I will gladly be all of those things.

"Cae... let me go. Everyone is staring," she whispered in a soft voice, unbearably delicate, it could melt iron.

She really didn’t know what she was doing to me.

Her tone, that shy pleading... was like pouring gasoline on a fire and expecting it to go out.

Instead of calming me, it made something in me coil tighter, hungrier, more possessive.

Hearing her speak like that, knowing she was embarrassed because of me—

— bugger.

I wanted to do even more.

But I forced myself to be still.

Unfortunately.

If only these people weren’t here right now.

If only we were alone.

If only I could—

I let out a sigh, biting back a curse, and lifted my gaze reluctantly from the warm little creature in my arms.

Glowering, I tried to rein in irritation tightening my features as I stared across at the group seated opposite me.

General Zan was the first to notice my displeasure.

His posture stiffened, and he cleared his throat with the nervousness of a man who’d realized he was intruding where he absolutely shouldn’t be.

"We are very sorry for what my son has done," he said, tone serious, contrite. "And... thank you for treating him.

Tsk.

If Rosalia hadn’t asked it of me in person-soft eyes, small voice, trembling fingers- I wouldn’t have let these people take one step inside my house.

I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to treat the general’s son. The very idea of helping them made my blood boil.

In truth, I wanted nothing more than to grab the man by the neck and--

I gasped loudly.

No.

Not while Rosalia was around.

I dropped my gaze to the fragile girl in my lap. The mere sight of her, warm and alive, seemed to soften the edges of my rage.

The urge to strangle the general loosened only slightly, but enough.

"This favor isn’t free," I said, my voice low and uncompromising. "You’ll pay for it-and for your son’s mistakes as well."

Predictably, General Zan’s face constricted with concern.

His son, sitting at his side, appeared even more bitter—eyed, sharp-eyed, lips clamped.

Not that I cared.

Not one little bit.

Earlier, when I’d left the man, I’d been moments away from tossing them all out.

But Rosalia--sweet, soft, infuriating Rosalia--had asked me to let him stay until he was fully healed.

Of course, I forbade her from using her powers again.

Not after what happened when she saved Henry. I wouldn’t let her risk herself that way, ever.

The memory alone was enough to make my stomach twist.

She herself didn’t want to touch that dangerous power again. Instead, she calmly instructed the little girl with minor healing abilities to help mend the wounds. It was not much but enough to stabilize the man.

General Zan’s voice broke through my thoughts, stripped of the powerful aura he always carried with him.

He looked like nothing more than a heartbroken father.

"He wasn’t like this," he said quietly. "My son... he wasn’t like this."

Gone was the man who had commanded armies, who stood unshaken before monstrous beasts; in his place was one who was trembling on the edge of fear and grief.

So we listened—whether I wanted to or not—to the tragic tale of his family.

Admittedly, I knew some of the truth already.

It’s one of the advantages of knowing the future. But I hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen it, so I didn’t know the finer details.

This son of the old man was once kind, responsible, and loved. A good son, a good father, a stable man.

But a few days ago, something unknown had happened. Suddenly he became quick to anger, losing his temper upon every small provocation.

And whenever he grew enraged, he destroyed everything—walls, furniture, everything within reach.

Worst of all, he had raised his hand against his own wife.

That had been just last night.

His daughter, now the small sleeping child in the general’s lap, had seen it. Since then she’d been terrified, running from him every time he returned home.

Perhaps that’s why she’d tried to squeeze under the fence earlier.

The old man explained the symptoms:

The red eyes, his skin snaking with blackened veins, the unstable mental state that was sweeping violently back and forth between fury and guilt, the amnesia after each episode...

I didn’t need to hear more.

I knew instantly what it meant.

I looked at the general, at his son, at the crushing sorrow which had fallen over them like a suffocating fog.

The General’s hand gently stroked his granddaughter’s hair as she slept, oblivious to the storm around her life.

Should I tell them?

Originally, I had wanted to wait until the tragedy unfolded further.

That way, their desperation would be greater, the debt they owed me deeper. It was practical, efficient, and beneficial.

But then I saw Rosalia’s expression.

The softness in her eyes.

The way sadness tugged at her features.

And for her sake—

I sighed loudly.

"Your son didn’t change or go mad," I said coldly. "He’s simply under someone’s control."

General Zan froze. His eyes went wide.

His other son shot to his feet, panic and fury colliding in his voice.

"What do you mean? What are you saying? How-how the hell could my brother be under someone’s control? What are you talking about?!"

"John sit down"

The old man’s beard shook with tightly controlled anger, but he held himself together, showing the discipline of a man who had survived countless battles.

"Please," he said, speaking through gritted teeth, "explain what you know, young man."

Their eyes-all of them-were fixed on me.

Fearful.

Desperate.

Expectant.

I could have revelled in their helplessness. Instead, I bowed my head. I took Rosalia’s hand again, rolling each delicate finger between mine, turning them gently in every direction.

The simple act grounded me more than I wanted to admit.

"Cae... stop," she whispered, mortified.

Her embarrassment made my lips curl into a faint smile. But I forced myself to behave. Gently, I shifted her off my lap and settled her beside me.

The time had come for a serious talk.

I had already decided to help them, even though that went against my original plan. But that didn’t mean I would do it for free.

I am not kind.

I am not a saint

And I am certainly not a hero.

Perhaps the title Rosalia mutters in her sleep—"villain"— That isn’t entirely incorrect.