CHAPTER 163: HURT

"Move past the fact that you killed my family?" she seethed, her voice raw and brittle like the edge of shattered glass. Her body was tense, rigid, her hands curling slightly into fists at her sides. Every muscle ached with restrained fury, but Zyren remained still, standing across from her with a mostly neutral expression on his face. His crimson gaze remained locked on her, piercing and unwavering, yet void of any visible reaction.

He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. To Aira, the silence itself was a cruel mockery, louder than any words he could have said. It was clear—painfully, bitterly clear—that he was completely apathetic. Unmoved. Emotionless. As if her pain, her hatred, her entire broken world meant nothing to him.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath she fought to steady. Still trembling, she lashed out again, this time spitting her words with venom.

"I’m not sleeping with you!" she declared, voice sharp and shaking, not from weakness but from the depth of the disgust she felt. It wasn’t just a refusal—it was a vow. Her throat ached from the force of it, but Zyren didn’t flinch. He continued holding the golden cup in his hand, its polished surface catching the dim light of the chamber. His expression didn’t change—not a twitch of the brow, not a tightening of the jaw. Nothing.

That lack of response only poured oil into her fire.

The fury inside her swelled and stormed as she stared at him, waiting for something—anything. A sneer. A snarl. A reaction that proved he was even capable of being rattled by her defiance. But he just watched, and eventually, when she realized she would get no satisfaction, she stopped looking at him altogether.

She spun around, shoulders square and feet swift, and marched toward the door, her hand outstretched and determined as it closed around the handle. She didn’t care about permissions or consequences anymore. Let him chain her. Let him punish her. At least that would mean he saw her.

But just as her fingers tightened around the handle, just as she was about to rip the door open—

"If it makes you feel better, we can pretend that it’s against your will," came his voice—unhurried, darkly calm.

Aira froze.

The words slithered into the air like smoke, staining the space between them.

"I can bite you..."

Slowly, rigidly, Aira turned to face him, her eyes hardening into shards of ice. Her glare was blistering, her breathing uneven now, as her chest lifted and fell in slow but dangerous rhythms.

Zyren didn’t stop there.

"The ritual will hold, and nothing will go wrong," he continued, this time with more force. His voice no longer cool and aloof—it had sharpened, gained weight. He pushed away from the table he had been leaning on, rising fully to his full, looming height as he moved toward her with the shining gold cup still in hand.

He walked slowly but with purpose. Every step deliberate, his long black coat sweeping behind him, the gold threads at its seams catching the light. He was dressed like a king, but looked like a nightmare.

Still towering. Still cold. Still exactly as he had been the night he burned her world to ash.

Red eyes. Shoulder-length black hair. The color of his irises—unchanged. Still blood. But there was something else now—a darker glint, more brutal and commanding, aimed straight at her. That night he had appeared out of nowhere like death. But now, he was standing here with her like a curse she could never escape.

Aira didn’t flinch. Her back was still straight, one hand still gripping the door handle, as though she were poised to vanish the moment his words cut too deep. Her body was rigid, defiant, every nerve on edge, but her expression held.

"This ritual can’t fail," Zyren told her, closer now. His tone was weighted. Almost final.

Aira looked at him squarely. She didn’t cower. Didn’t retreat. The defiant glint in her gaze only sharpened as she finally spoke again, her voice cold and unwavering.

"You can force me," she said, each word like a blade drawn from a sheath. "But there’s nothing that will willingly make me sleep with you ever again."

She didn’t wait for his response—she didn’t want one. Her hand pulled the door open with a sharp tug, and she stepped out without looking back, the heavy slam of the door echoing behind her like a thunderclap of rebellion.

Part of her—maybe the cruelest, most vengeful part—hoped the slam had irritated him. Maybe even enraged him. Maybe, just maybe, he would be mad enough to throw her in prison.

She didn’t want his pleasure. She wanted power.

And she would get it, even if it meant enduring a ritual she couldn’t yet understand. But the thought of intimacy, of sharing her body with him again—not just physically but in a way that tethered them—felt deeper than any ritual had a right to be.

Far too deep.

She already knew what it had been like to sleep with him once. Her body remembered even when her mind screamed in protest. She had clung to him, surrendered to sensations that devoured her. She had been consumed. Not by lust, but by something more primal. Something twisted. Something that made her hate herself as much as she hated him.

Back then, at the height of it, she hadn’t wanted to push him away.

She had wanted more.

And that was what terrified her.

The idea that it might happen again—that her body might betray her again under the guise of a "ritual"—filled her with loathing. Loathing for him, but mostly... for herself.

If only he would force her. Hurt her. Ravish her against her will. Then at least her hatred would grow, sharpen, burn hot enough to protect her. But no. That wasn’t how he did it.

Instead, what she remembered was pleasure.

And that was the cruelest wound of all.

As she walked, her feet picked up pace. She practically stormed down the hall, each step harder and faster than the last, her boots thudding against the polished floors. The further she got from that room—their room—the tighter she clenched her jaw.

She didn’t know where she was going. Didn’t care.

She just needed distance. Space. Silence.

Anything that wasn’t him.

Back in Aira’s old room, a space once cold and plain, the air now shimmered with luxury. The stone walls had been draped with velvet and gold. The bed replaced with something soft and grand—canopied and embroidered.

Everything had been replaced.

Sitting on the edge of that decadent bed, Harriet leaned forward with reddened cheeks and tightly clasped hands.

The entire room looked fit for royalty, and that had been the point.

Lady Vivian had made sure of it.

Harriet had promised to deliver. She had nodded. Agreed. She would be the one to shift King Zyren’s attention. She would offer herself—mind, body, and devotion—and he would choose her. That had been the plan.

But this morning had shattered that fantasy.

Zyren had looked at her—no, past her—like she was nothing.

Like a stranger.

A flicker of heat burned behind Harriet’s eyes, and she swallowed hard.

Nothing more than a stranger he had never seen before.

And it hurt.