CHAPTER 451: IN THE DARK

In a hurry, the girl who had wrapped her hands around Morpheus jumped backward, her body trembling as though she had been struck by lightning. She hastily pulled her clothes to cover her exposed front, clutching the fabric against her chest as if it could shield her from the shame burning her skin. Bowing down deeply to Arabella — the witch she had served multiple times during dinner — her voice caught in her throat. She dared not speak, dared not breathe too loudly, and yet her eyes, wide and frantic, turned toward Morpheus, whose eyebrows were drawn tight in an unreadable expression.

Fear for what could happen next twisted her stomach. She took a step back, and then another, wanting to flee the room before the tension could break, but before her trembling feet could take her far enough, Arabella’s voice echoed through the chamber — calm, commanding, and cold.

"Wait."

The maid froze instantly. From the corners of her green eyes, she could see how Morpheus was watching her. His gaze wasn’t one of shame or regret — no apology lingered in the depth of those dark, mysterious eyes. Instead, what shone there was something closer to arrogance, a silent challenge, as though he was waiting to see whether Arabella would crumble, whether she would rage or weep, whether she would break in front of him.

But Arabella did none of those things. Instead of striking him or shouting, she stepped forward with slow, deliberate grace. Her eyes dropped to the blouse that had fallen to the floor — the piece of fabric that now seemed to symbolize every shred of dignity left in the room. She bent down, picked it up with steady hands, and without meeting the maid’s gaze, pressed it toward her.

"Be careful," she said softly, her tone smooth yet distant, the kind of calm that made the air grow heavier instead of lighter.

The maid’s lips quivered. Her face turned as green as the trees beyond the castle walls, fear coursing through her veins. She didn’t know if this calm was mercy or warning — if Arabella’s restraint was forgiveness or the quiet before vengeance. Terrified of misunderstanding the witch’s meaning, the maid suddenly dropped to her knees, her palms slapping the floor before she pressed her forehead hard against the cold stone.

"My apologies... my apologies, milady!" she cried, her voice cracking under the weight of her terror.

Arabella stood unmoving. Her heart burned, but her face remained untouched by emotion. She steadied her voice, allowing none of the chaos in her chest to seep into her words.

"Go from here," she said, almost gently, but with an authority that left no room for question. "Now."

The maid flinched as though struck, then rose shakily to her feet. She gathered her clothes, stumbled toward the door, and fled, her hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway until they dissolved into dreadful silence — a silence thicker and more suffocating than the noise that had filled the room before.

When all that was left was the still air between them, Arabella turned back to look at Morpheus. That face— beautiful, cruel, and carved as though from marble— was enough to make any woman’s heart falter. She could understand why others desired him, why so many would yearn to be the one he favored. His looks, his power, the authority that clung to his entire being— all of it could intoxicate anyone who sought more than love, anyone who desired the illusion of control or the allure of danger.

And yet, as Arabella met his gaze now, all she could feel was a hollow ache. Her heart physically heart. Only physically that is.

But she didn’t find this odd. He was always a person dreamt by many. Someone who was always wanted that was why even the maid from earlier couldn’t resist the temptation despite also serving her.

No wonder, she thought to herself, and immediately found the thought strange— unsettlingly so.

Shouldn’t she be furious? Shouldn’t her chest be burning with jealousy, her hands trembling with rage? Shouldn’t she be clutching his shirt, demanding answers, screaming at him until her voice broke? That was what anyone would expect. That was what she should feel.

And yet, she didn’t.

A faint trace of sadness had flickered in her when she first walked in— a brief sting, the echo of something that resembled pain— but it was fleeting, dissolving as quickly as it came. The longer she stood there, the more she realized that even that sorrow felt... artificial. As if her mind was reminding her to feel what was appropriate, while her heart remained perfectly still, detached, almost numb.

Morpheus seemed to sense this, and that— more than anything— appeared to infuriate him. She saw it in the sharp furrow of his brows, the way his lips pressed into a hard line, and the faint twitch in his jaw trembling from anger and frustration. Frustration that she wasn’t reacting the way he wanted her to.

Of course. What man would ever be pleased to see such calm indifference from the woman he claimed to love?

"You aren’t going to demand an answer from me?" came out his voice cold— so carefully measured, the kind of tone that pretended warmth while hiding everything that lay beneath.

"Should I?" Arabella replied evenly. She leaned against the wall, her gaze steady on his face. "I’m sad, yes. That’s why my heart aches— or at least, it thinks it should. But am I a child who has never known what sex means? I saw what you were doing, and that already explained enough."

His jaw tensed further, a flicker of resentment crossing his features. Her words were sharp, almost so snappy yet her face was clean from any disappointment or sadness she claimed she felt.

"Yet you aren’t mad," he muttered, as though her composure offended him.

"Sad, perhaps. Disappointed, certainly," she said softly, her tone steady but not gentle. "But angry? No. You don’t seem to be offering an explanation either. It couldn’t be that you simply slipped toward her, could it?"

The muscle in Morpheus’s cheek jumped, and for a heartbeat, his eyes darkened with something raw and volatile— whether it was fury things didn’t work as he wished or perhaps the realization that his cruelty had failed to reach her.

"I did it," he said finally, his voice low and deliberate, "because I knew this was the reaction you would have."

Her breath caught— not out of hurt, but out of the strange, hollow realization that this might have always been what they were: not lovers, but a cycle of provocation and numbness, of testing the boundaries of pain just to feel something. A toxic rhythm that neither of them seemed willing to break.

And yet, even as she understood that, Arabella’s confusion only deepened. Her heart ached, yes —physically, painfully— but emotionally, she couldn’t feel the rage or despair she knew she was supposed to. It was as though her body was performing grief while her soul stood outside herself, watching, quietly asking: Wasn’t I always in love with him? So much so I wouldn’t want any woman’s hands on him?

Yet here she was—feeling nothing.

No anger. No heartbreak. Not even the humiliation she imagined a woman should feel after catching her lover with another. Only that hollow, gnawing emptiness—like a wound that refused to bleed.

The mismatch between what she should feel and what she did feel unsettled her deeply.

She raised a trembling hand to her chest, rubbing gently as though she could coax her heart into speaking—to tell her something, anything. But there was only silence.

"You didn’t do this to test how deeply I love you," Arabella said at last, her voice low but steady. Her gaze fixed on him, sharp enough to slice through his pretense. "You did it to feed your vanity. To see if you still have power over me. Isn’t that right?"

Her lips curved into a faint smile—too composed, too deliberate to be kind. "Perhaps that’s why this doesn’t hurt as it should. Maybe it’s not the first time you’ve done something like this, Morpheus. Maybe my heart stopped responding to you long ago, and we simply never noticed."

Morpheus’s frown deepened, the muscles in his jaw tightening. His expression—furious, offended, and oddly helpless—reminded her not of a man, but of a child whose tantrum had failed to stir pity.

The sight almost made her laugh. Almost.

But she didn’t. She only let out a faint scoff and turned away.

The ache in her chest pulsed stronger now, not from grief but from the strangeness of it all—the confusion of having a body that mimicked sorrow while her mind stayed eerily detached.

She brushed past him without another glance, her steps echoing through the cold hallway.

One tear slipped down her cheek. It fell—not heavy, not full of meaning, just... there. Mechanical.

She wiped it away with her sleeve, frowning at the sensation. It felt wrong, empty, like every other emotion lately.

What’s happening to me? she wondered. What did he do to me?

Was it a spell? A curse? Something he’d placed upon her without her knowing, weaving it through every kiss, every word of "love" he’d ever given?

By the time she reached Isaac’s chamber, her mind was adrift in that question. She opened the door quietly and found him there—half seated, still adjusting the bandages across his chest.

Startled by her sudden presence, Isaac jumped slightly, his eyes widening when he saw the look on her face.

"Milady?" he breathed, startled by the strange mixture of calm and storm behind her green eyes.

Arabella didn’t answer right away. She only stood there, the faint remnants of a tear glinting on her cheek, clutching her heart as if trying to feel whether it still beat the way it should.