Married To Darkness-Chapter 335: Jaefel & Emma Under The Oak Tree

"And if they kill her because you acted without thought?"

That made him stop.

For a flicker of a second.

Then—

The torches in the hall shuddered as a gust of wind blasted through the room—no, not wind—Alaric.

He moved faster than the eye could catch, a blur of fury and shadows as he vamp sped out of the hall, his mind a tangle of rage and fear.

Samion cursed. "Damn it."

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. "He’s going to tear the castle apart."

But Alaric didn’t hear them.

He was already at his chambers.

The door to his chambers slammed open with a force that rattled the hinges, and before it could even swing back, Alaric was inside—a blur of motion, a storm of rage.

Lucius and Samion’s words still echoed in his head—calm down, rest, think of your next move—but they were background noise now.

He didn’t want to think.

Didn’t want to rest.

He wanted blood.

His wife was gone, taken, and the only thing keeping him from ripping apart the Tackeros entourage limb by limb was the sliver of logic reminding him that Salviana’s life might depend on his restraint.

But rest?

He’d rather burn the kingdom to the ground and dance in the ashes than sit still.

The bedroom felt colder than usual—too large, too empty.

The bed was untouched, the sheets still slightly creased from the last time she had been there—from the last time she had slept beside him.

His jaw clenched.

He could still smell her—barely, like the last flicker of a candle before the wick gave out. It was everywhere and nowhere all at once, driving him mad.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

He tried to think—really think—because he couldn’t just storm into Tackeros’ camp and tear out throats without risking Salviana’s life. But every time he tried to strategize, his mind dragged him back to her—to where she could be right now.

Was she safe?

Was she hurt?

Was she afraid?

The thought made his vision darken at the edges.

He vamp sped again—across the room, to the vanity where her perfume still sat, untouched. His hand closed around the glass bottle, and for a second, he simply stared at it—his knuckles white, his chest heaving.

He hated this.

Hated the stillness.

Hated the waiting.

And most of all—he hated himself.

For not being there.

For not stopping this before it happened.

For letting her get taken right under his nose.

The perfume bottle shattered in his grip. Glass sliced into his palm, but the pain was a distant, useless thing.

The room smelled of Salviana now—intensely—and it only made his fury sharpen into something more dangerous.

He swiped the blood off his hand with a rag, his jaw so tight it could’ve cracked bone.

Think.

If the Tackeros had nothing to do with her disappearance, then who did?

Why did Jaron smell of her?

Why was her scent on him?

And why—when Alaric closed his eyes—could he almost hear her voice, so faint, like a whisper on the wind?

His heart thudded painfully.

He wasn’t going to rest.

Not until he found her.

Not until the person responsible was begging for mercy they would never receive.

His bedroom.

Their bedroom.

The sheets still smelled like Salviana—like rose oil and a touch of something wild and electric, a scent only he could ever truly recognize.

But she wasn’t here.

He stood in the middle of the room, his chest rising and falling like a beast barely keeping its form. His hand twitched at his side—an unbearable ache to destroy something, anything, just to match the storm inside him.

His mind was fire—burning, blistering—choking out every rational thought.

He didn’t care if the Tackeros burned.

He didn’t care if the whole damn kingdom burned.

He wanted her back.

Now.

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The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, golden beams through the branches of the ancient oak tree.

The smell of fresh bread and boiling herbs drifted from the nearby kitchen, but it did nothing to mask the bitter sting of bile in the air.

Emma’s thin frame trembled as she hunched over, one hand gripping the rough bark of the tree while the other clutched her stomach.

Another violent heave racked her body, and she coughed, her throat raw from retching.

"Easy now," came a soft, steady voice behind her.

A hand—gentle but firm—swept her hair away from her face, holding the long strands back so they wouldn’t tumble into the mess at her feet.

Jaefel.

The Thrud Prince’s knight. Salviana’s new guard.

Emma blinked back tears—half from the pain in her stomach, half from the lingering shame—before wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. She didn’t dare look at him.

"I’m fine," she muttered, though the shake in her voice betrayed her. "You don’t... you don’t have to do this."

Jaefel didn’t answer immediately. He just adjusted his hold on her hair, his other hand steadying her elbow as she wobbled. "Seems like I do," he said softly. "Since you can’t even stand."

Her cheeks flamed, and she turned her head sharply—regretting it instantly as another wave of nausea hit her.

Jaefel didn’t flinch.

"Just breathe," he murmured. "Slowly."

Emma’s teeth bit into her lower lip to keep from crying.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. She was a maid—Lady Salviana’s chambermaid.

She should be helping him right now, running through the halls, searching for their missing Lady, not vomiting under a tree like some weakling.

"Sorry," she rasped, voice cracking. "I’m—this is pathetic. I—"

"It’s not," Jaefel cut her off, his voice calm but unyielding. "You’re human."

Emma’s lip trembled. "But Lady Salviana—she’s still missing—and you’ve been following me around all day. You should be helping her husband. Not me."

Jaefel sighed through his nose, his thumb absently rubbing a circle into her arm—comfort, not control. "I am helping."

Emma blinked up at him. "By holding my hair?"