Married To Darkness-Chapter 340: A Faint HeartBeat

"Wake up," he murmured again, pressing a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering as if his touch alone could pull her back to him. "Please."

But there was no answer.

Not yet.

Alaric drew a slow breath and, with a steady hand, began to undress her—his fingers unfastening the ruined laces of her gown.

The water made it easier to peel away the fabric, though it clung stubbornly to her skin, heavy with blood, sweat, and dirt.

He worked in silence—his jaw locked, his throat burning.

Every inch of her told the story of her captivity: scratches along her arms, a bruise blooming on her shoulder, and the delicate skin of her palms lined with blisters—proof of her battle against whatever cursed magic had trapped her.

He hissed softly.

"Who did this to you, my love?" His voice was both a plea and a promise—one lined with the unspoken vow of vengeance.

He used a cloth to wash her, his movements slow and reverent—dragging it across her collarbone, down her arms, along the curve of her waist. Each touch was careful, not just for her sake—but for his.

Because if he didn’t touch her softly now...

He would shatter.

When the dress finally slipped away, Alaric gathered her into him again, cradling her bare body against his chest, his thumb tracing lazy circles over her shoulder.

"You’re safe," he whispered. "I have you now."

And in the hush of the chamber, with only the water’s gentle ripples to answer him, Alaric closed his eyes—waiting for the moment her heart would beat a little louder... or the moment his would break entirely. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

A while later,

The water had cooled.

Alaric didn’t notice—didn’t care—until the faint tremble of Salviana’s body against his chest reminded him she wasn’t meant to be here. Not like this.

She needed warmth. Safety. Rest.

He rose from the obsidian tub, his muscles straining beneath the weight of both his wife and the agony that threatened to crush him.

Water streamed from his clothes and her bare skin, pooling at his feet in dark, rippling puddles.

His jaw clenched as he stepped out, moving with the careful grace of a predator restraining himself—not for his own sake, but for hers.

A thick, fur-lined wrap lay draped over a nearby chair, black and soft, the kind only royalty could afford.

He grabbed it, his fingers twisting the fabric too tightly for a moment before gently, painstakingly, wrapping it around Salviana’s fragile form.

The contrast was stark. The luxury of the fur against her torn, dirty skin—the princess wrapped in wealth but marred by suffering.

He should’ve kept her safe.

Alaric carried her into their bedroom—grand and cold despite its towering fireplace.

The high ceilings felt suffocating, the gold accents on the walls mocking him with their useless splendor.

None of it mattered—not the silk sheets, the carved headboard, or the jeweled lanterns glowing faintly at the corners of the room.

None of it could heal her.

He lowered Salviana onto the bed, her body sinking into the mattress, limp as a broken doll.

The fur wrap loosened, slipping slightly from her shoulder, and Alaric quickly tucked it back into place, his fingers brushing over the bruises peeking from beneath the edge.

His throat tightened.

He sat beside her.

For a long moment, he just stared—his gaze drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. Her chest rose and fell—too softly, too slowly—but it moved. She was still here.

Barely.

His hand, rough and calloused, cupped her face. His thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone, the swell of her lips, the line of her jaw.

As if memorizing her all over again—like he feared this might be the last time.

"Fiery..." His voice broke on the word.

He kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Each eyelid. Her cheeks. The corner of her lips.

Again and again, until his silent prayer tasted like her skin. Until the ache in his chest stopped threatening to claw its way out.

"You’re safe," he whispered, though the words felt like a desperate lie. "I have you now."

And then—finally, reluctantly—Alaric slid onto the bed beside her.

He gathered Salviana into his arms, the fur wrap still snug around her, and pulled her close—close enough to feel the faint rhythm of her heart against his ribs.

His chin rested atop her damp hair, his fingers clutching her waist like she might disappear if he loosened his grip.

The silence settled, thick and heavy, but Alaric let his eyes close.

For the first time since she was taken... he let himself sleep.

It didn’t last.

A knock shattered the fragile peace.

Three sharp raps against the door—polite, but firm.

Alaric’s eyes snapped open, it wasn’t dark anymore, his arms tightening around Salviana as though shielding her from the sound itself. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Who the hell dared?

Another knock. Louder this time.

"Alaric," came Lucius’s voice, muffled by the door. "It’s me."

A muscle ticked in Alaric’s jaw. He didn’t move.

Lucius waited a beat, then added softly, "I wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t important."

Alaric’s chest rose and fell in ragged silence. His hand loosened its hold on Salviana—just barely. She didn’t stir.

Finally, with a low growl that rumbled from deep within him, Alaric pressed one last kiss to her temple, brushed the damp strands from her face, and rose from the bed.

The demon prince was awake.

And whoever had dared to take his wife... would soon wish they never had.

The morning light bled through the heavy curtains, a soft golden hue casting long shadows across the stone walls.

Alaric blinked against it, his body betraying him with a heaviness that felt like he had only shut his eyes for an hour—when in truth, the sun had risen.

The knock that roused him still echoed in his ears.

Salviana hadn’t moved. She lay wrapped in the fur, her breathing steady but too faint for his liking.