Married To Darkness-Chapter 341: Disrespectful, Angry Jabs

Alaric watched her for a moment longer, memorizing every inch of her fragile form, before quietly slipping from the bed.

His bare feet met the cold floor with a soft thud.

When he opened the chamber doors, the corridor wasn’t empty.

Jean stood there, stiff and formal as ever, though his usual sternness was softened by concern.

Beside him, the royal physician clutched a leather bag, her fingers twitching like she couldn’t wait another second to lay eyes on the princess.

"My lord," Jean inclined his head. "May we check on her?"

Alaric didn’t answer immediately. His jaw worked, the tension a solid knot in his throat. Finally, he gave a single, reluctant nod. "Be careful with her."

"Of course."

As the two entered the chamber, Alaric didn’t watch them go. His focus shifted down the hall, where Lucius stood—arms crossed, expression carefully neutral.

Alaric stalked toward him, his stride purposeful. "Where is he?"

Lucius didn’t flinch. "We have him."

"Where?"

A muscle flickered in Lucius’s jaw. "Come with me."

It wasn’t an answer.

It was a command wrapped in a plea—a silent attempt to shield Alaric from the truth for just a little longer.

Alaric’s heart thumped against his ribs. Hard.

Still, he followed, his steps echoing like a drumbeat through the corridor.

Every inch of him itched to run—to vamp-speed past Lucius, to rip the cell doors from their hinges, to tear the man who took his wife apart limb by limb.

But Lucius kept the pace slow. Too slow.

Alaric’s patience frayed. "Who is he, Lucius?" His voice was quiet—deadly. "Why didn’t you tell me last night?"

Lucius said nothing.

The silence only sharpened the fear gnawing at Alaric’s gut.

Before he could press again, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from behind.

Two royal knights—breathless—appeared at the end of the corridor, their capes flaring behind them.

"My lord," one of them panted. "There’s been a summons."

Alaric’s teeth clenched. "What now?"

"The Tackeros have sent word—they’ve reached an agreement."

Lucius’s eyes darkened. "That was fast."

Alaric’s head throbbed. His wife had barely survived the night, the bastard who took her still drew breath, and now—now—they wanted to talk politics?

He let out a slow, dangerous sigh.

For Salviana, he told himself. For the kingdom.

"Fine," he growled. "Let’s get this over with."

But as they turned toward the grand hall, his mind was already elsewhere—on the prisoner rotting in the dungeon, on the name Lucius still hadn’t spoken, and on the gnawing dread coiling tighter and tighter around his heart.

He didn’t know what scared him more—that he was about to face the Tackeros...

Or that whoever had taken Salviana wasn’t a stranger at all.

They reached the hall and it’s door was swung open.

The meeting hall was a suffocating storm of silence and whispers.

Seated at the long stone table were the royals and council members of Wyfn-Garde and Tackeros, their faces a blend of forced diplomacy and veiled tension. Golden banners hung limply behind them, though no amount of regal decor could mask the bitterness thick in the air.

Then, Lord Harren of Wyfn-Garde rose. His voice—aged and steady—cut through the silence like a blade.

"To secure peace between Wyfn-Garde and Tackeros, it is decided that a marriage alliance will take place."

A pause.

"Princess Genevieve of Wyfn-Garde will marry Prince Cassian of Tackeros."

The words hit the hall like a thunderclap.

For a moment, there was nothing but stunned quiet. Then, a ripple—an uproar.

Murmurs surged like a sudden tide. Alaric heard the words bounce off the stone walls: impossible... unexpected... unwise... Some whispered of honor, others of strategy. A few dared to call it a betrayal.

Alaric’s jaw tightened, his hand twitching at his side.

Princess Genevieve. His cousin. His sister in all but blood.

Marrying Cassian of Tackeros.

The surprise hollowed out his chest, not because of the politics—he was used to those—but because this was Genevieve.

The woman who had once laughed at the idea of marriage, who claimed she’d never let herself be reduced to a pawn in the kingdom’s games.

She had scoffed at suitors, dismissed whispers of courtships, and declared that she would marry only when she chose.

And now...

Her choice had been made for her.

Despite everything—despite how cruel she’d been to Salviana, how jealousy and childishness had tainted her actions—Alaric still felt the ache of this.

Genevieve was a complicated woman. Bitter, proud, often unkind... but she was his cousin. She was family.

And beneath her thorns, she was still the girl who used to steal desserts from the royal kitchens and sit beside him during long, boring council meetings, whispering sarcastic remarks that made him stifle laughter.

She was selfish, yes. But not heartless.

And this would hurt her.

Badly.

Alaric exhaled sharply. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The thought of going to find Genevieve, of comforting her—even if she lashed out at him like she always did—burned at the edges of his mind.

But then his hand brushed the hilt of his sword.

No.

Salviana came first. His wife—the woman who had nearly died just hours ago—was lying in their chambers, fragile and broken.

Nothing else mattered.

Not even Genevieve.

He turned without a word, his dark cloak swirling behind him, and strode out of the hall.

The murmurs continued, the council still grappling with the new alliance, but Alaric was already gone—his heart pulling him back to the only woman who mattered.

His wife. His Salviana.

The air was thick — with tension, with unsaid words, with the weight of what had transpired.

Alaric stepped out of the meeting hall, his jaw set, his mind already racing back to Salviana. His dark cloak trailed behind him like a storm cloud.

Lucius was by his side in an instant, silent and sharp, a black umbrella resting on his shoulder despite the absence of rain.

His entire figure, from his raven-black attire to the faint smirk on his lips, was a mirror of the darkness Alaric felt brewing inside.

"Where’s the culprit?" Alaric asked, his voice a low growl.

Lucius’s smirk didn’t waver. "In the chamber dungeon. Exactly where he belongs."

Alaric gave a single, curt nod and started forward. But—

"Stop!"

The word rang through the corridor like a whip crack, deep and commanding.

King Gideon.

Alaric halted, his head tilting slightly to the side, before he slowly—very slowly—turned to face the voice.

His black eyes, cold as a winter storm, locked onto the king’s.

His expression didn’t shift—no bow, no show of reverence. Just a raised brow.

Behind Gideon, a crowd had gathered — lords, knights, and servants alike. Their whispers buzzed like wasps in the background.

"I heard you found your wife," the king said, his voice a forced calm, though the edge of authority crackled beneath it.

"Yes," Alaric replied simply. No embellishments. No explanations.

"And the culprit?" the king pressed, his gaze narrowing. "Did you catch him?"

Before Alaric could speak, another voice cut through the tension—loud, smooth, and all too familiar.

"Of course he did."

Crown Prince Benjamin.

Alaric didn’t even need to look to know Benjamin’s expression — the practiced smile of a man who thrived on stealing moments, on speaking over others, on basking in the illusion of his own importance.

"It’s Alaric we’re talking about," Benjamin continued, stepping forward with a laugh too loud, too confident. "He always gets what he wants."

Alaric’s jaw ticked. He didn’t bother acknowledging the crown prince.

His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword instead — a subtle movement, but enough for Lucius to take half a step closer.

King Gideon cleared his throat, cutting through Benjamin’s theatrics.

"Good," the king said. "Then you will bring the culprit—or culprits—before the court. A fitting punishment will be handed down—"

Alaric laughed.

A dark, humorless sound.

It echoed through the corridor, sharp as the blade at his hip. freewebnøvel.coɱ

The king stiffened. Benjamin’s smirk faltered. The gathered crowd grew silent, watching — wide-eyed, waiting.

"Tell me, Your Majesty..." Alaric said softly, his voice a razor’s edge. "Are you slow-wired, or merely blind to your own irrelevance?"

The crowd gasped.

Lucius’s grin widened.

King Gideon’s face hardened. "Watch yourself, boy—"

"No," Alaric interrupted, his voice slicing through the king’s like a cold wind. "You watch yourself." His gaze darkened, his fangs threatening to slip past his lips. "If you believe — for even a moment — that you will have a say in how I deal with the man who dared lay a finger on my wife..."

His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper.

"Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought."

The silence was deafening.

The king’s face was red now, his mouth open—but no words came.

Benjamin swallowed, his earlier bravado now a flicker of uncertainty.

Lucius chuckled under his breath.

Alaric’s stare didn’t waver. His control was a fragile thread — one tug away from snapping entirely.

His wife, his Salviana, had nearly died in his arms mere hours ago. And now, these men dared speak of "proper punishments," as if this was some petty theft or broken treaty?

No.

This was blood for blood.

Retribution.

And he — not the king, not the crown prince, not the council — would decide the price.

Without another word, Alaric turned sharply on his heel.

His cloak flared out behind him like black wings, and Lucius followed, still smiling like this was all a delightful show.

The crowd parted for them like water.

"Fuck," someone whispered in the distance.

"The Demon Prince is angry," another muttered.

And Alaric didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

He had a wife to return to — and a man in the dungeon whose fate was already sealed.