Married To Darkness-Chapter 343: Washing The Filth

One blow.

Then another.

And another.

Lucius stood at the corner watching Alaric plummet his cousin like a rag doll.

The man deserved more.

Jaron’s head snapped to the side with every hit, blood splattering across the stone floor — but the bastard laughed. His lips split open, his teeth red with blood, but he grinned like a man who had lost his mind.

"That’s it, cousin," Jaron croaked, chuckling despite the swelling in his face. "Let the demon prince out to play." freeweɓnovel.cøm

Alaric’s vision blurred with fury. His knuckles throbbed, slick with Jaron’s blood, but he didn’t care. All he could see was Salviana — falling, screaming his name, the sheer terror in her voice as the wind tore through her hair.

"Do you think this is a game?" Alaric growled, slamming Jaron against the stone wall. "You touched my wife. My wife." His voice cracked at the last word, the mere thought of Salviana in Jaron’s grasp twisting a knife deeper into his chest.

Jaron’s laugh turned into a wet cough, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "I didn’t touch her," he rasped, smirking through the pain. "But I should have."

The words were gasoline to a roaring fire.

Alaric reared back his fist —

"Enough!"

Lucius’s voice sliced through the fury like a blade.

He stepped forward, his tall frame draped in black, his hand firm on Alaric’s shoulder. The black umbrella was gone, but his usual stoic calm remained.

"Alaric," Lucius said softly — but it wasn’t a plea. It was a command.

Alaric’s chest heaved, his eyes still pinned to Jaron, his knuckles trembling at his sides. He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Until—

A loud voice echoed down the dungeon corridor.

"Your Highness!"

Jaefel.

"Her Grace — Princess Salviana — she’s awake!"

The words struck Alaric harder than any blow ever could.

The air left his lungs, his mind wiped clean in an instant.

Salviana.

His wife.

Awake.

The fury unraveled, slipping away like smoke.

Without a word, Alaric dropped his bloodied fist. His gaze lingered on Jaron — his cousin now slumped against the wall, a crimson smear beneath him — before he turned on his heel.

He didn’t stop to clean his hands or wipe the blood from his knuckles. He didn’t ask Lucius to follow him or glance back at Jaefel.

He simply marched out of the dungeon, the scent of iron and treachery trailing behind him, as the only thing left in his mind was Salviana.

Alaric reached the door to their chambers, his hand hovering over the handle—then he froze.

A sharp pang of realization struck him. His knuckles were still bloodied, dried crimson crusted along the ridges of his fingers, and his shirt clung to him, streaked with Jaron’s filth. The scent of iron and violence clung to his skin like a second layer—an ugly reminder of what he’d just done.

He couldn’t bring that into Salviana’s space.

Not to her.

Not when she had already been forced too close to danger.

Jaw tight, he stepped back from the door and pivoted sharply down the corridor. His movements were a whisper of speed—silent but fierce—his cape billowing behind him like a black storm cloud.

The servants and guards scattered as he passed, their heads bowed, eyes averted, none daring to meet the demon prince’s icy gaze. The air rippled with the weight of his presence, a suffocating chill that made every step he took echo louder than it should have.

No one spoke.

No one dared to.

When Alaric reached the nearest bathhouse, he pushed the doors open with a single hand. The servants inside flinched at his arrival, their gazes darting from his bloodstained hands to the hard, unforgiving line of his mouth.

"Leave," he said, his voice like frost.

They obeyed instantly, scrambling away without so much as a word, leaving him alone in the dimly lit room.

Without hesitation, Alaric ripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. The water was scalding as he dipped his hands into the basin, but he didn’t flinch. He scrubbed—hard—until every trace of Jaron’s blood was gone, until his skin was raw and clean. He washed his arms, his neck, even his face, chasing away the scent of battle like he could wipe away the memory itself.

But the anger remained, simmering beneath the surface.

When he was done, Alaric didn’t wait for his hands to dry. He snatched a fresh shirt from a nearby rack, slipped it on, and stormed out of the bathhouse.

Then he made his way to the kitchens.

The air was thick with the aroma of baked bread, herbs, and roasting meat, but the warmth did nothing to thaw the ice in Alaric’s chest.

The staff—cooks, bakers, scullery maids—stilled at his arrival, their whispers dying in their throats. Some pretended to busy themselves with chopping vegetables or stirring pots, but their wide eyes followed him, heavy with fear and curiosity.

Alaric didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He simply walked to the nearest table, his movements controlled but sharp, and began collecting food. A bowl of hot broth. Freshly sliced fruit. Soft bread, still warm from the oven. A pitcher of cool water with sprigs of mint.

No one dared ask if he needed help.

The demon prince didn’t ask twice.

Once everything was gathered on a silver tray, Alaric lifted it effortlessly with one hand. His gaze—cold, unyielding—swept across the kitchen like a warning, a silent promise that any further whispers or prying eyes would be met with something far worse than a glare.

Then, without a word, he left—moving through the castle like a ghost, the weight of his fury trailing behind him.

And this time, when he reached the bedroom door, his hands were clean. His anger was leashed.

And his only thought was Salviana.

"Fiery?" Alaric bellowed tentatively, she stood on the balcony.

She took a sharp breath and turned to him, "Fire?"

"My love," Alaric growled as he took her into his arms.

"I missed you" she mumbled.

"I still miss you" Alaric growled, pressing his nose in her neck.