Page 77 of The Vespertine Treaty

Nothing.

My core remained a coiled knot of agonising, corrupted heat. I pushed myself back, the stone of the altar digging into my palms, wearing an expression of studied, unimpressed torture.

Rosette misinterpreted the retreat as a challenge. With a practiced arch of her back, she bent across the surface of the altar, spreading her legs to offer herself fully, a sacrifice on the slab. The short skirt of her cheap dress rode up high, putting her completely in my visual field. She ran her hand down her own exposed thigh, smearing the droplet of blood into a streak of red, her eyes wide, begging for my usual command. She was presenting herself as a ready sacrifice, a beautiful object awaiting use.

Then, an image flashed in my mind: Ophelia’s face in the sunroom, pale and defiant, her lips parted as the wax hit her skin.

I saw the flush on Ophelia's chest. I heard the hitch in her breath that wasn't performative, but raw, unwanted need. I felt the ghost of her fingers in my hair, the terrifying pull of a female who hated me yet burned for me.

My pulse quickened. The cold emptiness in my core instantly shifted to a searing, hot awareness. A strain appeared in my trousers, immediate and undeniable.

Rosette’s eyes widened slightly, sensing the physical shift. She looked down, seeing the evidence of my arousal, and a look of triumphant vanity crossed her face. She thought she had won. She thought her cheap tricks had unlocked the monster.

She leaned in closer, her voice thick with victory. "There we go... Cain."

The name shattered the ritual.

She had dared to use my given name. She thought this reaction was for her.

I looked from her desperate, pleading hand to the fierce, haunting image of Ophelia in my mind—the true source of this agonising, corrupted heat.

I couldn't do it. It wasn't just distaste; it was revulsion. It was the feeling of trying to swallow ash when one has tasted nectar.

I pushed her off the altar. It was a violent, involuntary shove. Rosette squealed, thinking it was the beginning of our rough play, and she started undoing the buttons on her cheap dress down her shoulder.

I grabbed her discarded coat from the floor, my face a mask of cold horror. I threw it in her face. "Leave!" I roared, my voicebooming with the full, unbridled force of the Death-Toucher, making the obsidian statues in the corners tremble.

Rosette squealed again, truly terrified now, scrambling to gather her clothes before fleeing the room in chaotic haste, the echo of her heels receding like the scuttling of a rat.

I collapsed back onto the altar, dragging a hand across my face, sick with the thought of desiring Ophelia.

“Put up your mental shields, Cain! For the love of the Void, put them up! I can taste the sickness!”Rhana’s scream in my mind was pure, panicked disgust.

I growled, pushing away from the stone. I left the Void Room, heading toward the residential wing, desperate to find the one source of control before I shattered something irreplaceable.

The corridors blurred. I walked with the intent of a storm, my stride eating up the distance, my mind a chaotic mess of lust and fury.

I rounded the corner of the long, obsidian corridor separating the private wing from the rest of the residential halls, and stopped dead.

Ophelia stood there.

She shouldn't have been in this wing. She was standing near the large tapestry, looking lost, or perhaps hunting for something—her curiosity always outweighed her survival instinct.

She froze, her expression transitioning from cold fury to raw, consuming disgust. The air was thick with the suffocating cloud of perfume that clung to my shirt—the cinnamon and vanilla stench of my failure.

I barked at her, my voice rough, the intrusion igniting my shame into possessive rage. "What in the hell are you doing on this side of the estate? You are restricted from the private wings!"

Ophelia advanced, her eyes narrowed with pure, cold fury, the sight of my physical agitation fuelling her contempt. “I followed the stench, Cain. It reeked of cheap desperation and your profound self-loathing. You reek of her cheap perfume. Is that your idea of self-control? Sending for a whore the moment your shield cracks? You disgust me.”

I froze, my body rigid. The blood rushed from my head. Her irrational, furious jealousy struck me with the force of a weapon, an overwhelming, intoxicating current that drowned out the shame. She wasn't just angry; she was jealous. Even in her hatred, she felt entitled to my desire.

"What's the matter, little Aenite?" I sneered, moving with two swift, dominant strides. I caught her, pinning her to the cold marble wall, the action fuelled by the terrifying need to silence her accusation. "Did you come to offer your own services? Or perhaps you were worried I'd confuse the cold taste of Rosette with the sweet, frantic heat I sampled from you?"

Ophelia’s eyes flashed. She didn't speak. She slapped me.

It wasn't a playful tap. It was a hard, ringing blow that cracked across my cheekbone, shocking in its audacity.

The world went white. I released her instantly, the rage turning into physical violence. I slammed my fist into the black stone wall an inch above her head. The sound was a deafening crack, and the granite spiderwebbed around my knuckles, shards of stone raining down onto her shoulders.