Chapter 160: Dead Ties
Matthias downed the glass. He didn’t feel the burn, only the bitterness lingering in his throat as he locked eyes with Cedric. Cedric’s gaze was sunken, filled with a resentment that had rotted over the years until it was the only thing left of him.
"Are you going to keep digging up this carcass forever?" Matthias asked. His voice was flat, dry as breaking wood.
Cedric’s jaw locked. His breathing grew heavy, ragged with a rage he could no longer muzzle. "Yes. I’ll dig until I take her back. I waited years for her, Matthias. Years. Don’t start with that pathetic lie about ’Emperor’s orders.’ Save the games for someone who doesn’t know you. You wanted her. You betrayed me, trading years of brotherhood for a single moment of greed."
Matthias didn’t flinch. He reached for the bottle and poured another glass, his hand steady with a chilling precision.
"You were the one who cut the ties, Cedric," Matthias said, watching the liquid settle. "Not me."
Cedric laughed. It was a sharp, ugly sound that cut through the tavern’s noise. There was no humor in it, only a desperation.
"And what was I supposed to do?" Cedric leaned in.
"The woman I spent two years courting—the woman who wouldn’t even let me touch her hand—married to who, my best friend. Did you expect me to clap for you, or maybe give the two of you my blessing ? To cheer while you walked off with her?"
He slammed his fist into the table. The glasses rattled and tipped.
"Two years, Matthias! Two damn years of playing the loyal dog, of crawling to that bastard Roland just so he’d give her to me. I did the work. I paid the price. And you just stepped into my spot."
"I followed orders. I didn’t steal her," Matthias muttered. His voice was a low, vibrating growl. He tried to keep his face a mask, but the effort was failing—the veins in his neck and forehead surged, pulsing with every heavy breath he took.
"Orders! Orders!" Cedric mocked, his voice thin and frantic. "You’re a machine, Matthias. A hollow tool. If you have any dignity left, divorce her. I’ll make the way clear for you to disappear. You’re just a bastard who doesn’t even know how to make her smile."
Matthias’s eyes went dark, the irises swallowing the light. "And you think you do?"
"I know her better than you ever will!" Cedric spat. He leaned in until their foreheads touched, his spit hitting Matthias’s cheek.
"You don’t deserve a single hair on her head. She belongs with me. In my arms. In my bed. That’s where she was always meant to be."
Matthias reached for his cravat and ripped it loose. He wasn’t breathing; he was suffocating on his own rage. The last of his restraint didn’t just break—it vanished.
His fist was a blur, smashing into Cedric’s jaw with a sickening, wet thud. The tavern went dead silent. Matthias lunged across the table, fist bunched in Cedric’s collar, dragging the man up until they were nose-to-nose.
"One more word," Matthias hissed, his voice trembling with a murderous clarity. "One more word, and I will pour everything I have into your carcass. She is my wife, you pathetic rat. Mine."
The punch break the silence; it started the massacre. Cedric hit the floor, his stool clattering away, but Matthias was already on him. He didn’t fight like a knight; he fought like a butcher. Every blow was heavy, precise, fueled by years of silent loathing.
The tavern patrons didn’t move. They watched, paralyzed, as the "noble" Matthias tore into his friend.
Cedric spat a mouthful of red into the sawdust, gasping for air. With a desperate heave, he lunged, driving his shoulder into Matthias’s gut. They crashed into a nearby table, wood splintering under their weight. Cedric swung a jagged hook that caught Matthias’s lip, drawing a thin, hot trail of blood.
Cedric scrambled back, swaying on his feet. His face was a mess of swelling and gore. He pointed a shaking finger at Matthias, his voice cracking with a mixture of pain and disbelief.
"Why do you care so much, you bastard?!" Cedric screamed.
"You don’t even love her! She’s just a mission to you! Another trophy for the Emperor’s dog!"
Matthias stood up slowly. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. A slow, dark smile spread across his face—a look so cold it made the room feel like a tomb. It was the smile of a man who had been keeping a secret for a thousand nights.
The sight of it drained the heat from Cedric’s chest. The rage died, replaced by a sudden, paralyzing horror.
"You..." Cedric’s voice shook. "No. Not you. , Matthias. You’re cold,you can’t be."
He backed away, his voice dropping to a trembling whisper. "How dare you... How dare you actually love her?"
Matthias didn’t give him a second to breathe. He lunged, fist tangling in Cedric’s hair, and slammed him back against the bar. He leaned in, his mouth inches from Cedric’s ear. His voice was a low, lethal whisper.
"Yes," Matthias whispered. The word was cold, heavy with a truth that offered no mercy. "I love her. She is my wife. My property. Is that why you’re playing at rebellion, Cedric? Because you can’t stomach the fact that I won?"
For a second, Cedric looked like a man who had just been executed. Then, the terror vanished. A hollow, unnatural stillness settled over him. A slow, jagged smile curled his bloodied lips—a look of pure, concentrated spite.
"I see," Cedric murmured. The heat was gone from his voice, replaced by a graveyard chill. "Everything is clear now. We’ll see, Matthias. We’ll see if you’re still her husband when this is over. We’ll see if your head is still attached to your neck by the time I’m done."
Matthias let go of him as if he were touching a corpse. He stood up straight, adjusting his cuffs with a calm that was more terrifying than his rage. He looked down at the wreck of the man he used to call a friend.
"I came here to tell you that your games don’t work on me," Matthias said. His voice was flat, final. "Now, I’m going home to my wife. You? You can stay here and rot in the this mess."
He didn’t look back. Matthias walked out into the cold night, leaving the stench of the tavern and the ghost of Cedric behind him.
Olivia had been in the bath too long. The water had shifted from warm to a bone-deep chill, but she didn’t move. She sat in the freezing silence, her fingers drifting through the crimson petals Kira had scattered. They looked like bruised skin floating in a cold, liquid tomb. She wanted the cold to drown the noise in her head and wash away the ink of Elvira’s letter.
Back at the manor, Matthias didn’t go to his room. He knew the truth now—Cedric was the rot at the heart of the rebellion. His feet moved on instinct, taking him to Olivia’s door. He didn’t want to talk; he just needed to see her. He needed to know she was still there to anchor himself.
He pushed the door open without knocking. His breath hitched as he looked at the bed.
Empty.
The sheets were flat, cold, and undisturbed. Panic, hit him in the gut. He surged into the room, his eyes frantic, tearing through the shadows.
"Olivia!" he yelled. His voice broke, carrying the raw terror of a man who had already watched his world burn once.
"Stop shouting. I’m right here."
Olivia stood by the sofa, a glass in her hand. Her nightgown was thin, a pale ghost of a garment in the moonlight.
"Olivia?"
"How did you miss me?" she asked. Her voice was a dry rasp. "Have you gone blind, Matthias?"
Then her eyes caught the light. She set the glass down and moved toward him, her steps silent. She reached out, her fingers cold as ice as they touched his jaw. She traced the splits in his skin and the heavy swelling where Cedric’s knuckles had landed.
"Matthias... what are these?" she whispered. Her face shifted—a brief, sharp flicker of concern. It wasn’t much, but for Matthias, it was enough. "What happened to you?"
He leaned into her hand, his eyes closing for a second. "Nothing," he muttered. His voice was thick, heavy. "Just some scratches."
"Nothing?" Her eyes narrowed. Her thumb lingered on his bruised cheek, pressing slightly. "Where did you get these marks, Matthias? Don’t lie to me."
"Sit," she commanded. It wasn’t a request.
Matthias dropped into the chair, his body finally hitting its limit. As Olivia leaned over him with the antiseptic, the stench of alcohol rolled off him—sharp and bitter, cutting through the smell of blood and sweat.
"That explains the blindness," she said. Her fingers never shook as she worked. "How much did you drink? And who did you have to bleed to get those marks?"
Matthias didn’t answer. He stared into the dark corner of the room, his jaw a rigid line of bone and stubbornness.
"Fine. Stay silent." Olivia stood to put the medicine away, but his hand snapped out. He didn’t just grab her; he lunged, dragging her down with a violent, desperate strength until she was forced onto his lap.
"Matthias... what is this?"
He remained silent. His calloused fingers shoved her hair aside, baring her neck. Before she could pull away, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin above her collarbone—a sharp, stinging bite. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a brand.
"Matthias!" she gasped, her hands slamming against his shoulders. "Have you lost your mind? You bit me."
He didn’t let go. His arms locked around her waist, crushing her against his chest until it hurt. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breath hot and smelling of gin.
"You’re mine, Olivia," he rasped. The words were jagged, slurred by the alcohol. "That’s the truth, isn’t it? Tell me."
"In a way... yes," she whispered. Her heart was thudding hard against his ribs.
"Olivia..."
"What? You’re drunk, Matthias. You can barely speak."
"I met that bastard tonight," Matthias muttered, his voice thick and vibrating with a dark, suppressed energy.
Olivia stiffened in his lap. "Bastard? Who are you talking about?"
"Your former lover."
The word hit the air like a slap. Olivia practically jolted, her hands gripping his shoulders. "You met Cedric? Have you lost your mind, Matthias? You know he’s entangled with my family. You know the risk. Are you insane?"
"Yes," Matthias rasped, his grip tightening around her waist until she was crushed against his chest. He didn’t care about the risk; he only cared about the itch under his skin. "I think I have gone insane. That whore-son claims he knows you better than I do. He talks about you as if you’re still his... and it’s driving me mad."
He buried his face deeper into her neck, his breath hot, smelling of iron and gin. A low, predatory growl escaped his throat.
"I’ve started thinking about killing him, Olivia," he whispered, the words cold and terrifyingly sincere. "I want to open his throat and watch the light leave his eyes. What do you think? Should I kill him? Because I really, truly want to."
"Kill him?"
Olivia leaned back just enough to look him in the eye, her expression as unreadable as a frozen lake. She didn’t flinch at the blood on his face or the madness in his voice.
"You can do whatever you want with him. I don’t care," she said, her voice flat and devoid of any lingering sentiment. "But before you waste your strength on a ghost from the past... what do you say we start by liquidating my younger sister first?"