Shackled To The Enemy King

Catherine bit her lip, her gaze lingering on the screen a moment longer than necessary. "Why would he want to meet me now?" she muttered, frustration threading through her voice. "I’ve made it very clear I want nothing to do with him."

Maximilian didn’t answer immediately.

He only gave her a look.

A quiet, knowing look that said more than words ever could.

Catherine exhaled, her shoulders dropping slightly. "Right," she murmured, almost to herself.

Of course, Dorian wouldn’t take no for an answer.

"Charlotte would have reached out to him," Maximilian said at last, his tone calm, but edged with something colder beneath. "And Dorian... wants to handle her." His gaze flicked briefly to the phone in her hand. "He wants your audience."

Catherine’s nose wrinkled in distaste.

If he thought dragging another woman into this—hurting her, parading it like some twisted offering, would win anything from her, he had lost his mind long ago.

But still...

Why Charlotte, Catherine wondered. Charlotte could’ve lied when she blamed her father; lied her way out of it. And Dorian knew.

Her thoughts moved faster now, piecing things together, turning over old assumptions she had never questioned before.

"Do you want to save her?" she asked suddenly.

Maximilian’s gaze snapped to hers.

Sharp. Unyielding.

The answer was there even before he spoke.

Catherine huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "Right," she said softly.

His patience. His restraint. That strange, almost frightening mercy... It had never been for the world. It had only ever been for her.

"I always thought it was Dorian’s father-in-law who wanted your son’s blood," Maximilian continued, his voice lower now, more deliberate. "But I’m doubtful after meeting her. Charlotte... she was definitely involved."

Catherine swallowed. The implication settled heavily in her chest.

Dorian wanted her there, to witness him getting back at her son’s killer, to see what he would do to the one responsible. But...

Her fingers tightened around her phone.

Dorian was there. She had left their son under his

protection. It was one of the reasons she believed it was Maximilian who killed her son, because that was the only way Dorian could have missed protecting her son. Dorian always had a blind spot when it came to Maximilian, and Maximilian had always outsmarted Dorian.

But Maximilian... hadn’t been involved.

So if Maximilian wasn’t the cause... Then what did that leave?

Her heartbeat grew louder, heavier.

Complacency.

Negligence.

Or worse.

Her chest burned, something raw and furious clawing its way up her throat. For so long, she had told herself a version of the story she could survive.

But this...This was harder to look at. Harder to forgive.

A father let his own blood die for whatever reason.

She didn’t want to be part of it. Of any of it. Let them tear each other apart if they wished—burn everything they had left in their own ruin.

She should ignore it and walk away, leaving Dorian to his obsessions. But her fingers moved anyway, almost on their own.

"I should just—" she muttered, already typing. "Maximilian doesn’t let me."

A quiet chuckle slipped from beside her.

Catherine shot him a look, lips pulling into a small, reluctant pout. Of course, he didn’t mind what she did. Of course, he would let her... But...

No. Not this. Not when it dragged her back toward something that could still hurt her.

She let out a breath and deleted the message.

"Why?" Maximilian asked.

Catherine hesitated, then looked at him properly.

"I don’t want his anger turning toward your family," she said quietly. "You have people... your mother, your sister, your niece..."

People he loved. People who could be hurt. People she didn’t want caught in something that had nothing to do with them.

For a moment, Maximilian said nothing. Then he stepped closer, close enough that the space between them felt almost nonexistent.

When he spoke, his voice was low. Steady. Certain.

"They’ll be safe."

His eyes held hers, not soft, not gentle this time, but resolute in a way that felt immovable. A promise.

"It’s better not to provoke him," she said quietly.

It wasn’t fear speaking—at least, not in the way it once had. It was exhaustion. A deep, bone-weary kind that came from too many battles, too many losses, too many moments where everything had spiraled far beyond her control. She knew Maximilian would protect his family. She knew, without question, that she herself was safest with him.

And yet... she no longer wanted safety that came at the cost of another war.

She just wanted it to end.

If she stayed still, if she refused to engage, if she let Dorian burn himself out alone—

Maybe he would leave her alone, and then she could be happy.

Maximilian exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting away for a moment. He understood exactly what she was thinking.

And he knew it wouldn’t work.

Men like Dorian did not retreat, not unless they were forced to.

"It was Charlotte’s," he said.

Catherine blinked, her thoughts momentarily disrupted. "What?"

"You asked me... whose blade pierced me." His eyes returned to hers, steady, unflinching. "It was Charlotte’s."

The words settled heavily.

Fragments of memory stirred... disjointed, blurred at the edges, but sharp enough to hurt.

Charlotte was behind her. Maximilian was rushing forward. There was steel, chaos... breathlessness, and the relentless hammering of rain.

"Did you get hurt to protect me?" Catherine asked, her voice softer now, almost hesitant.

Because there was no other explanation.

There was no world in which Charlotte could have overpowered him, not unless... She was too focused on killing Maximilian in front of her, she didn’t see who was behind.

"She had two daggers," Maximilian said, his tone turning rougher, less certain. "And you were in my arms... it just—" He let out a quiet scoff, as though frustrated by the gaps in his own memory.

He didn’t remember it clearly. Not the sequence. Not the logic. It all happened too fast. He only remembered the outcome.

"But my hands were covered in blood," Catherine whispered, her fingers curling slightly as if she could still feel it there. "I thought... it was yours. That I..."

Maximilian shook his head.

Then, without a word, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"It was your blood."

Catherine stilled. "I was hurt, too?" she asked, uncertainty flickering across her face. "Did Charlotte stab me first?"

Maximilian didn’t answer immediately.

His throat moved as he swallowed, something tightening in his expression—something darker, heavier. That moment... what came after... it wasn’t just a memory for him.

It was a wound.

"You got hurt," he said finally, his voice unsteady now, "because you couldn’t hurt me."

Catherine frowned, confusion knitting her brows. "Because of the armor?"

"No." His gaze sharpened slightly, searching hers. "I wasn’t wearing an armor. You remember that... don’t you?"

Something shifted. Slowly, like a door creaking open in the back of her mind.

The rain... Cold, relentless, soaking through everything.

The distant roar of armies.

And him..

She had lifted the dagger. She had meant to strike. She had thrust it forward... But at the last moment...

Her breath caught.

"No..." she murmured, her voice barely there.

She remembered now. The force of it. The way her own hand had betrayed her. The way the blade had turned, just enough...

Instead of piercing him, it had sliced into her own palm, the pain sharp and immediate as she fought against her own strength.

Because she couldn’t do it.

She hadn’t been able to kill him.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted her hand, her gaze drifting to the bracelet resting against her wrist. "You had this," she said, her voice quieter now, almost distant. "That day..."

She remembered seeing it.

Seeing him with it.

And in that moment, something inside her had shifted. All that anger and certainty... gone, as if it had never truly belonged to her in the first place.

Maximilian let out a slow breath. "I always had it with me," he said. "I got it from the lake."

Catherine’s mind raced, thoughts tangling over each other, trying to make sense of it all. The bracelet. The memory. The way everything seemed to circle back to that single moment.

"This curse..." she murmured. "It didn’t start because of you, did it?"

"I did not put this curse on the bracelet," Maximilian said immediately.

There was a quiet urgency in his voice now, as though he could feel the direction of her thoughts, and the way they might spiral if left unchecked. The faint echo of pain from the bond stirred in his chest, a familiar warning he had come to recognize all too well.

He didn’t want to go back to that painful distance and that agonizing doubt.

Catherine looked up at him. Really looked. And whatever she saw there... it steadied her.

"I know," she said softly.

The tension in his shoulders faltered.

She stepped closer, her fingers finding his hand without hesitation this time, holding it gently but firmly.

"I know," she repeated, quieter now, but certain. "I meant... who triggered that curse?" she asked.

"Was it me?"

She didn’t remember everything, but she remembered enough that she had died with regret. Did she want a second chance with Maximilian and put the curse?