Chapter 4: The Aftermath
Nyrielle stormed away from Eryx, fists clenched so tightly her nails dug crescents into her palms. His laughter still echoed in her skull, a vicious reminder that he had smelled it—what she had done. Who she had become.
She couldn't face her father like this.
Not like this.
Not when the scent of him still lingered on her skin, in her hair, beneath her nails.
She turned down the corridor, not toward the study but up the servants' staircase—the one that bypassed the main hall entirely. Her steps were brisk, trembling with restrained panic, and her throat ached with the pressure of unshed tears. She wouldn't cry. Not for Eryx.
Her bedroom door was already ajar.
Inside, soft lamplight flickered.
Renna stood near the window, folding a freshly pressed gown over her arm. The scent of lavender and steam clung to the room like comfort, and from the adjoining washroom came the quiet gurgle of water being drawn. Her familiar warmth, her calm presence, was enough to unravel something in Nyrielle's chest.
Renna looked up as she entered. Her eyes softened. "You're back."
Nyrielle could barely nod. She didn't trust her voice.
"I didn't expect you through the servant hall," Renna murmured, already crossing the room to close the door behind her. "But I figured you'd need to clean up. I started the bath as soon as I saw the carriage."
Nyrielle finally met her gaze. "You knew he was here?"
"Of course. I attended to him when he arrived, He's in the study." Renna's voice was gentle. "Waiting."
Nyrielle stiffened.
"I'll handle your brother," Renna added quietly. "He won't go near you again today. Not if he values his teeth."
That almost made her smile.
Almost.
Renna set the gown down and stepped toward her, hands busy unfastening the laces at Nyrielle's back. "You don't have to tell me what happened. Not now. But I can guess."
Nyrielle looked down at her hands. They were trembling.
"Come," Renna urged, guiding her toward the washroom. "One problem at a time, milady."
The steam was already curling through the room, thick with the scent of lavender oil and dried rose petals. The bathwater was warm, inviting. A temporary sanctuary.
Nyrielle stood there a moment, frozen at the edge. Then she said, quietly, "Renna… can you smell it?"
The maid paused. Her hands stilled.
Nyrielle turned to face her, voice smaller than before. "I mean—me. Can you smell it?"
Renna met her gaze, unflinching. "It doesn't matter."
"It does," Nyrielle insisted. "Eryx—he said—"
"It doesn't matter what Eryx said." Renna stepped forward, brushing a damp strand of hair from Nyrielle's cheek. "What matters is that you bathe, you breathe, and you walk into that study with your head held high. Do you understand me?"
Nyrielle swallowed hard.
"Let's take care of one thing at a time. That's all you need to do right now."
With that, Renna stepped back, giving her space. Nyrielle undressed slowly, each layer feeling heavier than it should, until she finally stepped into the bath. The water wrapped around her like a balm, and for a few heartbeats, she let herself sink beneath it.
She scrubbed until her skin ached. Until the scent faded—or she hoped it did. Renna waited patiently, never speaking unless necessary, and when Nyrielle stepped out of the water, she found a soft robe and a fresh shift waiting.
Renna dressed her with practiced hands. The gown was a rich burgundy silk that complimented the fire still smoldering in her spirit. Her hair was twisted into a loose chignon, pinned delicately to show her neck—the one place that still felt his.
Nyrielle stared at her reflection, unable to recognize the girl in the mirror.
"Ready?" Renna asked softly, brushing invisible dust from her shoulder.
"No," Nyrielle whispered.
But she turned and left the room anyway.
The door to the study stood half-open.
Nyrielle paused, smoothing her skirts with a hand that trembled despite the warm bath. The scent of jasmine clung to her skin, but she couldn't tell if it masked what her brother had smelled — or if it simply made it worse. Her collarbone still bore faint traces of pressure where unfamiliar hands had claimed her hours ago.
A different kind of mark waited behind that door.
She stepped inside.
The study was dim, lit only by the filtered light from a high-arched window. Dust motes spun in the quiet. Books lined the walls like sentinels, their spines old and worn — and at the far end, a man stood before the hearth, stiff-backed, arms clasped behind him.
"Father," she said softly.
Lord Veyne turned.
His face was carved from stone. Silver hair swept back in sharp order, a military cut to his jaw, his eyes like shards of slate — cool, cutting, unreadable.
"You kept me waiting," he said.
Nyrielle bowed her head. "I came as soon as I returned."
"Returned from where?" he asked, voice low and even. Not a demand. A test.
She met his gaze. "I needed air."
"You needed air." His lips curved slightly. "Is that what they call it now?"
She didn't blink. "I walked. Toward the cliffs."
He moved toward her, each step deliberate, measured. Not anger. Not affection. Just calculation.
"You disappeared overnight. Without your maid. Without protection. Do you realize what that looks like?"
"I wasn't thinking of appearances."
"No. You never are." He circled her like a wolf assessing a weak deer — though they shared the same blood. "There are whispers already. You've been seen with strangers. You vanish. You return… changed."
Her spine stiffened. "I'm the same."
His hand reached out — not roughly, not tenderly — and tilted her chin upward with two fingers. "Are you?"
Nyrielle said nothing.
"Do you understand what you are?" he asked. "What you're not? You think you can behave like a wild girl from the outer packs, running through the night, but you are wolfless, Nyrielle. Fragile. Prone to scandal. Born beneath a hollow moon."
She flinched at the old phrase.
He dropped his hand.
"You're lucky the world still believes your blood matters," he said. "And while that illusion holds, we must preserve it. I can't have you sullying it with reckless vanishing acts and whatever else you think passes for rebellion."
She stood rigid, the shadows of the study crawling across her feet.
"Why did you come?" she asked.
Lord Veyne turned to her fully now, his expression carved from frost and stone.
"Your wedding is in three days."
The words dropped like a lead weight.
Nyrielle froze, mouth dry.
He didn't wait for a response.
"There will be no more disappearing, no more tantrums, and no more resistance."His tone was cold, rehearsed. "From tomorrow, you'll begin learning how to act as a noble wife—how to kneel when required, when to speak, when to keep your head down. What to do to avoid provoking him."
A beat passed.
"If you're fortunate, he'll let you live through the first week."
It knocked the breath from her lungs.
Her fingers curled into the folds of her gown. "So that's it? You're teaching me how to survive being sold?"
His eyes narrowed slightly—not in shame, but in annoyance."If survival is what it takes, then yes."A pause. Then, colder still:"And you'll come to understand that this—this obedience—is a gift."