Chapter 96: Tryant King’s Defination of Love

For a fraction of a second, Florianthum’s perfect smile cracked at the edges. Her knees felt hollow, a hot spike of indignation flaring through her chest.

Not this, her mind snapped, every ounce of her self-respect roaring against the command. I am not a dog to be summoned to your lap. I am not a toy for your amusement.

It took every shred of her willpower to force down the furious, defiant retort threatening to spill past her lips.

She had to play the part to survive, but the humiliation tasted like ash in her mouth. She needed a shield. She needed a delay.

Her gaze flicked downward, anchoring onto the heavy, pristine fabric draping his frame.

"My beloved Lord," she murmured. She didn’t step forward.

Instead, she tilted her head with a delicate, breathless hesitation, her crimson-gloved hand rising to hover just an inch above his knee without actually making contact.

The fine silk of her glove rustled softly in the quiet.

"Your royal, sacred robes..."

She paused, letting her eyes trace the immaculate, swirling patterns of the gold-threaded embroidery catching the violet candlelight.

A large drop of wax fell from a nearby candle, hitting the silver holder with a sharp, metallic clink.

"And the velvet gold threads of this outfit," she continued, her voice dropping into a soft, reverent purr that sounded entirely natural in the freezing air.

She looked back up, meeting his dark, narrowed eyes with a look of pure, self-conscious devotion.

"How could I ever dare to ruin such a chic design..."

At the far end of the hall, the heavy iron latches of the double doors gave a sudden, loud clack, signaling the arrival of the banquet.

"...with my chaotic presence on you?" she finished softly, masking the slight tremor in her jaw with a small, adoring smile.

Beneath the table, safely hidden within the deep shadows of her own gown, her fingers dug so hard into her thigh that her nails threatened to pierce the fabric.

Look at the doors, look away from me,

...her frantic mind roared behind the mask, her pride bruising under the weight of his gaze.

Stay back on your throne, you monster. Let the servants come in. Don’t look at me like you own me.

Vilucious remained perfectly still, his snowy, unblinking face absorbing her words with a terrifyingly vacant stillness.

The heavy gold embroidery on his shoulder didn’t shift an inch.

He didn’t look toward the opening doors; his light slits of eyes remained locked entirely on her, weighing the lie.

The heavy royal doors finally groaned fully inward, the ancient hinges letting out a long, rusted scrape that echoed against the high stone ceiling.

A procession of kitchen servants entered, their leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the crystal floor.

At the center of the line, four men strained against the weight of a massive, rolling drinks wardrobe:

An ornate mountain of carved dark walnut and brass, packed with rows of crystal decanters that chimed softly like distant wind chimes as it moved.

But Vilucious didn’t look at the wine. He didn’t even glance toward the grand display.

Instead, his right hand lifted from the obsidian armrest.

He didn’t snap or shout.

He merely unfurled his long, gold-ringed fingers in a sharp, flat stopping gesture.

The procession froze instantly.

The heavy wheels of the wardrobe skidded a fraction of an inch on the polished crystal with a sharp, piercing squeal before everything went dead silent.

The servants lowered their heads, their breaths pluming into the freezing air, suspended in absolute terror.

Florianthum’s heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, trapped animal. He didn’t take the bait.

Slowly, deliberately, Vilucious shifted his weight.

The royal-blue velvet of his robes rustled with a dry, aggressive friction against the obsidian seat as he straightened his spine, cementing his absolute dominance over the room.

His chin upwards, his unblinking eyes fixed entirely on her as his voice cut through the vast emptiness of the hall.

"In the presence of my kingdom’s lively creations," he began, his reedy drawl carrying a terrifying, booming authority that bounced off the cold stone walls.

He paused, leaning slightly forward so the servants could hear every syllable of his calculated benevolence.

"No one would ever make the Lordess feel low of her presence," he declared, his lips peeling back into that fixed, snowy smile.

He patted his velvet-covered thigh once more, the sound flat and echoing.

"As I announce this, I want her on my lap; as my lady, and my symbol of love."

The words felt like a public execution wrapped in a compliment.

He was using her own excuse about her "chaotic presence" to strip away the last shred of her dignity in front of the help, turning her resistance into a staged performance of his absolute ownership.

Beneath the velvet of her skirt, Florianthum’s knuckles turned a violent, bloodless white as she dug her nails into her palms.

Her skin burned with a fierce, suffocating humiliation.

He wants a doll to display, her mind roared, her pride thrashing violently against the invisible cage he had built around her.

He wants them to see me break.

Every eye in the room was on her now, waiting for the perfect, adoring wife to obey.

The servants held their breath, their heads bowed so low their chins practically touched their collars.

The silence in the banquet hall was thick, heavy, and smelling of the cold walnut wood of the massive wine wardrobe.

Florianthum didn’t snap.

She didn’t let the hot, stinging humiliation show on her face. Her pride was screaming, a raw, furious thing inside her ribs, but she kept her posture fluid.

She took a slow breath, forcing her muscles to relax.

She stood up completely.

Her silk skirts made a soft, heavy rustle against the crystal floor as she stepped out from behind the grand table.

She didn’t hurry.

She walked with a deliberate, calm pace toward his throne, her head tilted just enough to look submissive, though her jaw was clenched tight beneath her smile.

"I cannot say if this is wise, my Lord," she said, her voice quiet but clear enough to carry over the absolute silence of the room.

She stopped a step away from his knee, her crimson-gloved hands folding neatly over her waist.

She looked directly into the light slits of his eyes, her expression shifting into a perfect mask of tender, worried devotion.

"But your reputation is everything to me," she murmured, cutting the sentence with a soft, hesitant breath.

She let her gaze flick briefly toward the frozen servants before looking back at him.

"You are my entire world. I only care about protecting your highest standing in front of the palace."

Vilucious didn’t say a word. He didn’t care about his reputation, and he didn’t care about her praise.

He just stared at her through those dark slits of eyes.

Then, his blue-gloved palm hit his thigh.

Slap.

A single, flat thud. It wasn’t an invite. It was a threat.

Florianthum’s stomach dropped like lead. Her pride sparked hot and angry in her chest, but she swallowed it down until her throat tasted like bile.

She had no cards left to play. She took the final step, turned her back to him, and sat down on his knees.

The cold hit her right through her dress. It wasn’t just chilly; it felt like leaning against a frozen slab of stone wrapped in velvet.

Before she could even settle her weight, his long arm wrapped around her ribs, pulling her back against his chest so hard the breath hitched in her throat.

His hand started moving.

It wasn’t a gentle hold. His fingers slid up the side of her gown, pressing too hard against her ribs, mapping out her shape with a slow, heavy confidence.

He handled her like a piece of property he’d paid too much for, calling it love with every gross, deliberate squeeze.

Florianthum kept her face locked.

She forced her lips to stay curved up, her eyes wide and fake-happy, while inside her head, she was screaming at him to rot.

Down by the doors, a servant finally moved, the leather of his boots scraping loud against the crystal floor.

The man scrambled over to the big walnut wardrobe and yanked the wine section open with a heavy clack.

His hands shook as he grabbed a heavy copper cup, the rim loaded with a bunch of tiny, jagged diamonds that caught the purple light.

He lifted a jug.

The wine went in with a wet, heavy gurgle, filling the copper bowl to the brim.

The second the servant stopped pouring, Vilucious’s hand left her waist.

He didn’t take his eyes off Florianthum’s face, his gaze stayed right on her mouth, watching for a flinch but he threw his left hand out toward the room, his fingers curling into a claw.

Whish.

The copper glass ripped out of the servant’s fingers.

It flew across the empty space like a bullet, cutting the cold air and smacking straight into Vilucious’s open glove with a hard, ringing clink.

He didn’t even spill a drop.

He held it right between their faces and gave his wrist a lazy little twist, making the dark red liquor swirl inside the copper while the diamonds threw sharp, ugly sparks across her eyes.

He didn’t take his eyes off her mouth.

The lazy tilt of his wrist kept the copper glass moving, the dark red wine sloshing right up to the brim.

Then, his hand tilted.

It wasn’t a mistake.

With a slow, deliberate twist of his fingers, he let a heavy stream of the cold liquor spill straight over the edge.

The wine hit her lap.

The dark liquid soaked fast through her silk gown, spreading in a wet stain across her thighs.

The cold bit straight through the fabric like ice water.

Florianthum gasped, her body flinching back in a sharp, violent jerk. The adoring smile broke completely.

"What do you think you are doing?!"

The words ripped out, sharp and full of real, raw anger before she could choke them back.