Chapter 18

Viktor and Amelia sat next to each other, both stiff and silent, as if the very act of sitting together was a punishment in itself.

Amelia stole a glance at Viktor, her hands trembling slightly in her lap. His jaw was tight, the muscles flexing with the strain of his suppressed anger. His eyes, cold and unyielding, stared straight ahead, refusing to meet hers. The scar on his cheek, stark against his pale skin, seemed to deepen in the flickering candlelight. His blonde hair was tied back neatly, but the style did nothing to soften his hardened features.

He hated her. She could feel it in the way his body stiffened whenever she moved, in the way he angled himself away from her as if her mere presence was an affront.

At the head of the table, Malcolm sat like a king surveying his kingdom. He leaned back in his chair, his expression one of boredom and mild disdain as he observed the strained atmosphere he had so carefully orchestrated. To his right sat Viktor, and to his left was Sofia and beside Viktor sat Amelia, her presence an unspoken insult to the gathered nobles.

Julian sat further down the table, her fury barely concealed as she vented her frustrations on the hapless servants. She snapped at one for spilling wine, her voice sharp enough to cut through steel. The servant recoiled, muttering apologies as they scrambled to clean the mess.

The nobles watched the scene unfold, their gazes flickering between Malcolm, Viktor, and Amelia. Whispers passed between them, hushed but pointed.

“Do you believe this?” one noblewoman murmured, her jeweled hand covering her mouth.

“A servant girl,” her companion sneered. “Malcolm has lost his mind. What does he gain by shaming Viktor like this?”

“Perhaps he wishes to punish his brother,” another suggested, his tone dark. “It’s no secret they’ve never been close.”

“Punishment or not, it’s a disgrace,” the first noblewoman concluded, shaking her head.

The murmurs continued, growing louder as the wine flowed and inhibitions waned. The wedding feast, meant to be a celebration, felt more like a trial. The nobles, who had expected grandeur and merriment, found themselves trapped in a web of Malcolm’s making.

Amelia’s gaze dropped to her hands, her fingers twisting the fabric of her gown. She felt like an insect under a magnifying glass, the stares of the court burning into her skin. Every glance, every whispered word, was a reminder of how out of place she was.

Beside her, Viktor shifted, his movements sharp and deliberate. He finally turned to look at her, and Amelia wished he hadn’t. His blue eyes, once warm and full of life, were now icy and filled with contempt.

Amelia’s heart ached.

Across the table, Sofia observed the interaction with keen interest. Her lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile as she sipped her wine.

“What a lovely couple,” she said softly, her voice just loud enough for Malcolm to hear.

Malcolm’s gaze flicked to her, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Lovely, indeed,” he replied, his tone mocking.

Sofia leaned closer to him, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You must be proud of your handiwork, my king. Such a union is… unconventional, to say the least.”

“Unconventional,” Malcolm repeated, his voice cold and detached. “But necessary.”

“Necessary?” Sofia raised an eyebrow. “For whom, I wonder?”

Malcolm didn’t answer, his attention shifting back to the room. The nobles’ whispers had grown louder, their discontent palpable.

Malcolm turned back to the table, his gaze sweeping over the gathered nobles. “Let this feast continue,” he said, his tone icy. “Or leave, if you find it so distasteful. I do not care.”

The nobles hesitated, their expressions ranging from fear to resentment, but none dared to leave.

The celebration dragged on, every moment heavier than the last. Finally, Malcolm rose from his seat, his tall frame commanding the room's attention. His expression was calm, almost bored, as he addressed the gathered nobles.

“Let us call an end to this,” Malcolm declared, his voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. The nobles, who had been waiting for this moment, began to murmur among themselves, the scrape of chairs and shuffle of feet filling the hall as they prepared to leave.

But then, Malcolm did something that silenced the room.

He stepped around the grand table and placed a hand on Viktor’s shoulder, squeezing it . His lips curved into a smirk that did not reach his calculating eyes.

“Well, brother,” Malcolm said, his tone dripping with false affection, “the celebration is over, but there is still one tradition left to uphold.”

Viktor stiffened under Malcolm’s touch, his jaw tightening as he looked at his brother. “What are you talking about?” he asked, though his voice betrayed that he already knew the answer.

Malcolm’s smirk widened. “The bedding, of course. Take your new wife to your chambers, Viktor, and… compensate.”

Amelia froze, the words hitting her like a physical blow.

Malcolm turned his gaze to her, his expression as cold as ice. “Take your wife, brother,” he said again, this time louder, making sure the entire hall could hear him. “She is yours now. Seal the union properly.”

Amelia’s cheeks burned with humiliation. She felt as if the ground had opened beneath her feet, threatening to swallow her whole.

Viktor stood slowly, his movements deliberate. He didn’t look at Amelia as he reached for her hand, his grip rough and unyielding. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice hard and cold.

“No…” Amelia whispered, shaking her head. She tried to pull her hand free, but Viktor’s grip only tightened.

But Viktor didn’t respond. His jaw was clenched so tightly that a vein throbbed in his temple, his anger barely contained. He turned toward the grand doors, dragging Amelia behind him.

Malcolm watched them go, his smirk never faltering. He raised his goblet, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade. “To the bride and groom!” he called out, his tone mocking.

The nobles laughed and cheered half-heartedly, their voices filled with amusement and scorn.

Amelia glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes meeting Malcolm’s for a brief, chilling moment. There was no compassion in his gaze, no flicker of regret or guilt.

She turned away, her heart pounding as Viktor pulled her through the doors and into the dimly lit corridor. The heavy thud of the doors closing behind them felt like a final nail in her coffin.

They walked in silence, the only sound the echo of their footsteps against the stone floor. Viktor’s grip on her wrist was painful, but she didn’t dare protest. She didn’t dare speak.

When they reached his chambers, Viktor shoved the door open and dragged her inside. The room was cold and unwelcoming, the fire in the hearth long extinguished.

He released her wrist abruptly, and she stumbled, catching herself against the edge of the bed. She looked up at him.

“Vikt—,” she whispered.

“Don’t,” he said, cutting her off before she could say another word. “Don’t say anything.”

He turned away from her, his back rigid as he stood by the door. For a moment.

“Get some sleep,” he said.

With that, he left the room, slamming the door behind him.