Chapter 14 Between Terror and Light
1369 Words
The Wombshade froze. It stared at him like prey before a predator.
"N-no... I don't want to play anymore... I didn't hurt anyone—I swear—don't unmake me..."
"Then walk yourself back. You're lucky," he murmured. "I'm in a generous mood tonight."
He raised a hand, and from the tiles rose a small, ancient Umbral Gate—a bronze door etched with bloodbound sigils, grinning skulls, and locking chains.
The little creature whimpered.
"Still here?" The man's voice chilled. "Go."
With a screech, the spirit dove into the gate like a flayed rat fleeing flame. It vanished.
So did the gate.
The frost broke. Warm air flooded back in.
I heard soft crying.
"Sophie? Sophie! It's safe now!" I sat up, eyes locked on the man's broad back. "Where are you?"
The door rattled.
"I—I'm stuck," Sophie whimpered. "The lock's broken... I was so scared..."
"It's okay, just hold on." I turned toward the manager—who was still frozen in place, staring blankly at the space where the gate had been.
I took off my heel and flung it at him.
He snapped back to life with a jolt. "You—you banished it..."
"Go get someone to unlock the door!" I barked.
He didn't need to be told twice. Tripping over his own feet, he bolted down the hall.
I couldn't stand.
My ankle had swollen up like a cursed melon. I sat there, hugging my knees, burying my face like an ostrich.
I couldn't hear the familiar icy tone of that man.
I couldn't see his gloved hands.
I couldn't feel the haunting chill he always carried with him.
And yet, he crouched down before me and gently removed the other high heel from my foot.
"Clara," he said.
His voice was low, sharp as winter steel, brushing against my ear like a threat dressed in silk.
I bit my lip and looked up.
There was no obsidian mask.
I'd always known he had a clean, noble forehead with a distinct widow's peak.
But I hadn't known about the burnished gold ring that lined his irises, gleaming like blood-gilded thorns.
I hadn't realized how cruelly elegant his lips were when no shadows veiled them.
And I definitely hadn't expected his bare face to be... more terrifying than the mask.
With one long finger, he lifted my shoe by its delicate ankle strap and dangled it before my face.
His tone was calm. Too calm. "Don't ever let me see you in shoes like this again."
Shoes?
That was what he cared about right now?
My expression froze. Shouldn't he at least pretend to care about the actual swelling?
His gaze flicked to my lower belly, icy and cutting. "If you harm what's growing inside you, I'll make your entire bloodline wish they were never born."
And just like that, I understood.
It wasn't me he cared about.
It was the unborn creature nestled inside me—
The Fatebound Womb, the cursed embryo of his lineage.
I let out a cold laugh. "Of course, Your Lordship. Whatever you command... Crimson Lord."
His eyes darkened, displeased with my sarcasm.
Let him be displeased. What was he going to do—kill me? I was just a walking womb at this point. He needed me alive.
Otherwise, all his precious effort would've been for nothing.
Right then, the mall manager burst back in, dragging a rusty toolbox behind him.
At least the guy hadn't bailed completely.
He yelled, "Excuse me—step aside, both of you! I'm here to break the lock!"
Both of us?
Both?
I blinked at the man beside me. He stood calmly, almost bored, like the chaos around him was beneath notice.
The bathroom door finally swung open, and Sophie tumbled out in tears.
"I swear to God I almost died in there! The lights went out, the door jammed—I heard voices, Clara! Freaking voices!"
She marched up to the manager and gave him a piece of her mind before spotting my companion.
"Wait... damn. Clara, who is this? He looks like a runway model dipped in midnight!"
Her sobs paused long enough for her to beam. "Hey, handsome—got a number?"
Even as her mascara streaked down her cheeks, her inner fangirl had completely hijacked her panic.
Alaric Vexmoor.
That was the name he'd given me.
My great-grandfather had knelt before his sigil, trembling with reverence.
The Crimson Lord of Vexmoor.
The Lord of the Crimson Throne.
To him, I was just a relic. A vessel. A loophole in ancient blood oaths.
And more than that—a womb with a ticking clock.
Sophie was still giggling. "Clara, seriously, when were you planning to tell me you had a guy like this? Look at you! Red cheeks, snuggled against him—so cute I might puke!"
He said nothing. Not a word.
Once she was gone, he picked me up like I weighed nothing, carried me to a shadowed alcove, and with a flick of his finger, carved a glowing sigil in the air.
White light engulfed us like the snap of a spell sealing shut.
Alaric carried me through the white light. It felt like we only took a few steps, but by the time I risked a glance, the brightness had already faded—
And we were in my room.
He set me down on the bed, arms crossed over his chest, his tone razor-sharp. "Bored enough to go hunting phantoms now?"
"...How the hell was I supposed to know there was a wraith in the restroom? I was just out shopping."
His tone sparked a flare of annoyance in me.
Other people get toxic exes.
I got a toxic Crimson Lord.
"You forget what I told you?" he said coldly. "With the sigil-bound fetus now anchored inside you, you should be exercising extreme caution. If there's damage—"
"If there's damage, your precious seven-night effort goes to waste, right? What a shame," I snapped, my voice laced with sarcasm.
What more did he want from me?
I didn't resist. I didn't take the damn pills.
I'd accepted my fate.
Alaric's expression darkened, his glacial eyes gleaming like twin blades.
His eyes were a burnished gold—calm, ancient, unreadable. But when anger flared or blood stirred, a crimson ring bled through the edges of his irises, like the moon veiled in an omen.
a warning coiled in beauty.
"Clara," he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a near growl. "How many times must I remind you? You are bound to me by Crimson Pact. My wife by blood-vow. That will not change—even in death. Start acting like it, and guard what you're carrying."
Beneath his cold fury, I could still taste the bile of old anger.
He never cared about my body, my panic, or my dignity.
He took what he wanted—especially that time in the car.
I'd been paralyzed by fear, my father possibly dying, a Crimson Wraith screeching that it would rip my womb out with its claws—
and he just threw me over his shoulder and used me.
No comfort. No mercy.
Only confusion when I didn't respond like some willing doll.
"Don't romanticize it," I hissed. "Crimson-bound wife? What a joke. I'm just a vessel. A breathing, bleeding womb-for-rent. I'm the bargain bin sacrifice—offered up to pay off a debt, expected to endure in silence. No fear, no pain, no refusal allowed."
Everything I had swallowed for the past week finally broke through.
My father was wasting away on a hospital bed.
Everyone spoke of curses, karmic debt, and soul dues.
No one cried.
No one tried to save him.
This family treated life like a contract and death like punctuation.
Alaric narrowed his eyes. "And what would you have preferred? If someone else had answered the sigil that day—if I hadn't been the one to form your Blood Pact—you'd be no different from that woman—just another puppet— a Bloodbound Revenant Construct under the Crimson Wraith's control. You want to carry his spawn instead?"
My stomach lurched. What the hell was he talking about?
- Writer
