The Evil Ladies Form An Alliance

CHAPTER 25:I Finally Meet You

By the time the night drew to a close, Valerie’s tears had dried, leaving faint traces of sorrow etched on her face. Her words, however, lingered in the air like a haunting melody, resonating deeply within the hearts of those who had witnessed her vulnerability. For the first time, the knights saw her not as an untouchable figure of the court, distant and aloof, but as a woman burdened by a longing she could no longer conceal.

As the hall began to clear, Vice-Captain Enoch found himself tasked with the unenviable job of escorting the drunken lady to her chambers. With great care, he cradled her in his arms, trying his best to avoid aggravating the already precarious situation. Her head lolled slightly, but it wasn’t long before Valerie began to resist.

Emma trailed behind them, wringing her hands anxiously as Valerie squirmed in Enoch’s hold. The lady’s legs kicked wildly, her slippered feet narrowly missing the knight’s shin, while her hands gripped fistfuls of his hair, tugging with surprising force.

"Put me down!" Valerie shrieked, her voice echoing through the dimly lit halls.

"My lady, please," Enoch grunted, wincing as another sharp tug sent a jolt of pain through his scalp. "You need to rest."

Emma hurried forward, her voice soft but urgent. "My lady, let’s return to your room. You’ll feel much better after some rest."

"No!" Valerie snapped, her voice trembling with stubborn determination. "I’ll wait for Ashton here!"

Enoch sighed, his patience thinning but his tone remaining calm. "My lady, the captain will be here before dawn. I promise."

"No!" she repeated, her voice cracking as she twisted in his arms. "I want to wait for him here!"

"My lady," Emma pleaded, trying to reason with her, "you’re going to pull all of Sir Enoch’s hair out. Please, calm down!"

But Valerie was relentless, thrashing and flailing to free herself. As they approached the grand staircase, Enoch paused, realizing the danger of trying to descend with an unruly lady in his arms. He exchanged a brief, desperate glance with Emma before carefully lowering Valerie to her feet.

"Alright, my lady," he said, his voice tinged with exasperation. "We’ll stop for a moment."

Freed from his grip, Valerie immediately clung to the staircase handrail with both arms, her grip tight and unyielding. "I’m not moving!" she declared, her chin lifted in defiance.

Emma crouched beside her, her tone gentle and coaxing. "My lady, please, let us go to your room. It’s cold here, and you’ll be much more comfortable upstairs."

But Valerie only shook her head, her disheveled hair framing her flushed face. "I’m staying here," she muttered, her voice quieter now but no less determined.

Enoch stood back, running a hand through his tousled hair, now thoroughly mussed from her earlier assault. He exchanged a helpless look with Emma, silently pleading for her to take the lead. Emma, in turn, sighed, knowing it would take every ounce of patience to move her lady from this self-imposed vigil.

"Emma, let the lady be."

"But Sir!"

The vice-captain pulled a red stone from his pocket and placed it on the lady's lap carefully. "It's a magic stone, my lady, keep it with you tonight. The night breeze is cold."

"Is it okay to let the lady stay here?" Emma spoke a bit hesitantly."

"Let her be, she'll be okay. Instead, let me guide you to your room my lady." He said, brimming with a smile directly at Emma's.

Emma blushed as her heart skipped a beat. "A-alright, sir Enoch."

As the vice-captain and Emma walked away, Valerie secretly glanced at them. Smiling, she watches Emma and Sir Enoch leave together.

The pounding of hooves echoed through the stillness of the night as a dark horse approached the gates of Henstone Manor. Its rider sat tall, his silhouette unmistakable even in the dim moonlight. The broad shoulders, the upright posture—it was a figure the guarding knights recognized immediately.

"Welcome back, Marquess," they called, their voices steady as they snapped to attention, their armor glinting faintly in the lantern light.

Without a word, Ashton Hawthorne, the Marquess of Henstone, nodded curtly in acknowledgment. The gates groaned open, allowing him to pass. His expression remained impassive, but a deep breath escaped his lips as he crossed the threshold into the manor grounds.

The night air was crisp and cool, a refreshing change from the suffocating stench of blood and decay that had clung to him during the long subjugation campaign. For the first time in weeks, there was no growling of beasts or clash of swords to disturb his senses—only the serene quiet of the estate.

Ashton dismounted swiftly, handing the reins to a waiting stable hand before striding purposefully toward the grand manor doors. Inside, the warm glow of candlelight greeted him, and he instinctively scanned the hall, his sharp gaze sweeping over the familiar surroundings.

And then he saw her.

There, on the staircase, a figure sat slumped against the handrail. Even in her disheveled state, Valerie’s presence was striking. Her head rested awkwardly on the polished handrail, her gown slightly wrinkled, and her hair fell loosely around her face.

Without thinking, Ashton’s steps quickened, his boots echoing faintly against the marble floor. He reached her side in a moment and dropped to one knee before her. His gloved hand extended, trembling slightly as if to touch her face—but it stopped midway.

The memory hit him like a blade to the chest:

"Don’t touch me. You disgust me!"

Her voice, sharp and cold as ice, reverberated in his mind. The sting of her rejection, though it had happened long ago, felt as fresh as the day she had spoken those words. His hand recoiled instinctively, and his jaw tightened.

Now he knelt there, frozen, uncertain. The Marquess who commanded legions on the battlefield found himself powerless before this sleeping woman. His silver eyes softened as they traced the delicate contours of her face—the fair, porcelain skin flushed faintly from the alcohol, the graceful slope of her nose, and her slightly parted lips. She was breathtaking, even in her vulnerability.

She looked like a goddess from some ancient tale, caught in the spell of a deep and unyielding sleep.

Ashton’s gaze lingered, the hardened lines of his face easing as he allowed himself this rare moment of indulgence. He committed every detail of her to memory, as though afraid she might vanish if he looked away.

Then her eyelids fluttered.

His heart jolted, and he froze as those familiar turquoise eyes—vivid and piercing—opened slowly. For a moment, they were clouded with drowsiness, unfocused. Then they locked onto his, and he saw the sharp flicker of recognition.

Her eyes widened in alarm.

"Ashton?" she whispered, her voice hoarse yet laced with disbelief.

The sound of his name from her lips sent a rush of conflicting emotions through him—relief, guilt, longing. But he didn’t move. He remained there, kneeling before her, silently bracing himself for whatever might come next.