Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 42: Nostalgic Memories

Catherine waited outside the bathroom door in her pajamas, arms folded, foot tapping softly against the floor.

Maximilian took far too long.

His bathroom was enormous; they could barely get in the shower with the other just outside the door, and if the cursed distance shrank even a little more, she had the grim suspicion she’d be forced to share a shower with him.

She did not want that.

Her gaze drifted back to the bedroom. The baby slept peacefully in the bassinet, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. A low, comforting hum filled the room; white noise, she realized, before correcting herself.

No.

The radiator.

Still... it worked.

Her eyes slid, traitorous, to the bed.

Solid wood. Old but well-kept. A thick mattress, plush pillows, silk sheets that caught the soft light like water. Her heart thudded oddly in her chest at the sight of it, for reasons she refused to examine too closely.

The bathroom door opened.

Maximilian stepped out, sleeves rolled, hair damp, the air subtly warmer with his presence.

"I can’t sleep on the couch tonight," Catherine said quickly, before her courage evaporated.

He nodded.

Without a word, he opened the wardrobe, pulled out a folded duvet, and laid it neatly on the floor beside the bed. He took one of the pillows from the bed and tossed it onto the makeshift setup with practiced ease.

Catherine stared.

"...Okay," she muttered. "That works."

She was just about to lower herself onto the floor when his voice stopped her.

"You take the bed," Maximilian said. "I’ll take the floor."

"Oh, thank God," Catherine blurted out.

She clapped once, a little bounce of relief escaping her before she could stop herself.

"Have you heard of The Princess and the Pea?" she said brightly. "I’m that princess. I can’t sleep just anywhere."

She looked at him then, smiling... one of those unguarded smiles that could soften stone.

"Thank you."

Maximilian simply stared at her.

Utter disbelief.

How is she real?

And worse... she was right there.

Catherine suddenly remembered that she was acting cute, and she wasn’t surrounded by her brothers anymore. The smile faded, carefully folded away. "Thanks," she said again, quieter this time.

She turned and lay down on the bed, facing away from him.

Maximilian smiled to himself.

He helped pull the duvet over her shoulders first; only then did he lie down on the floor with a soft thump.

Warmth spread slowly through Catherine’s body. She exhaled, her muscles loosening as a familiar scent wrapped around her—sandalwood, softened by rose. Gentle. Grounding. Almost... lulling.

She smiled despite herself.

Then... her eyes snapped open.

That scent.

It was familiar because it had always been his.

In their past life.

On the rare days they weren’t at war.

Does he still choose it? The thought slipped in, uninvited.

Her body went still for a heartbeat.

Then the warmth settled again. The scent lingered, steady and unassuming, and she relaxed despite herself.

Just this once.

"Do you remember?"

Just as sleep was about to claim her, Maximilian’s voice brushed against her senses... soft, almost hesitant.

"That time I made fun of you for falling off the pony?"

Catherine did remember.

"I did not fall," she corrected at once, rolling onto her side to face him. "You made me fall. You were screaming at the top of your lungs and I—"

"I merely stated that your pony had four legs," he said calmly. "Which is a verifiable fact. I still don’t understand why you fell."

Just like when she was four, Catherine bristled. "You were yelling like something was horribly wrong!"

"I was providing useful information."

"How very mature," she scoffed.

He shrugged. "I try."

She stared at him for a moment, then her lips curved. "I did get back at you, though."

His brow lifted warily. "Oh?"

"I pushed you into the well."

"Hey!" He propped himself up on one elbow. "I almost drowned!"

"My mother and I jumped into that well for fun during summers," Catherine said breezily. "And honestly... what kind of seven-year-old doesn’t know how to swim?"

"I didn’t," he shot back, then flopped dramatically onto his pillow, dragging the duvet up to his chin like a mortally wounded man. He stared at the ceiling as if betrayed by the universe.

Catherine smiled despite herself.

She remembered it vividly now... the panic, the shouting, the moment she saw him flailing below and jumped in without thinking. Others had followed, pulling him out, sputtering and humiliated.

"Was that..." Maximilian’s voice dropped, quieter, thoughtful. "Our first kiss?"

Her heart skipped.

She had tried to save him... artificial respiration, mouth-to-mouth... whatever it was called. But a kiss?

Her face burned, heat creeping down her neck.

"I remember being punished for attempting to assassinate His Royal Highness," she said instead.

She hadn’t been given dinner for a week. She’d smuggled bread and fruit in her skirts, eating in secret under the covers.

Maximilian laughed softly. "I learned to swim that week," he admitted. A pause. "I was... embarrassed. Being saved by someone younger..."

Silence settled between them—not awkward, but gentle. A rare, fragile stillness filled with memories that didn’t ache. Her childhood had been happy. Bright. Whole.

But...

Before her thoughts could darken, the baby stirred.

"Ah," Maximilian said, already sitting up. "Bottle time."

Catherine followed him to the kitchen while he prepared the milk. On the way, she scooped the baby up without thinking. She always did. She’d never met a baby she hadn’t held. For reasons she didn’t understand, babies seemed to like her.

She leaned against the counter, watching as Maximilian worked. The baby blinked up at her, calm and trusting, as though she already knew she would be fed, that there was no need to cry.

Catherine brushed a finger over the baby’s soft, rosy cheek.

You carry his blood.

The thought slid into her mind like a blade.

He took my son’s life. If I took yours... would the scales balance? It would be easy. Just a little pressure...

The baby stared up at her, blue eyes wide.

Then...

She smiled.

A simple, toothless smile.

It struck Catherine’s chest like a wrecking ball.

Shame followed instantly—hot and suffocating. For that fleeting, terrifying second, she wondered if she was still trapped in the past... if grief had hollowed her out so completely that she could think something so monstrous.

Am I becoming someone I don’t recognize?

She gasped, thrust the baby into Maximilian’s arms, and turned away, drawing in a shaky breath.

She hated the thought. Hated herself for it.

To even imagine hurting a child... because of blood, because of vengeance... No. That wasn’t her. That could never be her.

I need to end this, she thought desperately. Soon.

Before it ends me instead.

-----

The next morning, Catherine accompanied Maximilian to the university.

He did it as though it were the most natural thing in the world... walking beside her, matching her pace, opening doors without comment. There was no hesitation in him, no hint of self-consciousness, as if bringing her into that part of his life required no explanation at all.

He was someone who brought his dog to work, after all.

Catherine, on the other hand, was far less at ease.

They were almost at the gates when someone stepped into their path.

An older woman.

She wore dark, heavy robes, a hood casting deep shadows over her face. She moved with unsettling certainty, as if she had been waiting—counting seconds rather than minutes.

Catherine slowed. Something cold slid down her spine.

The woman’s gaze fixed on Catherine’s wrist.

Her breath hitched.

"I never believed I would live long enough to see it," the woman said, voice trembling with awe... and fear.

Her eyes lifted, sharp and burning beneath the hood.

"The Soul Shackle."