Penelope exhaled slowly, a long, shaky breath slipping past her lips as she looked away.

Suddenly, her knees felt weak, and she found herself longing to sit down, if only for a moment, to process the sheer weight of everything Vincent had placed between them.

But there was nowhere to sit.

In truth, none of this was entirely unexpected. For years, both the royal, imperial courts, and the common people had persisted in accusing Vincent of murdering the late Devereux.

But the crown has dismissed the allegations outright. Officially, the idea that a child could orchestrate such a thing had been deemed absurd.

Yet public opinion had never been nearly so willing to let it go.

People believed what they wished to believe.

Drawing a steadying breath, Penelope forced herself to look back at Vincent. He was watching her in silence, waiting. The tenderness she had glimpsed in those eyes just yesterday was nowhere to be found.

In its place remained a hollow mask. But Penelope refused to be fooled by it.

The more he spoke, the less she believed him. She didn’t believe the nonsense about inheritance, and she didn’t believe the claims about greed.

And she certainly didn’t believe this altar existed because Vincent wanted to celebrate their deaths.

A man who truly felt nothing would not have gone through the trouble at all.

"My choice...right?" She said, her voice quiet but remarkably steady.

She shook her head, a bitter smile touching her lips.

"Does it even matter? It’s become painfully obvious to me that no matter what I say or what I do, you’ll never be able to let go of your suspicions. Yes, maybe I came here hoping to learn more about your relationship with the Late Devereux, but I never came here with the intention of judging you."

She took a hesitant step closer.

"I thought yesterday, we were finally getting somewhere," she continued, her voice faltering under the weight of her emotions. "I thought that we were finally beginning to understand one another. I want to trust you, Vince. I do trust you. And I want you to trust me."

She lifted her gaze to meet his unreadable eyes, her heart aching at the sight of the impenetrable fortress he had built around himself.

"But I don’t see that happening, do I?"

Her shoulders sagged.

"You’ve already decided who I am to you. You’ve convinced yourself that I’m just another enemy waiting for the chance to betray you. How am I supposed to help you, Vince? How am I supposed to stand by your side when you bar the door against me so completely?"

"I don’t need you to stand by me."

The cold finality of his words froze the blood in her veins.

He took another step forward, closing the remaining distance between them until the crisp scent of rain from his heavy cloak enveloped her.

"It would be the height of folly for me to expect your trust, let alone your affection," he continued, his gaze unyielding. "I do not want your love, Penelope. I do not wish it reciprocated. Love is a vulnerability I have no desire to navigate, least of all with you. Such sentiments yield nothing but ruin, and I would prefer if you did not walk down that dark path beside me."

Penelope stared at him, a chill snaking down her spine at the sheer, distorted isolation of his mind. Was he truly going back to such bleak solitude simply because she reached a hand out to him?

"Then what is it you want from me, Vince?" she whispered into the space between them.

"Your presence," he replied instantly, without a shred of hesitation. "You need not help me bear my burdens. I shall remain your shield, your weapon, and your foundation. I will ruin any soul who dares to cross you, and I will lay everything this Empire has to offer at your feet. But I shall do it alone. I have no need for a partner."

He suddenly dipped his head, his shadow consuming her in the dim light of the fortress. "You wish to pay your respects to these people, did you not? Since I am here, let us do so together."

Before the protest could form on her tongue, his hand locked around her waist, hauling her flush against his chest. Penelope gasped, the air leaving her lungs just as he leaned down to claim her lips.

She went utterly rigid in his embrace.

The kiss was entirely devoid of chivalry. 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

It was an act of pure, unfiltered possession. Within her, a tempest raged. A treacherous, lingering urge to yield, to comfort the fractured soul hiding beneath the armor, warred violently with her pride and the fierce desire to chastise his atrocious breeding.

But as his cruel vow echoed through the chambers of her mind, a cold wave of clarity washed over her. There was little to no passion in this embrace, only subjugation.

He was not seeking her, but he was gathering a wall of physical dominance to shut her out entirely.

Gathering every ounce of strength, Penelope wrenched her head back. Her hand flew up, and the sharp crack of her palm echoed off the stone walls.

Her chest heaved with ragged, furious breaths as she stared at him, her hand stinging from the impact.

"What has come over you?"

Vincent’s head remained turned, but he did not otherwise react.

The air in the mausoleum had turned suffocating, thick with the scent of old stone and unsaid words. Unable to bear it a moment longer, Penelope turned on her heels.She gathered the hem of her emerald wool and stormed out, the frantic flick of her leather boots striking heavy echoes off the floor.

Vincent stood perfectly still. He listened to the desperate retreat of her footsteps, followed by the heavy, distant groan of the oak door opening, and then swinging shut.

Outside, Penelope pressed her back against the weathered timber of the door, her breath catching in her throat. A wild, desperate urge to scream into the morning air clawed at her chest.

How had everything shattered so quickly?

Only last night, a fragile peace had bloomed between them. But now that peace has turned to ash. If she had not sought him out here, would things have been different?

Biting her lip to force back the tears that threatened to fall, Penelope pulled herself away from the door and hurried into the courtyard.

Only after the whispers of her skirts had faded into the night did Elias step out from the corner of the building, his gaze fixed on the solitary figure inside.

He stepped quietly into the gloom of the mausoleum, where Vincent still stood like a statue carved of the same cold stone.

He could not help but wonder what manner of words had passed between Vincent and Duke Lucian when the Duke had arrived at the barracks earlier that morn. His Lordship’s temperament had been foul—black as a tempest—ever since that encounter.

Elias let out a low, weary sigh.

He turned his gaze back toward the darkened archway, looking down the path where Penelope’s silhouette had just vanished.

They were at war again, it seemed.

Later on in the day, a parchment arrived containing the long-sought reports regarding Penelope’s maternal aunt and the place they resided.

Armed at last with their location, Penelope retreated to her walnut vanity table, dipped her quill into the inkwell, and began to compose a letter.

Once the wax seal was pressed and cooled, she handed the missive to Francis, who accepted the task with a solemn nod. The man bowed low, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor as he departed to ensure its immediate delivery by the house courier.

Penelope wandered out onto the stone terrace, but the fresh air brought no relief.

She had labored all day to keep her mind occupied, to bury the memories of the mausoleum beneath a mountain of duties, but the distraction had been nothing more than a fragile shield.

"My Lady."

Martha’s quiet voice broke the spell of Penelope’s melancholy. Turning from the balustrade, Penelope watched her maid approach with hurried steps.

With a slight inclination of her head, Martha proffered a small, cylindrical wooden tube. "A maidservant from the House of Viremont brought this, My Lady. She insists Lady Mirabel seeks your immediate attention to it. I hesitated to accept a parcel from a house under serious scrutiny, but the girl wouldn’t leave and claimed the matter was urgent."

"Lady Mirabel?" Penelope’s brow furrowed, a chill of apprehension settling over her. "How is she able to send this despite being under house arrest?"

Penelope took the wooden cylinder, turning it over in her hands. It was a messenger’s vial, its core expertly hollowed out to conceal a tightly rolled silver of parchment.

With nimble fingers, she extracted the scroll and pressed the empty wooden case back to Martha. She unfurled the parchment, her eyes rapidly skimming the frantic script. As the weight of the words registered, her jaw set, and she snapped the letter shut.

"Have the master of the horse prepare the carriage at once," she said to Martha. "We are going to the Viremont estate."