Chapter 28
Beitram did not inform Cecily of her brother’s death until she gave birth. Only after confirming that the child born into the world was a daughter did he speak, wearing a displeased scowl.
Fainting from the shock, Cecily awoke to wail in agony. The moment she regained enough strength, she refused her husband’s hands for the very first time when he reached for her body.
It was not out of suspicion toward her husband, but because she felt it would be disrespectful to her family. She had not even been granted time to mourn her brother’s death. Beitram, however, did not even snort as he took her by force.
Caressing her tear-streaked skin, Beitram whispered in a frigid tone.
It was from that moment she realized her husband’s demeanor had shifted.
Cecily questioned the servants about her brother’s death, but every last one of them had been silenced by Beitram. Not a soul existed in Balshuin Castle who would speak the truth to her.
After a few months had slipped by in such helplessness, Cecily faced her husband’s true nature for the first time.
Feeling suffocated trapped inside the castle, she had planned to ask him if she could take the children to their country villa. To that end, she had brewed tea herself and carried it toward his study. Around that time, Beitram was extraordinarily busy.
Never once in her life had she heard Beitram speak in a voice so frantic with rage. What was more, he was hurling curses at a royal prince. Cecily was not one to act without decorum, but sensing something grave was afoot, her footsteps hushed of their own accord to eavesdrop.
Cecily trembled, and not merely from hearing her brother mentioned so suddenly. It was the brutal murderous intent dripping from Beitram’s low mutterings. It felt as though the stench of blood brushed past the tip of her nose.
His subordinate knelt as if accustomed to this. Pacing the floor, Beitram demanded,
Cecily nearly collapsed as her legs gave out, barely staying upright by clutching a pillar. The cup rattling in her trembling hands made noise, but fortunately, it went unheard. Beitram had violently swept everything off his desk.
At his subordinate’s words, Beitram flashed a chilling smile. The metallic scrape of drawing steel cut coldly against the ear. Beitram was drawing the sword hung on the wall. Yet the subordinate merely bowed his head before him without fear.
Beitram did not strike the man down. Slashing the blade lightly through the air, he slid it back into its scabbard. Though his face remained sour, his interest had clearly been piqued.
Pausing briefly, the man quietly added,
Beitram clicked his tongue. Wrinkles carved into his brow amidst the chilling frost.
Grimacing at the man’s cautious suggestion, Beitram waved his hand in annoyance.
A fragile, delicate voice sliced through the air. Startled, Beitram and the man whipped their heads around. Holding the teacup, Cecily walked toward them.
The two men exchanged wide-eyed glances. Stepping across the cluttered floor toward the desk, Cecily set down the teacup. Her hollow eyes were completely dry, without a single tear.
Her soft steps continued gently.
Beitram’s gaze landed where her hand was reaching. Cecily offered a faint smile.
“Would my father and brothers still be alive?”
The drawn sword slashed across her throat. The subordinate sprang forward and wrestled the blade from her grip, but red blood was already spurting, drenching Cecily’s green dress.
Beitram caught Cecily as she collapsed. Clamping down on the wound with his massive hand as if strangling her, streams of blood seeped through his fingers. He hissed like a snarling beast.
Gasping eyes met a gaze warped with madness. Beitram smiled, the corner of his mouth twisting up.
The subordinate dashed off like the wind to fetch a physician. Throughout it all, Beitram kept firm pressure on Cecily’s slender throat to stem the bleeding, refusing to yield the slightest opening for her life to slip away. Had the Grim Reaper come to claim Cecily, he would have cut the specter down on the spot.
Drawn by clumsy hands wielding a blade for the very first time, the wound was neither deep enough to kill nor shallow enough for her to wake again. Even now, a year later, she remained asleep, having never regained consciousness.
The people mourned the curse that had befallen House Orr, while engraving sheer terror of Count Balshuin into their minds. They would recoil at the mere sight of a carriage belonging to House Balshuin from afar.
“Waaah!”
Beitram knitted his brows at the sound of the child lying in the cozy little crib bursting into tears. By nature, he detested such pointless banquets, but he endured it because it was politically necessary.
Lately, the grim rumors circulating about House Balshuin had gone a bit too far. People portrayed him as a cold-blooded monster, whispering that every night he drank the blood of the dead and summoned witches for demonic revelries.
Upon hearing word that his three daughters were rumored to eventually meet their mother’s fate—or rather, that he was raising them as sacrificial offerings in the first place—Beitram finally decided to host a birthday banquet for his youngest daughter.
If he had his way, he would have sliced off every tongue that spread such talk, but doing so would mean slaughtering most of his domain’s subjects. Paltry lives they may be, but they possessed their own usefulness.
Nodding at the butler’s quiet whisper, Beitram rose to his feet, instantly drawing the gaze of everyone present. He raised his glass.
