Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 33: To Admit Attraction Or Not

Catherine fell asleep... but the sound of raindrops followed her.

And then...inevitably, she was back.

Laurel Fields.

Rain hammered down on her skull, cold and merciless. Her body screamed in protest; every bone aching, her nose and mouth thick with blood. Behind her lay the still form of her loyal knight, face frozen in an expression of devotion that would never fade... because he would never move again.

She was left alone.

Except she wasn’t alone.

He was there.

Maximilian.

He came at her through the rain, fury tearing through him like a living thing. Each step he took felt like it split her heart open, the rain no longer falling on her head but inside her chest, burning it.

This was the nightmare that never changed. The one that returned again and again in this lifetime. The moment her soul refused to walk past. The source of everything.

She had never seen beyond this point.

But... this time...

It was different.

She saw him more clearly now. His sword gleamed dully beneath the iron-grey sky. Her own dagger was icy in her grip as she stepped forward, bracing herself, preparing to do what she had always done. To fight with her last breath.

She could see the blue in his reddened eyes, darkened. And then he shouted.

"Katerina!"

Her name tore through the valley. Even the sky seemed to flinch, the rain falling harder, as if it couldn’t bear the sound of his pain.

He was close now.

And suddenly...

Even as her fingers tightened around the dagger, even as she prepared to drive it into his heart... She felt it.

His fury was not for her.

His gaze slid past her.

His sword was not aimed at her.

It was raised toward someone behind her.

Who—?

She tried to turn.

Pain exploded through her body.

Her breath tore from her lungs. Warmth flooded her hands—too much blood, far too much. The dagger was gone. Her knees buckled.

And then her heart...

Heavens, her heart hurt more than her body ever had.

No... what have I done?

The thought echoed, fractured and desperate, but the answer slipped through her grasp like rainwater.

The battlefield dissolved.

Yet the pain lingered, burning her.

Then... softly... it came.

Her mother’s voice.

A lullaby from another world. Another life.

Apple orchards drenched in sunlight.

The gentle warmth of Elyndra, where grief did not yet exist. Where she was free... to love, to hope, and to live.

The rain softened.

The grey lifted.

Sunlight spilled through the cracks of her dream, and the sound of falling drops no longer hurt.

Everything grew quiet.

Everything grew still.

And at last...

Catherine slept.

-----

When Catherine woke, sunlight was slipping through the tall sash windows, the kind old brownstones loved. Narrow, elegant panes framed in dark wood, the light pouring in at a slant, warm and unapologetically intimate.

She squinted, lifting a hand to shield her eyes.

It took a full minute for the chaos of the previous day to crawl back into her consciousness.

The bracelet lay warm against her wrist, faintly pulsing, as if smug about still being there.

She sighed.

A soft sound drifted from the bedroom.

Curiosity won before sense.

She turned her head.

And there he was.

The bane of her existence.

Wrapped in nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, damp hair still mussed from a shower, skin bare and unfairly, criminally, on display.

He was holding the baby.

Feeding her, one arm secure, bottle tilted just right, posture relaxed and practiced.

Catherine forgot how to blink.

Since when did professors come equipped with shoulders like that?

Defined, broad, dusted with muscle earned, not sculpted in a gym for vanity, but used. His arms flexed subtly as he adjusted the bottle, veins faint beneath skin warmed by the morning light. His abdomen was flat and strong, a tempting V disappearing beneath the towel like a deliberate insult.

The golden late-autumn sun caught in his slightly disheveled hair, turning the dark strands into threads of amber. It glazed his skin in light, softening the hard lines of him into something almost... reverent.

Domestic.

He smiled down at the baby, murmuring nonsense in a low, gentle voice, rocking her with infinite patience.

Catherine swallowed.

Damn him.

He burped the baby expertly, changed her diaper with the calm efficiency of someone who had done this more than once, then rocked her back to sleep—unhurried, attentive, tender in a way that did not match anything she thought she knew about him.

No wonder his sister trusted him with a newborn.

He was good at this.

Perfectly, maddeningly good.

And Catherine hated that a traitorous part of her heart noticed.

He slipped into the bedroom to lay the baby down, and Catherine realized—too late—that she was still staring.

He came back out, sliding into his slippers, arms lifting over his head in a lazy stretch.

His chest flexed.

Actually flexed.

Muscle shifting beneath skin like it knew it was being watched.

"Like what you see?" Maximilian asked, lips curving into a smirk that was far more irritating than it was effective. "All for you, baby."

Heat shot straight to Catherine’s face.

She’d been caught.

Worse... noticed.

Yes, she was attracted. Anyone with functioning eyes would be. And his gentleness with the baby only made it worse, sharp and confusing and deeply inconvenient.

But was she about to admit that?

Absolutely not.

"I have four brothers, Professor," she said briskly, sitting up. "Four very handsome brothers. I have nephews—some older than me. And I’ve seen better men."

She gestured lazily toward him.

"The kind who work ranches. Ruddy men. Sun-browned. Not... Pale... Pasty..." her finger traced downward, deliberately slow, stopping just above the towel. "...Small."

She looked up at him with a smirk sharp enough to cut glass.

"...men."

Her heart was pounding like a guilty thing trapped in her chest, but she met his gaze without flinching.

As long as she pretended, he wouldn’t know.

Right?

Maximilian only smiled wider.

She’d forgotten—conveniently—that he could feel her reactions.

And disinterest was not what hummed through her at all.

"Well," he said lightly, turning toward the bedroom, "to each their own."

He disappeared inside and shut the door.

Catherine collapsed back onto the couch, one hand pressing to her chest as if to keep her heart from staging a rebellion.

"That," she muttered to herself, "was a very close call."

And far more dangerous than she was ready to admit.

He killed your children. Don’t you forget...!

***

Maximilian, standing in front of the mirror with a smile, clutched his chest. He let out a slow, deep breath.

There she goes again...

He finished changing when her scream came from the kitchen.

"Catherine!" he shouted and ran to the kitchen.