Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 40: Worlds Apart

Catherine looked at him.

His gaze kept drifting... betraying him... down to her lips, lingering there as though he meant to devour her whole. His own lips were parted, breath uneven, restraint visibly fraying at the edges.

Breathing through her nose wasn’t enough.

Her chest rose sharply as she opened her mouth and dragged in a greedy breath of air. The sound was soft, but it echoed between them like a confession.

His eyes snapped back to hers.

Slowly, deliberately, his grip loosened around her wrists.

She felt wrong. That much was undeniable.

But scared?

No.

Not of this.

She was afraid of what he could mean for her family... for the people she loved and would burn the world to protect.

But this... this heat curling low in her body wasn’t fear. It was startling. Disorienting. And far too honest.

Warmth spread through her, deep and consuming, comfortable and dangerous warmth. And he was burning.

She had lived once before. She didn’t need innocence or instruction to recognize that kind of heat.

Catherine took a steadying breath.

Just because something existed didn’t mean it had to be acted upon.

Maybe he realized it too.

He pulled back.

Slowly. Painfully. He sat on the edge of the bed, turning his back to her... shoulders rigid with restraint, spine straight as if holding himself together by sheer will.

That dream surfaced unbidden for Catherine... the one she hated remembering. Him, lifting his sword and charging at someone behind her, and that dreadful feeling that she had done something irreversible.

She remained where she was, staring at the ceiling, chest still heaving. Her lips tingled with an unwelcome sense of disappointment. She covered her face with her hands, rubbing hard as if she could scrub the feeling away.

When she turned her head, she saw his back.

Was he feeling what she felt?

Obviously.

Could he overpower her if he wanted?

Yes.

But he hadn’t.

Did she trust him?

No. Never.

Those truths contradicted each other... and yet they all coexisted.

"It must be the curse," she muttered, half to answer him, half to convince herself.

Even as the words left her lips, they rang hollow.

It felt less like truth and more like refuge.

Maximilian turned.

She didn’t look at his face, but she felt his gaze on her—heavy, searching. He exhaled slowly, as though gathering what remained of his control.

"Shall we?" he asked.

"Yes," Catherine replied, drawing in a breath as she sat up.

He stood and walked away.

One meter. Two.

Before he reached three, fire lanced through her wrist.

"Stop!" she shouted—raw, desperate, furious at her fate.

He froze.

Their eyes met. No explanation was needed.

The distance had shrunk again.

Dragging her suitcase behind her, Catherine stepped out. Without a word, Maximilian reached for it and took it from her hands... as naturally as if this were what they’d always done.

She let him.

And that, somehow, frightened her most of all.

On their way back, Maximilian slowed the car and turned into a massive complex.

"This is the biggest Meridian here," he said, almost casually.

Catherine stopped at the entrance, staring up at the bold letters: Meridian Wholesale.

It had been... a while.

She usually had her groceries delivered. Actually, she didn’t even remember ordering half the things in her apartment. Essentials simply appeared, as if summoned by some invisible household deity.

She stepped inside.

Maximilian blended oddly well with the crowd; there were others like him too: efficient, wealthy, purposeful. Meridian wasn’t just a store; it was a kingdom for people who liked bulk, quality, and quiet prestige.

Catherine, on the other hand, wandered.

She drifted past shelves of strange figurines and unnecessary-but-charming household gadgets, momentarily forgetting the burn, the curse—probably because Maximilian stayed close, even when he muttered in irritation at poorly arranged aisles.

He paused at the baby section. Then the meat section.

For me, she realized.

She reached for Laurel Creek Reserved Meats and dairy from Laurel Creek Creamery without hesitation. She trusted her family’s products more than anything. Every time someone else picked them too, her lips curved unconsciously.

Maximilian, meanwhile, filled the cart with organic and vegan labels. Even the dog food.

She stared at it. "Poor puppy," she murmured.

At checkout, before Maximilian could present his royal-blue membership card, Catherine handed over hers.

Black. Matte. Gold-embossed logo.

The cashier froze.

After swiping it, her eyes widened. A discreet button was pressed. Moments later, the manager hurried over, all smiles and deference.

"We’ll have everything delivered to your doorstep," she said warmly.

Maximilian tried to protest. The manager looked almost offended at the idea of refusal.

As they walked away, he stared at Catherine.

"What’s with that black card?" he asked. "Why was everything... free?"

She didn’t answer. Just shook her head and walked ahead.

"...Don’t tell me," he muttered, already searching.

A second later, he exhaled slowly.

"Of course."

Jonathan Ellis Preston. CEO.

Victoria Lynn Whitman-Preston. Chairwoman.

Her brother. The one who married the heiress of the biggest membership-based warehouse retailer in the country.

Maximilian laughed under his breath. "Why didn’t I think of that?"

They reached home.

Catherine lingered nearby as Maximilian settled into his familiar routine, handling the baby with the ease of someone who’d done this far too many times to still be nervous. The baby, too, was... unreal.

No incessant crying.

No colic.

No dramatic tantrums.

She blinked, ate, pooped, slept—cried only when she was hungry. She didn’t mind being alone. Didn’t fuss. Didn’t cling.

A perfect baby.

A beautiful, impossibly perfect baby.

No wonder the mother had left her without a trace of worry.

Maximilian was in the middle of feeding her when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen.

Mom.

Catherine blinked.

If his mother is alive... why would his sister leave the baby with him?

That was... strange. Suspicious, even.

"Answer it, please," Maximilian said calmly. "Tell her I’ll call her back."

Before she could think better of it, Catherine picked up the phone.

"Hey there, son," a woman’s voice chimed—warm, cheerful, unmistakably affectionate. Just a touch possessive.

"Mrs. Whitmore," Catherine said politely, "sorry—Professor Whitmore is—"

Her sentence never made it to the end.

The voice on the other side dropped several octaves.

Cold.

Sharp.

Like the Antarctic snapping shut.

"And who," the woman asked slowly, "might you be?"

Catherine stiffened.

"Ah... I’m Catherine Preston. Professor Whitmore—"

"You’re in his house?" the woman cut in.

"Yes," Catherine said carefully.

She winced internally. Professor had been a mistake. Mothers were sensitive creatures; territorial by instinct. And she was right to worry.

"He’s not my professor," she corrected quickly. "I’m just... just a friend."

She glanced at Maximilian, silently pleading for him to intervene.

He didn’t.

He sat there with the baby and the bottle, serene as a monk, as if this had nothing to do with him.

"I’ll pass the phone to—"

"No."

The single word was razor-sharp.

"Friend?" the woman repeated.

"Uh... yes."

"Preston," the voice said coolly. "What does your father do?"

Catherine frowned. "He... owns a ranch?"

"A ranch," the woman echoed, unimpressed. "And how big would this ranch be?"

"About five hundred—"

"Five hundred acres," she interrupted. "That’s not very big, is it?"

Catherine closed her eyes.

She looked at Maximilian again. He didn’t even blink.

Fine.

If he wasn’t going to save her, she’d save herself.

She inhaled slowly... then exhaled.

Her lips curved into a smile: sharp, controlled, unmistakably dangerous.

"Well," Catherine said smoothly, her voice suddenly unshakable, "that depends entirely on what one considers big, doesn’t it?"

And just like that...

The conversation shifted.