To Love A Villain-Chapter 204: A Wolf And A Fae

>>Enya

I stumbled back a step, heart slamming against my ribs like it was trying to escape. My hand flew to the wall beside me, steadying myself against the slick, cold stone. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. That look—feral, blistering, the kind of hatred that could set bone to ash.

"Shit," I hissed under my breath, my voice cracking. "Damn you, Father."

But then something shifted. Not in him—but in me.

He didn’t move.

No—I looked again at his chains and how he was bound to the wall. He couldn’t move. The chains allowed minimum movement.

The chains at his wrists had no slack, pulling his arms taut above his head. His ankles, too—iron cuffs biting into torn skin in one foot, fastened so tightly he could barely shift his weight. Every muscle in his body was trembling with strain. If he could have lunged at me, he would have. But he couldn’t even reach.

My eyes flicked to the little girl again, still lying there on the filthy ground like a broken doll. Her shallow breaths were the only proof she was alive.

And suddenly, the fear that had gripped me eased. Just a little. Enough for my voice to find its footing.

"I’m not here to hurt anyone," I said, lifting my hands, palms open. "I didn’t know... I didn’t know anyone was even down here."

No response.

He just stared at me with that same intensity, like he was waiting to see if I’d lie next.

"I swear it," I went on, my voice gentler now. "They threw me in here. My father—our Duke—he thinks I tried to steal from him. I didn’t. I was trying to get medicine for my brother and they..." I trailed off, swallowing.

Still nothing. Not a word. Not even a blink.

"I don’t belong here," I whispered, more to myself than him. "Just like you don’t. Just like she doesn’t."

He didn’t believe me. I could see it in the way his mouth stayed tight, the way his eye didn’t waver. I don’t know what they both did, but I’m sure they are being held here for the sole reason that neither of them are human. Because even human criminals are given better treatment than this.

I took a careful step forward, slow enough not to startle him.

"I’m Enya," I said. "And I don’t know who you are or what they’ve done to you, but I’m not part of it. I won’t hurt either of you."

His eye flicked toward the girl, then back to me. Still silent.

I let out a sigh, I guess he doesn’t want to talk.

I looked down at the cold floor, then let out another sigh. It’s not like I can do anything else. So I walked to the wall, opposite to the one the man was tied in and sat down against it.

***

>>Einar

My head felt like it had been stuffed with soaked cloth—heavy, damp, and throbbing with every beat of my pulse. Sweat clung to my skin despite the chill in the room. I could barely move beneath the weight of the blankets, though they might as well have been iron sheets for how sluggish I felt.

The world around me was dulled, a distant, blurred thing. The curtains were drawn, but even the sliver of light peeking through was too much. My body ached down to the marrow.

I must have dozed off again when—knock knock.

My eyes blinked open slowly, lashes sticking together from the fever.

The knock came again. Sharper. More real.

"Come in," I rasped, barely loud enough.

The door creaked open. I expected a maid. Maybe a nurse, which would be an impossible dream coming true.

It wasn’t them though.

"Emrys?" My voice cracked more from disbelief than dryness.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft thud. His red hair was tied back, his green eyes unreadable as always, though they lingered on me for longer than I expected.

He didn’t look angry. Or smug. Just... composed. Like he was going through the motions of something rehearsed.

Without a word, he walked over to the bedside table, set down a small glass vial and a wooden cup, and began pouring the medicine with a careful hand.

"You’re giving me that?" I asked, my brow furrowing weakly. "You never—" I stopped, coughing into the crook of my arm.

Still, he didn’t say a word. Just moved closer, sliding an arm behind my back with a surprising gentleness, lifting me upright with minimal strain. I was too weak to protest, too stunned by the whole thing to stop him.

The motion sent a wave of nausea through me, but I breathed through it. When he finally brought the cup to my lips, I drank. Bitter. Thick. Familiar.

My head lolled slightly as I swallowed the last of it, and I blinked up at him, squinting through the haze.

"Where’s Enya?" I murmured, my voice hoarse but insistent. "She was supposed to come back hours ago. She said... she said she’d get more of the whiteleaf extract."

His hand paused, still holding the empty cup.

Silence.

He didn’t answer.

He wouldn’t even look at me.

That was when I felt it—like the fever had broken just long enough for the chill to set in.

He helped ease me back onto the pillows, movements methodical, precise. Not cold. But not kind, either.

"Emrys," I tried again, softer this time. "Where is she?"

Still nothing. He straightened, replaced the cup on the table, and adjusted the blanket over my chest like it would somehow cover the question he refused to answer.

He turned to leave.

"You’re not even going to tell me?" I asked, my voice catching on something raw. "Did something happen to her?"

He paused at the door. His hand rested on the handle.

A long breath. A moment.

But he never looked back.

And then—he was gone.

***

>>Enya

The stone was damp beneath me, and the chill had long since settled into my bones. It was the kind of cold that made your fingers forget how to move and your muscles feel like they’d been filled with lead. I didn’t know how long I’d been curled up in the corner—hours, days, maybe—but I knew one thing for certain:

No one was coming for me.

Not with food.

Not with water.

Not even with questions.

They’d just thrown me in here like I was already dead.

Twice a day, like clockwork, the heavy metal door would groan open—and a guard, faceless behind his helmet, would stride into the cell. He never looked at me. Never acknowledged me. He just stepped far enough inside to toss a scrap of something across the floor, a wet slap of meat landing inches from the man’s chained body.

It was never a full meal. Sometimes it was half a bone. Sometimes barely a fistful of cold, sinewy flesh. But it was all he got.

All they got.

The man couldn’t reach it with his hands—those were still bound too tight to his headboard of iron and stone—but one of his feet had been left free. Just one. I watched, every single time, as he dragged the meat toward himself with his toes, slow and deliberate, his movements stiff from pain.

Then, with effort I could barely imagine, he twisted himself downward—wincing, teeth gritted—and ate like that. Like an animal. Awkward. Half-curled. Forced to bend and lower himself with what strength remained in his bruised frame.

But what struck me wasn’t the way he ate.

It was the way he stopped.

He never finished it.

No matter how small the portion, no matter how ravenous the hunger that hollowed out his cheeks and darkened his eye sockets, he always left some. He would drag the scraps closer to the girl with his foot—just close enough that she could reach them, if she ever woke.

She never did.

She still hadn’t moved. Not once.

Curled on her side with her tiny wrists bound behind her back, hair sticking to her bloodied cheek, she looked like a ghost of a child. Too still. Too quiet.

And yet every time the man ate, he looked at her first.

And every time he stopped, he left her enough.

I didn’t speak to him. Not after the first day. Not after I realized words wouldn’t get through to him.

But I watched.

Because there was nothing else to do.

I stayed in the corner, my own stomach turning on itself, my throat dry and aching. No one brought me food. Not a crumb. I hadn’t eaten in two days.

But still...

Watching him, I felt something stir in my chest.

A thread of humanity.

A tether to something real.

He didn’t know who I was. He didn’t trust me. But he had enough in him to spare something for a child in chains. Even when no one was watching. Even when he was starving.

And that told me more about him than words ever could.

The third night was the hardest.

The cold had crept into my spine like a parasite. My body had gone beyond numb—it just ached now, constantly, like even my bones had begun to rot. Hunger was a pit. A snarling, vicious thing that coiled inside me, gnawing on my insides like it would chew through my ribs just to escape.

And then—loud and sudden in the silence—my stomach growled.

It wasn’t a gentle sound. It echoed, rough and animalistic in the stone cell. Mortifying.

I cringed, curling tighter into myself, cheeks burning even in the freezing dark.

But then...

For the first time in two days, I felt eyes on me.

!?!?

I looked up.

He was watching me. The man. The one in chains. Not with rage this time, not with that murderous glare he’d met me with. Just... watching.

His face was pale under the grime, his jaw still bruised purple, lips cracked. But his voice—though hoarse and barely above a whisper—cut through the quiet with clarity.

"Ahin."

I blinked. Sat up slowly.

"...What?"

His gaze didn’t waver. "My name," he said, even quieter now. "Ahin."

I stared at him, stunned. After days of silence, days of him looking at me like I was nothing more than another predator in this cage—he spoke to me.

And gave me his name.

A small, unexpected warmth bloomed in my chest. I didn’t smile, but I wanted to. Just a little.

"I’m Enya," I said softly, shifting so I was properly sitting against the wall, my back no longer turned to him. "I didn’t think you’d ever say anything."

He didn’t reply to that. Just looked at me, waiting. Or maybe weighing something.

I studied him in the darkness, the unnatural hue of his eyes catching what little light there was. "Are you... are you a half-demon?" I asked hesitantly. "Or full?"

The second I said it, I saw it—his expression twisted, subtle but unmistakable. A flash of disgust. Not at me—at the question.

He looked away, jaw tightening.

I sucked in a breath and winced. "Sorry. That was a stupid question."

Still no response.

"But... for what it’s worth," I added, my voice quieter, "I’m here because I’m half-fae. So... I get it. Sort of."

He turned his head just slightly at that. Not toward me. Not away. Just... acknowledging it.

I didn’t know what I expected. Maybe some kind of bonding moment, or even just a grunt of understanding. But nothing came, not for a while.

"A wolf," he said, finally.

His voice was low, grating from disuse—but there was no shame in it. No hesitation. Just quiet truth.

My eyes widened slightly, and I turned to him fully this time. He didn’t look at me—his gaze had shifted, locked onto the still figure curled just feet away.

The little girl.

She stirred.

It was small at first. A twitch in her fingers. A soft, ragged breath from chapped lips. Then a low whimper as she turned her head slightly, her tangled hair sticking to the dried blood on her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy and slow, like they’d been stitched shut and were only now remembering how to move.

She pushed herself up—barely. Her arms shook under her weight, thin wrists wobbling as if even that much effort might be too much. She sat hunched, head bowed, her breath fogging faintly in the cold.

She looked like she might collapse again any second.

Then her eyes found the scrap of meat left beside her—cold, rough, barely food. And instantly, like instinct had taken over, she snatched it with trembling fingers and shoved it into her mouth.

There was no hesitation. No dignity. She chewed too fast, like she was afraid it might be taken away. Her ribs moved with every breath, her stomach a hollow shell beneath her torn dress. The sound of her eating filled the cell with wet, desperate hunger.

I swallowed hard.

"She’s your..." I turned back to Ahin.

His eyes hadn’t left her.

"That’s Rika," he said, voice barely above a murmur. "My little sister."

Ah...

The scraps he left.

The rage in his eyes when I first walked in.

The way he’d looked at her, again and again, even when he could barely move himself.

He’d been trying to keep her alive.