Into the Apocalypse: Saving My Favorite Villain-Chapter 108: The Green Tea Villain: The Price Of The Truth
Cassel — POV
When she realized I was serious—when she finally understood there was no path left for retreat—her resistance cracked.
Not shattered.
Not broken.
Just... yielded.
"...Fine," she said at last, her voice tight, brittle with resignation. "What do you want to talk about?"
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I looked at her.
I let the silence stretch.
Long enough for it to grow heavy.
Long enough for it to crawl beneath her skin and ignite her temper once more.
She frowned, tried to pull away. "If you’re not going to talk, I’m going to sleep. Let go."
I didn’t.
I pulled her back—swift, decisive—and this time I turned her fully, guiding her until she sat astride my lap, facing me with nowhere to look but my eyes.
Our bodies aligned perfectly.
Skin to skin.
Chest to chest.
Breath to breath.
Her warmth seeped into me like a slow-burning poison.
The air between us thickened, grew unbearably hot, charged with something dangerous and unspoken.
Her breathing faltered, shallow and uneven, brushing against my lips.
I ignored it.
Or rather—I forced myself to.
This wasn’t the first time her closeness had tortured me like this. I had learned restraint the hard way.
Still, every instinct screamed at me to claim her—to kiss her until she forgot how to breathe, to mark every inch of her skin with my mouth.
But there was something more important than hunger.
"Rosalia," I said quietly. "Tell me."
Her lashes trembled. I could feel her tension coil tighter, her body reacting before her mind caught up.
"T–Tell you... what?" she whispered.
I studied her face at close range—her pale skin, the faint flush blooming on her cheeks, her beautiful red lips parted just slightly.
And her eyes.
If anyone ever asked me what I loved most about Rosalia, my answer would never change.
Her eyes.
They say eyes are the window to the soul.
Only now did I truly understand.
Her eyes were an ocean—vast, gentle, deceptively calm.
An ocean that invited you to dive in, to surrender completely, even if it meant never resurfacing.
Even if it meant drowning.
For those eyes, I would kill.
For those eyes, I would die.
"Rosalia," I murmured, my voice low and deliberate.
"Where did you come from?"
The moment the words left my lips, her body reacted violently.
She shuddered in my arms, as if struck by lightning. Her spine went rigid. The warmth of her breath vanished, turning icy against my skin.
She hadn’t expected that.
Or perhaps... she had always known this question would come—and had spent every waking moment dreading it.
But I was done waiting.
I had promised myself I would be patient. That I would give her time. That I would let her come to me willingly, confess everything in her own way.
That promise died the moment I saw Matthew.
Yesterday, it was Henry.
Today, it’s Matthew.
Did he think I didn’t notice the way he looked at her?
That gaze—sharp, heated, intensely focused.
I knew it well.
Who would come next?
And what would they try to take?
Even if I trusted my strength.
Even if I trusted my position in her heart—no matter how confident I was that no one could steal her from me—I didn’t trust myself.
I didn’t trust my restraint.
I needed more.
I needed to deepen the bond between us until it was unbreakable.
I needed her secrets.
Her past.
Her fears.
Her weaknesses.
I needed to know how she knew Matthew.
What he meant to her.
How did she know me?
And when—exactly—she had fallen in love with me.
Most of all, I needed to know how she came here.
Because once I did—once I understood her completely—protecting my treasure...
And keeping it for myself...
Will be effortless.
That’s why, Rosalia—
No matter how much you resist today.
No matter how desperately you try to escape.
I won’t let you.
My vision darkened, shadows bleeding into pitch black.
I lifted a hand and placed it against the side of her neck, feeling her pulse flutter wildly beneath my fingers.
Then I leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss there—slow, deliberate, almost reverent.
Loving.
I still remember the taste of her blood from last time.
I regretted it.
And yet... the memory lingered on my tongue, sweet and intoxicating, igniting a craving I despised myself for having.
Kissing her.
Biting her.
"Ah—Cassel, don’t bite..."
My teeth barely grazed her skin.
Barely.
And still, she flinched sharply, breath catching in her throat.
Whatever I had done before must have hurt far more than she let on.
Even so—
I smiled.
Wide.
Unrestrained.
Monstrous.
A smile so terrifying that anyone else would have fled on instinct.
Because she didn’t try to escape.
There was no recoil.
No instinctive rejection.
No fear-driven struggle.
After everything... her body still didn’t fear me.
Anyone else would have pulled away the moment I touched their neck.
Trauma would have taken control long before reason.
But Rosalia was different.
How could anyone resist her?
That beauty.
That gentleness.
That unconditional, limitless love she gave so freely.
Even I couldn’t.
"Rose," I whispered against her skin. "Answer me."
I lifted my head.
She looked dazed—intoxicated.
Not by wine or poison.
By love.
Still, she said nothing.
She bit her lip, eyes shining with fear and helplessness, torn between trust and terror.
That expression tore straight through my chest.
And still...
I refused to retreat.
For Rosalia, I was willing to become cruel.
Even if it hurt her.
My gaze sharpened, calculation replacing hesitation.
I had a plan.
One I knew would work.
I let my face fall apart—twisted it into something fragile, pained, unstable.
It was the first time I had ever acted in my life.
But it wasn’t difficult.
Because I knew those emotions intimately.
Betrayal.
Fear.
Crushing sorrow.
The sensation of being abandoned by the entire world until nothing remained.
I didn’t need to imagine them.
I had lived them.
As expected, the moment Rosalia saw my expression, her resistance collapsed completely.
She clutched my neck, pressed closer, her hands trembling as they cupped my face.
She called my name again and again, voice breaking, asking if I was hurt, if I was in pain.
Her terror was unmistakable.
So was her love.
"Cassel, don’t scare me. Please," she begged. "What’s happening to you?"
When a tear slipped from my eye, she shattered.
She burst into sobs, panic consuming her entirely.
She looked like someone grieving at a funeral—like she had already lost me.
Guilt stabbed deep into my conscience.
For a moment... just a moment... I almost stopped.
"Cassel, why are you crying? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Please tell me. Please don’t cry."
Her words spilled out chaotically, desperation overwhelming reason. And when I remained silent, she suddenly said—
"Are you sad? Do you miss your mother? Is that it? Does it hurt because of that?" Her voice cracked.
"Don’t cry, please. I’ll avenge her for you. I’ll avenge my aunt. I’ll make their killers suffer worse than death. I can even kill them for you—just don’t cry. Please."
—
What... did she just say?
I nearly lost control of my expression.
She knew.
She knew about my mother.
She knew the buried secret of the Zancroft family—something no living soul should know except me.
How?
At that moment, stopping was no longer an option.
I had to know.
The realization that she knew everything about me—every scar, every wound, every hidden truth—while I knew almost nothing about her...
It drove me mad.
Not even her name felt certain anymore.
In a world without documents, without proof of identity, everything could be fabricated.
The thought that Rosalia’s name—or her entire existence—might be a lie made my blood boil.
Rosalia.
Today—no matter what it costs—I will find out who you are.
And you will tell me the truth.
With your own lips.
