Wicked Husband-Chapter 84 - 83

"Please... Please, stop... If you must, then hurt me instead... Please..."

Shaking uncontrollably, she reached out toward Cesare. His red eyes, which had been fixed on her all along, slowly shifted. Cesare gazed at the small, pale hand she offered him, his breath growing unsteady.

"...Eileen."

His voice was wavering.

"You are..."

Cesare’s eyes wavered as he asked softly,

"You’re my Eileen, right?"

it was such an obvious question. Eileen belonged to Cesare. As long as he didn’t cast her aside, she would never dream of leaving his embrace.

When Eileen slowly nodded, the strength drained from Cesare’s hand. The letter opener clattered to the ground, ringing sharply.

Those eyes again—hollow and desolate, like a ruined wasteland—shattered with nothing left behind...

Cesare touched Eileen’s neck with his bloodstained hand, gently tracing the marks he had left on her skin. He ran his fingers over the bruises slowly before closing his eyes for a moment.

"Why..."

His ragged breathing steadied as he looked into Eileen’s eyes once more.

"Why didn’t you resist?"

His quiet question hung in the air as Eileen opened her lips to respond.

"There must be... a reason..."

She wanted to say she believed he had a reason for everything, that she trusted him implicitly. But her voice, broken and hoarse, couldn’t form the words. Cesare stopped her from speaking further.

"Promise me, Eileen."

His voice was filled with desperation, like a man cornered at the edge of a cliff.

"Promise me you won’t die for my sake."

He had asked something similar before, but it was a promise Eileen found hard to make. Yet, as Cesare urged her to give him her word, she had no choice but to agree.

The moment she uttered her promise, Cesare pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly. Eileen felt a slight tremor. At first, she thought it was her own body trembling, but soon she realized the sensation was coming from Cesare.

Without thinking, Eileen wrapped her arms around him in return. Her body, barely clinging to life, cried out with exhaustion and pain.

Yet, she couldn’t help but hold him close. Cesare, silent, drew her even nearer.

As the tension eased, her vision began to blur. Her body, having expended every last bit of energy, signaled its limit. Struggling against the drowsiness pulling at her, Eileen whispered to him in a voice so soft it was barely audible.

That she was okay. That nothing hurt.

Her voice, raspy and faint, struggled to carry the words, but they seemed to drift away, not reaching Cesare. The last image she saw before losing consciousness was his eyes, still filled with the desolation of a ruined wasteland.

***

The relentless sound of rain pounding against the window tormented Cesare’s ears. The downpour showed no signs of letting up, hammering the glass as if to underscore the chaos within him. Cesare, with an impassive expression, watched the raindrops cascade down the windowpane before shifting his gaze to Eileen, who lay unconscious on the grand duchy’s bed.

He had brought her back to the grand duchy after she had fainted, fearing that if she stayed asleep in that brick house, he might do something unspeakable again. After carrying her limp body back, he had carefully wiped the blood from her face with a damp cloth, changed her into fresh clothes, and laid her down to rest.

Cesare stood by the window, glancing between Eileen and his own palm. The hand he had mutilated with a letter opener had already healed halfway. By tomorrow, the wound would be gone without a trace.

Yet, even though the injuries healed quickly, it didn’t mean he was free from pain. Each time reality felt blurred, Cesare would harm himself again. Pain was one of the few ways he could remind himself that this world—where Eileen existed—was real.

He stared at his palm for a long moment, a bitter smile forming on his lips. The more he recalled the moment he had wrapped his hands around Eileen’s neck, the more his mind became tangled, blending memories of reality and illusion into a chaotic mess. The rain outside, growing louder, only further clouded his thoughts.

It had rained the day young Eileen slept in the Emperor’s palace bedroom, the day he nearly killed her in the brick house’s bedroom, and the day he visited the tavern where her severed head was displayed.

His memories, tangled and distorted, had to be forcibly rearranged. He thought back to the time before he turned back the clock—when he returned victorious from war, only to learn of Eileen’s death.

When he discovered that Eileen had been executed by beheading, it felt unreal. It was as though he was trapped in a nightmare, clinging to the vain hope that when he woke, Eileen would be alive again, breathing as if nothing had happened.

But Cesare eventually came to realize the truth—that this was no nightmare, but a brutal reality.

The day he visited the tavern where Eileen’s severed head had been displayed was a day of torrential rain. A clear sky had turned to a downpour in an instant. Cesare, drenched to the bone, stepped into the tavern. His knights, dressed in plain clothes, followed closely behind, dripping wet. The innkeeper rushed out, carrying an armful of dry cloths.

Cesare took a towel from the innkeeper, casually drying himself as he scanned the room. The largest tavern on Fiore Street was packed despite the foul weather. As he took in the sight of the bustling patrons, the innkeeper shot him several nervous glances.

Although he had pulled the hood of his cloak low, his tall stature made him stand out among the crowd. His knights, with their uncovered faces, drew even more attention.

Cesare ignored the stares, handing the innkeeper a coin before being shown to a seat. As he and his entourage entered, the patrons glanced at them curiously but soon returned to their lively conversations.

The tavern, saturated with the scent of alcohol and debauchery, buzzed with intoxicated patrons. Men with eyes gleaming with lust were already half out of their minds, lost in a drunken haze.

They hurled crude jokes at the female singer performing in the center of the room, laughing obnoxiously. The singer, enduring the harassment, continued her song with a stony expression.

’How can I not return to that day? You remain so vivid in my memory. You are still so clear within me...’

Cesare scanned the faces of the patrons. Up until then, he had only intended to gather the necessary information and leave the tavern promptly.

Then he overheard a conversation about Eileen.

Cesare’s gaze fixed sharply on one of the men. The drunkard, oblivious to the crimson eyes boring into him, continued his vulgar display, mimicking a lewd gesture with his hand.

"Ah, I got to her too late, so she was all ruined, but d@mn, she was still good. I bet the tavern owner made a fortune that day. They must’ve raked in all the money in Fiore—no, in the entire capital!"

The men’s laughter grew louder as they added their own cruel commentary. They described how the tavern owner had struggled to keep the executed woman’s dead eyes open and how they had thought she was an unattractive wench when she was alive.

To them, no noblewoman, regardless of her status, could ever compare to the allure of that executed woman. They lamented that if her body hadn’t decayed, they would still be enjoying her head displayed as a grotesque trophy. Even now, her story was a constant topic of conversation among patrons.

Cesare listened to every word, absorbing their taunts and cruel mockery. The more he heard, the more his rage built. Finally, he erupted into a chilling laughter.

He laughed for a while, the sound both unsettling and menacing, before slowly pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. Without a word, he made his way toward the men who were still reveling in their vile jokes about the young female convict.

The men flinched, startled by the sudden approach of the tall figure. Cesare’s gaze swept over their table and settled on the long carving knife lying there.

Without hesitation, Cesare picked up the knife.

The loudest of the men let out a short, startled sound, bringing his hand up to his throat. That was his last moment.

The knife slid out once more, and a fountain of blood followed. The man’s body toppled backward as the tavern echoed with a loud thud. The bustling tavern fell deathly silent.

In the chilling stillness, Cesare’s knights sprang into action. Lotan, Diego, and Senon swiftly blocked every exit from the tavern, cutting off any chance of escape. Meanwhile, Michele leapt onto the stage, seized the lone woman present—the singer—and roughly shoved her into a corner to keep her out of harm’s way.

And thus, the slaughter began.

It was the first day that the sword, once a symbol of protection for the Traon Empire, turned against its own people.

***