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STALK YOUR IN-LAWS (FOR RESEARCH PURPOSES)

KAZIMIR

I hadn’t planned on skulking like a common thief in Evenfall’s overgrown gardens.

When I’d sought out Arabella in that smoky courtyard earlier, my only intention had been to discuss the bandit situation.

But as often happened whenever we found ourselves in close proximity, I blurted out something else entirely—something that prompted her to lower her guard just enough for me to glimpse the raw hurt she carried.

That single moment revealed how little I truly understood regarding what her father had done to her.

She had chosen to stay. When I’d given her the chance to leave—like a complete fucking idiot—Arabella had chosen me.

So there I was, risking magical backlash in enemy territory to see the bastard for myself. I needed to understand what kind of monster locked his own daughter in a tower and broke her so completely that even a villain like me felt like the preferable option in her eyes.

When I told her, “What’s mine stays mine,” I meant it with every scarred inch of my body. I needed her for the Heirloom, certainly, but there was more to it now. Evenfall had damaged her, and I wanted proof of how deep that damage ran.

I crept along a vine-choked wall, letting shadows swirl around me while I pushed aside briars overgrowing the old manor boundary.

Each breath tasted of Solandris’s smug defenses, reminding me I had only a narrow window before they began to sap my dominion.

I slipped over the wall, dropping onto the grounds in a crouch among what must once have been meticulously trimmed topiaries.

They had become a wretched forest of tangled limbs.

Behind them, the main house rose like a malignant growth.

Unsteady lamplight glimmered against mismatched windows—some expensive, modern glass, others warped and riddled with age.

I inched closer, hugging the house’s stone facade until I found an unobstructed view through a tall window.

Lord Atticus Evenfall was there, perched behind an oversized desk as though he fancied himself a king.

He was smaller than I’d expected, with thinning hair and a pinched mouth.

His fragile hands cradled a crystal decanter, and he refilled his glass so often that I needed no further proof of his lack of discipline.

My dagger slipped into my grip unbidden. A single shadow-step would have taken me inside, let me slash his throat, and watch his blood soak through that pretentious parchment. Problem solved.

My fingers tensed around the hilt.

Then Arabella’s face filled my mind. Eliminating her father without her permission would hardly earn me her gratitude. She deserved her confrontation, deserved to see him answer for his deeds in person. If I ended him now, I’d be denying her something vital.

My magic flared, hungry for violence, but I shoved the blade back into its sheath with a low curse. Since when did I hesitate over a kill? Only a year earlier, I’d have opened his throat for sport, yet now I stood there pausing like some indecisive fool, all because of Arabella’s reaction.

I slipped along the manor’s perimeter, near the kitchens, and discovered a servant’s door.

It opened under the faintest nudge of my dominion magic.

Hilariously simple. A dingy corridor lay beyond, haphazardly furnished with both brand-new pieces and tattered rags.

Imported rugs had been slapped over cracked marble, the entire layout chaotic in spite of the attempt at wealth.

I pressed onward, brushing my fingertips over the ornate wainscoting.

Intricate carvings caught my attention—runes embedded in the wood.

A subtle magical field lay across the manor like a sour film on the air.

I tested one with a faint thread of shadow magic, but the persistent burn in my bones was due to Solandris itself.

These runes didn’t target every mage who might wander through.

Just one.

My lips curled into a silent snarl. So that was how Atticus contained Arabella. He’d turned the entire estate into a magical cage.

The further I prowled, the more runes I found, etched into frames, woven into rugs, hammered into ceiling beams. Layers upon layers, some new, others older and more elaborate.

Eventually, they led me to a heavy door reinforced with iron bands.

Dread prickled along my spine. A hush lingered behind that threshold—a faint wrongness, as though the manor itself wanted me to stay away.

One whisper of command opened the door, revealing a spiraling staircase up into a tower.

I followed it up, each step steeped in magic that felt like cold nails raking my lungs.

At the top, I emerged into a cramped circular room.

A barred window let in a sliver of moonlight.

A narrow bed, a tiny desk, a battered stack of books, and a single floral blanket tried desperately to mask the fact that this was a prison cell.

Arabella had lived here. Atticus had locked her up in this tiny chamber, drowning her abilities under ancient wards.

The fury that simmered in my chest burned hotter than I expected.

My mother had carved runes into my bones to make me strong—sadistic, yes, but she’d shaped me into something unstoppable.

This bastard had done the opposite to Arabella: strangle her magic so she’d remain docile and powerless.

I studied the older wards, noticing where new ones had been layered over them.

The net must have tightened over time as Arabella’s magic grew, ensuring she never managed to break free.

It reminded me of the resonance I’d observed in her blood.

She possessed raw, volatile power. If she’d developed any magical skill here at all, the strength she might achieve beyond these walls was unimaginable.

A creaking sound behind me made me turn in time to see a guard climbing the stairs with a lantern. I could have vanished into the shadows, but my rage demanded an outlet. His eyes widened the instant he spotted me.

“You—” he tried to shout.

Shadows lashed out, wrapping around his throat before he could finish. The lantern slipped from his hand, smashing on the stones. Flames flickered, but my magic smothered them instantly.

“Tell me,” I growled, stepping over the broken glass. “Were you the one who guarded her cell? Did you stand here and pretend not to hear her screams?”

“I—I’ve only been here six months,” he choked, clawing at the shadowy noose. “I don’t know anything, I swear!”

He fell to his knees, gasping for air. I released a fraction of my hold. “So you’re too new to be directly guilty?” I said coldly, half to myself. “That’s just bad luck, then.”

“Please,” he begged, voice rasping, “I have a family?—”

“I am not known for my mercy.” I tightened the shadows.

I had killed countless men with little more than a passing shrug. But this time, each savage heartbeat carried fresh anger. He was only one guard, practically insignificant, but he worked for the man who’d locked Arabella away. That was enough to invoke my wrath.

It was a messy kill—bloody, vicious. When I finally let the darkness recede, he lay in a twisted heap, blood staining the runes embedded in the floor.

I stood there, breath coming heavy. “Wonderful,” I muttered bitterly, removing my gloves.

Stealth no longer served me now that I’d left a corpse in my wake.

I drew a sigil in a smear of blood and spun a quiet incantation. The lines shimmered, and space itself began to dissolve around me. Blood-based teleportation was nauseating, but it was my quickest route out without draining enormous energy on a fully opened portal.

An instant later, the manor flickered and vanished. I reappeared in my private workroom at Skyspire Citadel, the dead guard sprawled at my feet. The metallic tang of blood clung to the air, and my head reeled from the recoil.

I might have summoned Vex or Sims or Thorne to deal with the remains.

It was standard procedure. But an even stronger impulse tugged me out of the workroom, through the winding corridors, up toward my private chambers.

My clothes were stiffening with gore, my pulse still hammering from the kill.

Servants scattered at the sight of me, eyes wide and fearful.

Usually, I welcomed that terror. Tonight, I barely registered it.

I halted in front of my chamber door. Arabella slept inside, presumably safe and oblivious—far from that cursed tower, far from her father’s manipulations. A feral, protective anger still coiled behind my ribs. I wanted to burst in, proclaim I would defend her freedom, by any means.

She didn’t know I’d sneaked off to Evenfall or that I’d left behind one fewer guard for her father.

Part of me wanted to keep it hidden, yet another part wanted her to see the blood and realize I was prepared to fight for her no matter how vicious it became.

I might not be anyone’s hero, but I would make damn sure no one bound her in a cage again.

Steeling myself, I reached for the handle. Whatever reaction she might have to the blood, I’d face it. Because, apparently, I was the kind of villain who cared what his wife thought. The irony left my heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

With a growl and a push, I opened the door.