Married To Darkness-Chapter 349: The Temptation That is Genevieve

King Gideon’s expression darkened the moment he took in Jaron’s battered form. His nostrils flared, his voice booming through the dungeon.

"What is this nonsense?" the king bellowed.

Salviana flinched at the sudden outburst, her fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of her dress. Alaric noticed. Without thinking, his hand found hers, squeezing it gently. A silent reassurance.

"That," Alaric said coldly, "is the fool who abducted, kept, and nearly killed my wife."

Gideon’s gaze flicked between Jaron’s bruised face and Alaric’s icy composure. There was no sympathy in the demon prince’s voice — only raw, restrained fury.

"He should be hanged."

Jaron let out a weak, incredulous laugh, his voice hoarse but still carrying a streak of arrogance.

Prince Spencer — the one-eyed second prince — stepped forward, his expression carved from stone. His single eye seemed to bore straight into Jaron’s soul.

"Jaron," Spencer said quietly, disappointment lacing his tone, "how could you?"

Jaron shrugged, licking at the blood on his lip. "I was only playing with her."

The words echoed in the dungeon like a slap.

Salviana stiffened. Her breathing hitched.

Playing?

She remembered the cold touch of the chains around her wrists, the cruel words he whispered into her ear, the threats of what would happen if Alaric didn’t come for her.

And that was just a game to him?

Alaric felt her tremble beside him. His hand on hers shifted — from gentle comfort to a firm grip. His rage simmered beneath his skin, but he didn’t move. Not yet.

"Wow," Salviana murmured softly, her voice shaking. "Playing?"

Jaron smirked again, like it was all a joke.

The king raised a hand, silencing the growing tension. "Regardless," Gideon said, his tone hard, "this is a royal. He cannot remain in a place like this." He gestured to the dank dungeon, his face twisting in disdain. "He will be transferred."

Alaric’s teeth clenched. "Transferred?"

"Yes," the king said. "To the royal prison. Punishment will be decided—"

"Tonight," Alaric growled. "He deserves punishment tonight."

Jaron’s smugness faltered for the first time. "Father, please!" he called out, desperation creeping into his voice.

But before Gideon could speak, Salviana straightened. Her voice, though soft, carried undeniable strength.

"No."

All eyes turned to her.

Her back was straight now, chin lifted — the fire in her spirit burning through the fatigue in her body.

"I am still recovering," Salviana said evenly. "I want him locked away until I am well enough to oversee his punishment myself. I cannot hand out a fitting sentence while I am weak."

Alaric blinked, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. That’s my wife.

Jaron’s mouth fell open. "What?"

"Do you disagree? Your majesty"

The king stared at Salviana for a long moment, then gave a tight nod. "It is accepted."

"No!" Jaron thrashed against the guards’ hold as they unlocked the cell and dragged him out. "Father! You can’t let her decide my fate—she’s a fucking witch! But please, Salviana... forgive me."

Alaric’s blood boiled.

He was still trying to twist the knife — casting Salviana as the villain while begging for mercy in the same breath.

"Alaric!" Jaron’s voice cracked. "I’m your cousin. We’re family!"

Salviana’s lips parted, stunned by the sheer audacity of the man who had nearly broken her.

Prince Spencer shook his head in disgust, while Lucius simply folded his arms, watching the scene unfold with a raised brow.

Jaron’s pleading eyes met Salviana’s one last time. "We’re family!" he repeated, as if saying it louder would erase everything he’d done.

Alaric stepped forward then, slipping an arm around Salviana’s waist and pulling her close. His lips brushed her forehead — a possessive, protective gesture.

His voice was low, for her alone.

"Being married to a Velthorne isn’t easy," Alaric murmured, a dark smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

Salviana, despite the tension in her body, felt a flicker of warmth.

Jaron was hauled away, his shouts growing fainter as the guards dragged him up the dungeon steps.

And Alaric... Alaric just held his wife.

Because no matter how chaotic the night had been—

She was his anchor. His fire.

He was going to deal with Jaron whether the court and his parents wanted it or not.

He was evil and didn’t deserve to live much longer.

~~{─────────

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Princess Genevieve felt the sting of rejection burn through her chest, the cruel echo of Alaric’s words still gnawing at her mind.

It wasn’t just pain — it was humiliation, raw and unyielding, twisting her thoughts into something reckless.

And so, with a storm simmering behind her ribs, she found herself pushing open the heavy oak doors to Enid’s chambers.

The scent hit her first — musk and smoke, a tangle of lust hanging in the air like an unwelcome guest. The soft wet sounds following it made her stomach churn.

There, sprawled in his chair like a king of sin, was Enid — head tipped back, shirt unbuttoned, his dark hair a disheveled mess.

His lips were parted, a low groan slipping past them, and kneeling between his thighs...

Ava Layor.

The royal prostitute.

Her head moved in slow, practiced motions, mouth working a sinful rhythm that had Enid’s knuckles going white against the arm of his chair.

For a second — a single, foolish second — Genevieve was frozen.

Then the rage broke free.

"Leave this instant!" she snapped, her voice slicing through the thick air.

Ava’s movements stilled, her lips still wrapped around Enid, and slowly — so painfully, intentionally slowly — she slid off him, a wicked smile tugging at her swollen mouth.

Enid didn’t move, didn’t cover himself, didn’t even flinch. His head tipped lazily to the side, his half-lidded gaze finding Genevieve with a glimmer of amusement.

"Genevieve," he drawled, his voice rough with lust, "you don’t interrupt a man’s lunch."

Ava chuckled softly, running a teasing finger along Enid’s jaw before standing — moving like liquid, her every step a taunt.

Genevieve’s skin prickled.

Ava was one of the most sinful, exotic women in the kingdom — sultry and unapologetic, a walking temptation.

The Velthorne women spoke of her in hushed tones, some with jealousy, others with fear.

And now, here she was — looking Genevieve up and down like she was the intruder.

"It’s important," Genevieve spat, the words bitter on her tongue.

Enid didn’t blink.

He simply lifted a hand, giving a soft pat to his thigh. Ava obeyed immediately, her mouth curling into a secret smile as she leaned down, brushing her lips against his cheek before sauntering past Genevieve — a final, wordless challenge.

The door clicked shut behind her. freeweɓnøvel.com

And then there was silence.

Thick. Heavy.

Until Enid finally sighed, running a hand through his hair as if this was all some minor inconvenience.

"Well?" he muttered. "What’s so urgent you couldn’t wait until I was finished?"

The air in Enid’s chambers was thick with the remnants of lust — a lingering haze of sin and desire.

The room smelled of incense, wine, and something darker, something more primal.

The silk sheets on the bed were rumpled, and the faint sound of Ava’s heels clicking against the marble floors still echoed in Genevieve’s ears as the royal prostitute slipped out, her sensual sway like a final taunt.

But Genevieve’s heart was too heavy to feel intimidated by Ava’s effortless allure. She stood frozen, chest heaving, hands trembling at her sides, as Enid lounged back against the headboard — shirt undone, his dark hair a tousled mess from Ava’s earlier work.

His lips were still parted from the kiss of her mouth, a faint smudge of rouge staining the corner of his mouth.

He licked it away with a lazy flick of his tongue.

And then his gaze flicked to Genevieve.

"What is it now, cousin?" Enid drawled, his voice a soft rasp — not with exhaustion, but intrigue.

Her jaw tightened. She couldn’t let herself waver.

"Take me."

Enid’s head tilted, his amusement deepening into something sharper. "Take you where?"

"No." Her voice cracked. "Take me, Enid. My body. My purity." She lifted her chin, fighting the sting of tears behind her eyes. "I refuse to be given to that bastard I’m promised to."

There was a beat of silence.

Then, "Genevieve." His voice was softer now. Dangerous.

She stepped forward, fingers trembling as they reached for the delicate laces of her dress. She didn’t know what she was doing — or maybe she did, and that was the most terrifying part.

One lace. Then another.

The gown began to slip from her shoulders, inch by inch, revealing the soft expanse of her collarbone, the gentle curve of her breasts still hidden beneath a thin chemise.

Enid’s breath hitched. His hand, which had been resting so carelessly on his thigh, now gripped the fabric of his breeches, knuckles white.

He wasn’t immune to her. He never had been.

Genevieve was painfully aware of it.

"Please," she whispered. "If I must be ruined, let it be by someone I choose."

Enid’s jaw worked, his teeth biting down the inside of his cheek. His mind warred with itself — the taste of Ava still fresh on his tongue, but the scent of Genevieve flooding his senses.

He’d wanted this for years.