But Swan was his wife. She had blushed as she wore the bridal veil, vowed to be his wife, and he had rightly welcomed her with the decorum of a bridegroom. Yet she had acted as if she had been r*ped by another man… In the end, she had forced him to spread her legs and thrust his aroused p*nis inside her.

He grimaced in humiliation, his eyes twitching with resentment. Seeing this, Mirabella began to cry loudly. He held the child again and whispered to her.

“Shh, my little princess. I’m here, your father is here.” 

At the mention of the word ‘father’, Mirabella rolled her eyes and looked around the room. He tried to smooth out his completely crumpled expression, forced himself to relax, and planted a kiss on his daughter’s cheek. 

Her cheeks, milky and plump, glowed softly. He lifted a hand and gently stroked the child’s golden honey-coloured hair. Two and a half years had passed. Mirabella was now a two-year-old toddler. They had been separated when she was a newborn, so it was impossible for her to recognise him.

Yet he was her father. Mirabella was the child he had conceived with Swan, a truth he could not deny. She could not be stolen, as if possession conferred legitimacy, yet this lowly man had dared to act as if the Emperor’s daughter were his own child…

To live with his bride as if she were his wife. The thought made his teeth grit with anger.

“Papa, Papa…” 

“Yes, that’s right, Mirabella. There, there. Father is here now, so no more tears…”

He wiped away her tears and kissed her cheeks and forehead repeatedly. After a while, Mirabella, still sucking her thumb and rubbing her swollen eyes, looked up at him. Atlion laid her down, covered her with a blanket and stroked her hair. Exhausted from crying, Mirabella could only draw soft, steady breaths.

The child stared at him with flickering, sleepy eyes. He decided to teach her to call him “Father” until she was familiar with the word. He would hold her, soothe her, remind her, until she forgot this lowly man. After all, she was only two years old – barely two and a half.

The time Swan had lived without being his wife was little more than that. Watching his daughter’s eyes finally close, Atlion rose to his feet.

“Your Majesty.”

“Where is the Empress?”

Raoul made no reply. He turned his attention to the maid who had brought a fresh blio. He took off the soiled garment, soaked with water and urine, and put on a new black blio. He summoned Ritsol and told him to guard the princess’s chamber before turning on his heel.

The image of trembling n*pples flashed through his mind. He remembered the look in her eyes the last time she looked at him – a woman with eyes so wounded even as she received her husband’s p*nis. As if she had been r*ped by someone who was not her husband.

The memory of her clutching the torn hem of her skirt to her chest and curling up into a ball came back vividly. The question of the Empress’s condition remained unanswered as Raol remained silent. Eyes narrowed, he made his way back to the chamber where his wife was probably still crying.

***

Her fingertips rubbed at the mixed fluids of s*men and blood. Her vision blurred and she couldn’t make out what had happened. Swan clenched her trembling jaw and hunched her shoulders. No matter how hard she wiped her tear-stained eyes, fresh tears kept streaming.

The taste of iron lingered in her mouth where saliva had once spilled. Her lips had been bitten and sucked raw, as if to tear them apart. From her neck to her br*asts and hips, there wasn’t a spot that wasn’t covered in bruises. Every place the man’s body had collided with bore the marks of his violence.

The impatient gaze, the brief and hurried climax, the act of biting her lips and forcing his tongue into her mouth – it all made her tremble. Her shoulders trembled and she let out a long, wavering sob, curled up in a ball. Suddenly the door creaked open. Startled, Swan pulled her body into a tighter ball and pressed her lips together.

“Swan.”

“……”

“I heard you sent the maid away.”

The low voice was soft, almost soothing. Swan, gripped by fear, didn’t lift her head. Footsteps approached. She was still in her torn clothes – no, the very clothes he had torn ruthlessly. A wave of disgust washed over her. To face him in this state was unbearably humiliating, almost absurd.

He never thought about how Swan lived. Swan had left him, carrying her newborn child, still stained with blood, and fled across the grasslands.

The morning after Swan’s departure, a light drizzle began to fall. A faint, misty rain. By midday it looked like it might stop, but by evening the downpour had intensified and the search had to be called off.

The next morning, evidence was found that a woman had crossed the river by boat. That same day, word came that she was not alone. For a while he was unconscious. When he finally came to, blisters from a burn covered one hand. He couldn’t remember what had driven him to vent his anger in such a self-destructive way.

But Atlion often lost himself in such madness. The thought that Swan had chosen another man – that she could belong to someone else – drove him mad. It was around this time that he began experimenting with various elixirs. But even then the madness refused to subside.

He gently massaged his bruised, discoloured shoulder. It wasn’t too late to start again. It had only been two years. Just as he had persuaded Mirabella to call him ‘Father’, he would gently guide Swan to see him as her husband again. Until she accepted him. Until she recognised him.

In truth, the very thought of such measures made his blood boil. But he was prepared to make the effort, no matter how arduous. No matter how long it took, Swan would be his bride again. He intended to reclaim the shy, blushing maiden she had once been.

“Swan.” 

Swan started violently, her face still buried in her hands. He embraced her gently, pressing his lips to her wavy hair.

“Swan.” 

“Please…” 

Her shaking voice echoed through the chamber. Atlion gripped her pale, rounded shoulders and pulled her closer. A small sob escaped her lips. 

“Please let me go.” 

“You still say that?” 

He furrowed his brow. Trembling, Swan slowly raised her face. Her tear streaked face caught the faint light, glistening with a reddish sheen. He stared at her, feeling like raw flesh being torn apart. He couldn’t understand why his emotions were spiralling so violently.

Was it because Swan had run away from him? Or was it because Swan had become another man’s wife? The thought of her made him feel as if his lungs were being torn apart. It was completely unacceptable. Not a single part of it could be accepted.

And now, this situation – it was no different. The idea that she had trembled with pleasure during their union, her body responding on its own, was something he could not believe.

“I don’t understand you.”

Atlion whispered, the lamplight flickering in his green eyes. 

“I don’t understand you at all.” 

“I…” 

“You are my wife.” 

“Your Majesty.” 

“You are my wife.”

Swan parted her lips, tears streaming down her red, softly curved lips. His grip on her shoulders tightened. Swan shook her head slowly in denial. One of the hands gripping her shoulders moved to her chin and held it firmly. It was a rough, unyielding force. Swan let out a faint whimper, her sobs breaking into shuddering gasps.