That was his final mistake.
Wilhelm swung his fist, the blow sharp and brutal. Alfred’s head snapped to the side, the smirk wiped off his face. He staggered backward, blood beading on his split lip, but Wilhelm didn’t stop.
“You think you can cross me?” Wilhelm’s voice thundered, every word a declaration of dominance. “You think you can destroy what’s mine and walk away unscathed?”
Alfred scrambled to regain his footing, his hand brushing against the thorns of a rose bush as he steadied himself.
“You’re a fool, Ravenshire,” he spat, blood dripping down his chin. “This doesn’t change anything.”
Wilhelm’s laugh was cold and devoid of humor.
“You’re right,” he said, advancing like a predator on his wounded prey. “It changes nothing. Because you were finished the moment you dared to anger me.”
Alfred swung wildly, desperation overtaking him. But Wilhelm was faster, his movements sharp and precise. He caught Alfred’s arm mid-swing, twisting it until a pained grunt escaped the man’s lips.
With a savage motion, Wilhelm pushed him back, slamming him against a stone statue. The air left Alfred’s lungs in a gasping wheeze.
“You’ve always been a coward,” Wilhelm growled. He drove his fist into Alfred’s ribs, the sickening crack of bone reverberating through the garden. “Hiding behind lies, behind manipulation. But not anymore.”
Alfred crumpled to the ground, his body battered and broken, but Wilhelm wasn’t finished. He knelt down, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head back.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice a commanding roar. “Do you regret it now?”
Alfred’s bloodied face twisted into a weak smirk. “You cannot win, Ravenshire,” he rasped, his defiance flickering like a dying flame.
Wilhelm’s lips curled into a predatory smile, his grip on him tightening. “We shall see about that,” he said, his tone a dark promise. “But if you ever come near Genevieve again…”
His voice dropped to a whisper, lethal and final.
“I will end you.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Lady Clowefield,” Wilhelm greeted, his voice raw with desperation, cracking under the weight of his turmoil. “Where is my wife?”
His gaze darted frantically across the dimly lit entrance hall, his chest heaving with the effort of holding himself upright. The stately grandeur of the room felt suffocating. Every nerve in his body screamed with each movement.
Genevieve’s friend stiffened, her back straightening as she stepped forward. The flicker of surprise that crossed her face was fleeting, replaced instantly by a hard stare.
Her dark and unyielding eyes locked onto his and stared him down. Her lips, pressed together into a thin line, twitched as though she was struggling to hold back harsh words.
“Your Grace,” she said at last, her voice crisp, though it wavered ever so slightly.
Her carefully chosen words carried an air of cold precision, seemingly in an effort to preserve a fragile peace. Yet, the glint in her eyes betrayed her disapproval, a flash of cold steel behind the veneer.
“You should not be here,” she insisted.
“Where is she?” Wilhelm’s voice cracked, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths.
His chest tightened as though the very air in the room conspired against him, squeezing his lungs. His wild eyes darted around the entrance hall as though he might catch a glimpse of Genevieve’s silhouette.
“Where is who, Your Grace?” Marianne asked, her words clipped, her tone challenging.
“Genevieve,” Wilhelm said, his voice trembling on the cusp of a plea.
The name left his lips like a lifeline, a fragile thread tethering him to hope. His hands clenched at his sides, the urgency in his voice rising with each syllable.
“I must speak with her.”
