Chapter CXXXI: Rage

The Dragon King remained calm as the guards escorted him to the tower of Rosehall. It was the highest tower in the palace, built either to imprison or to protect, depending on who was inside. He couldn’t help but remember the time when Isabella had been locked up in this very tower, not as a queen, but as a helpless princess, until she was taken by his soldiers to be brought to his palace, to his harem.

He smiled grimly at the thought. How the tables had turned.

Once inside, they left him alone, unshackled. The chamber was sparse, a wooden bench and a small window that barely let in the moonlight. He sat down, folding his hands, looking out at the dark sky. His thoughts were a storm of memories—of her, of their time together, of the countless battles he had fought. Yet now, there was a strange peace in him. He had come without armor, without his army. He had surrendered everything to her—his pride, his kingdom, his heart.

He lost track of time, the hours bleeding into one another as the night grew deeper. The only sounds were the occasional shuffle of guards outside and the distant howl of the wind. He wondered if Isabella would come, if she’d have a change of heart. He knew her silence spoke volumes, but still, a part of him clung to hope.

It was very late, deep into the night, when he heard the clank of metal and the slow groan of the locks being undone. His heart quickened. The door creaked open.

It was Isabella behind the door, dressed in a simple blue gown, her hair flowing freely, devoid of the crown or jewels that earlier adorned her. Yet, even in her simplicity, she was breathtaking. She entered the cell with her head held high, her authority palpable, and ordered the guards to leave them. The heavy door closed behind her, leaving them alone in the dimly lit chamber.

Alaric chuckled softly, breaking the silence. "This must feel pretty satisfactory to you, doesn’t it?" he said, his voice carrying a mixture of bitterness and resignation.

Isabella’s eyes remained steady, her posture unwavering. "In a way, it does," she admitted, her voice cool and sharp.

Alaric leaned forward. "I surrendered to you, Isabella. I came here to give you everything you ever wanted. To make you my wife, my queen… and yet—"

"—And yet," Isabella cut him off, her voice firm, her gaze piercing, "you’re the man who destroyed my kingdom. The man who killed my father, who reduced me to nothing more than a whore in your harem." Her words dripped with venom, years of pain and betrayal filling the space between them. "And even when I gave you everything I had left—my body, my love, a child of my own womb—what did you do? You chose to keep the child of another woman. A child that, in the end, wasn’t even yours."

Alaric’s expression darkened, his emotions flickering beneath the surface. "You took my son from me, Isabella. You waged war against me, stole one of my dragons, and burned my army to ash. Isn’t that enough revenge for you?" His voice rose, the frustration and loss palpable in his tone.

Isabella stepped closer, her face inches from his as she spoke through gritted teeth. "My husband, the king of Allendor, died protecting this palace from your troops. He died protecting my children—your children—from you." Her voice broke slightly, but her resolve never wavered. "I will never forgive you for that."

Alaric’s gaze hardened, his lips curling slightly as he said, “I won’t apologize for somehow killing the motherfucker who married the woman I love, the woman that belonged to me!"

Isabella’s expression turned cold, her eyes narrowing. “Pallor was an honored man,” she said firmly. “A good and beloved king. Loyal to me and to this kingdom. You should mind your words when speaking of him.”
Alaric met her gaze with unflinching intensity, his voice dripping with bitterness as he asked, “Why did you marry him, Isabella? Why him?”

Isabella inhaled sharply, her composure briefly faltering before she answered, “When I returned to Allendor, I was broken. Weakened. Pregnant for the second time with the children of our greatest enemy after spending two years as a captive in his harem, I wasn’t exactly anyone’s first choice for a queen.”

Alaric’s jaw clenched. “So, you married the noble, honorable lord to restore your reputation? Is that it?” He scoffed, his voice edged with anger. “An arranged marriage?”

Isabella’s expression remained stoic, but her voice carried the weight of her truth. “It doesn’t matter whether it was arranged or not. He was my husband and I was his wife.”

Alaric’s eyes darkened, burning with fury. He took a step closer, his voice low and dangerous. “Did you love him?”

Isabella hesitated, her lips parting as though she struggled with the answer. His eyes bore into her, relentless. “Did you love him?” he demanded again, his voice rising.

“Yes,” Isabella said, her voice shaking but resolute. “I loved him.”

Alaric’s nostrils flared, his rage barely contained. “Were you intimate with him?”

Isabella’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

A bitter silence settled between them, before Alaric’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and accusatory. “Then how can I know the child you’re carrying now is mine?”

Isabella’s eyes flashed with defiance, but her voice softened with the weight of her words. “You can’t. But I do know it is. All you will ever have is my word.”

Alaric’s voice was low, almost desperate as he asked, “What else do you want from me, Isabella? Tell me once and for all! You know I can’t undo the past, what else do you want?”

Isabella’s eyes were hard, her tone colder than he’d ever heard it. “What were you expecting? That I, as queen, would rise from my throne and say everything is forgiven? That I would throw myself back into the arms of my enemy?”

Alaric stepped closer, his voice rough with frustration. “If you married me, I would burn to death anyone who dared say a word against you or tried anything to harm you.”

She stared at him, her gaze unyielding. “And what if that person is you, Alaric? Would you set yourself on fire?” There was something dark in her eyes, a fire simmering beneath her calm exterior.

Alaric paused, stunned by the depth of her accusation, before he recovered and growled, “That wouldn’t happen.”

Isabella’s voice grew sharp, her words cutting through the air like a blade. “How long until you become your father? How long until I suffer the same fate as your mother—married to a tyrant, a prisoner in her own palace?”

Alaric's fury flared as he shouted, “I’m not my father!” His fists clenched. “And don’t act like you didn’t like it, Isabella! You loved sharing my bed, you loved giving yourself to me, you loved being my favorite!”

“Shut up!” Isabella hissed, her body tensing with anger.

He leaned in, his voice taunting. “Admit it, Isabella. You loved being mine. You loved being my favorite little whore…”

The words snapped something inside her. With a burst of uncontrollable rage, Isabella swung her fist and punched him square in the face. Alaric stumbled back and sat on the bench again, shocked, a smear of blood forming on his lip. But instead of retaliating, he laughed—a low, maddened sound that only stoked her fury.

She punched him again, harder this time, his head snapping to the side, but still, he laughed. It was a dangerous laugh, one that only fed the fire raging inside her.

Alaric, his lips bloodied and his eyes gleaming with a mix of anger and desire, whispered hoarsely between their breaths, “Give it to me, babygirl. All of it. Give me your rage, Isabella!”

Before she knew it, her fists unclenched, and she grabbed his face, crashing her lips into his in a wild, furious kiss, tasting the blood in his mouth. Her lips pressed against his, and he responded immediately, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her against his chest, making her straddle him as they kissed.