Chapter 5 Maximus: Obsession

–Maximus–

Her chamber glowed in red and black—perhaps from the crimson lamps she insists on sleeping beneath. It felt less like a bedroom and more like a gothic-Victorian sanctum, drenched in shadows and velvet light. My Good girl…though she is not so good after all. The thought stirred a memory of a song I once heard: “Good girls are bad girls that haven’t been caught.” The lines echoed in my mind, and I laughed–low, dark, amused.

My sweet Alexandria.

I brushed my fingers across the spines of her books: dark romance, thrillers, even a few rom-coms, and historical tales. I do not yet know all her preferences in this life, but I will play along with whatever she desires. A book boyfriend? I can be whatever she dreams.

I turned my gaze to my bride, humming softly in her sleep. The King-size bed was custom-made, with a padded frame and pillows aligned like sentinels. I had been watching her ever since she left the dinner table—stalking, unseen. She never caught me. She never could. I move faster than the blink of an eye.

“Hmm…” she murmured. I crawled across the bed, looming over her, careful not to wake her.

Her scent intoxicated me—an ancient intoxication I had not tasted in centuries. My fangs lengthened, grazing the air above her delicate skin. I longed to mark her, to claim her as mine. But not yet.

I pressed featherlight kisses along her neck, then traced her jawline.

“My wife,” I whispered.

“Maxim…”

I froze. She spoke my name, though in this lifetime she does not yet know me fully.

Her face was serene, still asleep. My eyes drifted to the margarita glass at her bedside. I lifted it, inhaled. A faint trace of potion. Did that boy dare slip something into her drink? To awaken fragments of her old memories?

Her body betrayed her—nipples tightening beneath the silk shirt she wore. I swallowed hard. Desire surged. I remembered the taste, the feel, and I craved it again.

Her pheromones filled the room. She was aroused, dreaming of me. I cannot wait a week to bring her home. Yet patience is demanded. She is twenty now, and we all fear losing her once more.

“I’ll be back, my love.” I kissed her lips lightly, then her forehead, before slipping from the bed with inhuman speed. I drew the duvet over her body, shielding her from the night.

From my coat, I withdrew a small box and placed it upon her bedside table. Then I left, meeting Sy outside, his arms crossed.

“Prepare her breakfast tomorrow.” 

I spoke it not as a request, but as a decree. 

He gave a sharp nod, yet his eyes betrayed him–something flickered there. Anger? Hatred? A shadow of defiance. The air around him tightened, heavy with agitation. 

Something is bothering him. I know him too well. 

“We need to talk too.”

He followed me into the library, where Victor spoke with his son Ryan about the arrangements. They whispered, but my immortal hearing caught every word.

They fear me. They whisper that once I claim my bride, I will erase their bloodline. They suspect the truth already—that I am not human. I look the same as the first time I walked into their halls years ago. And yes, I plan to kill them all, after what his second son dared to do to the reincarnation of my wife.

“Gifts you send every birthday never reach her at all,” Sy murmured, his voice low. My frown deepened. The jewelry, the clothes Ophilia stitched by hand—perfect measurements, perfect devotion—never reached her?

Someone stole them. This family is rotten. They mistreated her, cast her aside, made her an outcast. I should have taken her the night her cries echoed through the hall after her mother gave birth. But I could not raise her as a child only to marry her as a woman.

So I gave them an ultimatum: raise her, and when she turns twenty, she is mine.

My men have shadowed her since her first steps. Eyes everywhere, protecting her, eliminating threats. Yet some threats remain—within this family.

I entered the room. Silence fell. Victor forced a businesslike smile; Ryan’s face was stone. A father who has never been a father. Sy had already vanished into the shadows.

“It has come to my attention,” I said, my voice cutting through the air, “that the gifts I sent were never received by my bride.”

Victor blinked, feigning confusion.

“There could be a mistake…” He glanced at his son, equally blank.

“The diamond necklace for her eighteenth birthday?” My brows rose. “I checked her closet. Ophilia’s collection from last year is missing. The only dress she owns is the one she wore tonight.” My gaze shifted to Ryan, then to his wife lounging on the sofa. “Is she being mistreated here?”

Leah, Alexandria’s mother, sprang to her feet. “Mr. Veyron, there could be a mix-up.”

My eyes locked on the eldest daughter—wearing the very diamond necklace meant for Alexandria.

“I don’t think there’s a mix-up at all.” My tone was flat, merciless. “And her bankcard?”

Victor straightened. “Her bankcard is with her. I gave it to her personally.”

I nodded once. “That’s all for tonight. Three days. I’ll have her in three days.” I turned, my voice a blade. “I could have wiped out this family if not for her.” Their fear was palpable, trembling in the air.

I left the mansion. My car waited. Sy leaned against it, arms folded.

“Make sure she doesn’t run off. And make sure they don’t do something stupid.”

“Okay.” He vanished again.

I slid into the car. “Back home.”

At my temple, I brooded. I should have taken her earlier. Even her parents treat her as if she were not their child. Different features, yes—but the same features she bore in her first lifetime. Her father has taken DNA tests again and again. Each time, the result is undeniable. She is theirs. And yet, they deny her.

**** 

“Papá.”

Ophelia descended the stairs, her rustic red hair catching the dim light as she gazed at me.

“How is it?” she asked, her eyes bright. I patted her head gently.

“It’s fine, Lia.”

“You should’ve taken her right away,” she pouted, lips trembling with impatience.

“Now is not the time, Lia. But the dress you made fits her perfectly. How about you design more for her homecoming?”

“I already have a lot!” she exclaimed, her whole body gleaming with excitement. “I’m almost finished with the wedding gown. I can’t wait!” She squirmed, her joy uncontainable. Seven gowns—each hand-sewn, each a labor of years—waiting for this moment.

I kissed her forehead.

“Good night, Lia.”

“Okay…” Her voice faltered, hesitant, but I dismissed it as I ascended to my study.

The door yielded to my fingerprint. Inside, the room breathed with shadows and memory—walls lined with photographs and paintings of my wife. Every lifetime, every face. Always the same. Always her.

This time, she is within my reach. And I will not let her die again.