Vengeance in His Bed novel Chapter 126

Chapter 126: Sins of the Black Cycle

"Get out," Guron commanded, his voice slicing through the frozen air of the study. He turned his gaze toward Shadron and Dorrent, his jaw locked in a hard line. "Both of you. Outside, right now. I will talk to my wife alone."

"There is no need for that, Guron!" Himelda snapped instantly, her voice rising to a sharp, trembling register. She stepped further into the room, her elegant heels clicking against the floorboards as she glared at her husband. "I have to talk. I am going to explain everything to him right here, right now!"

"You have nothing to talk about, Himelda! You need to calm down this instant," Guron roared, his chest heaving as he marched toward her. He grabbed her firmly by the upper arm, trying to physically steer her back toward the corridor. "We can discuss whatever ridiculous things you have on your mind in the privacy of our bedroom. Move."

"Let go of me!" Himelda shrieked, tearing her arm out of his grip with fury. She stood her ground, her eyes burning like hot coals as she pointed a finger at her son. "I don’t need to calm down! I need to talk to Dorrent! He is my son, and he is the one whose life is hanging by a thread under this roof!"

"I said she has nothing to talk about, Dorrent! Get outside!" Guron bellowed, stepping directly between his wife and his son, his presence flaring up to completely dominate the room.

"Enough! Both of you, stop right there!"

Dorrent’s voice boomed like sudden thunder, halting both of his parents. He stepped forward, his frame radiating an intense, dangerous authority as he slammed his hand against the edge of the desk. His silver eyes darted between Guron’s rigid back and Himelda’s pale face, his expression twisted into frustration.

"Do not touch her, Father. Let me listen to my mother," Dorrent delivered coldly, his chest expanding with a ragged breath. "I am confused by the absolute absurdity of your behavior. Both of you are reacting like psychopathic madmen, screaming and tearing this house apart because of a simple, fragile little girl from the 3rd Street slums! It makes no sense, and I want answers right now."

"A simple girl?!" Himelda let out a sharp, hysterical laugh that echoed bitterly off the high ceilings. "She is not simple as she looks, Dorrent! She is a walking curse! You need to listen to me right now if you want to keep breathing!"

Before Guron could intercept her again, Himelda spun around with a fierce, manic energy. She shoved Shadron toward the open doorway and pointed into the dark hall, her voice dripping with command. "Out! Both of you, get the hell out of this study! Shadron, leave us! Guron, get out of my sight!"

Shadron didn’t need to be told twice; he bowed his head and stepped backward into the corridor. Guron stood frozen for a second, his fists clenching. He knew he couldn’t force his wife out without triggering an absolute war in front of their son. Realizing he had lost this round, Guron turned his head, locking his sharp eyes onto Dorrent with seriousness.

"Do not listen to a single word she says, Dorrent," Guron warned roughly, his voice dropping into a dark, threatening growl. "She is completely hysterical and letting old, irrelevant ghosts dictate her mind. Remember what I told you about your duty to this bloodline." With those final words, Guron turned and marched out, slamming the doors shut behind him.

Himelda took a long breath, smoothing down her dress as she tried to regain a shred of her composure. She turned to her son, her eyes filled with grief. She gestured with a shaking hand toward the chair opposite the desk.

"Sit down, Dorrent," Himelda said quietly, her voice dropping into a whisper. "Sit down and listen to your mother."

Dorrent didn’t sit. He remained standing like an immovable stone statue, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes tracking her every movement with suspicion. "I am listening, Mother. Speak."

Himelda let out a weak, exhausted sigh and leaned against the edge of the desk, staring down at the shattered glass on the floor. "Tell me, Dorrent... do you remember your uncle? My younger brother, Dean?"

Dorrent’s brow furrowed, his expression softening for a a second as the name pulled a deeply buried memory from his childhood. "Of course I remember Uncle Dean," he replied, his voice rough but clear. "He used to live with us more than twenty years ago. I was only thirteen years old when he passed."

A faint, bittersweet memory flashed through Dorrent’s mind. He recalled a cheerful, vibrant young man in his early twenties who always had a bright smile on his face. Dean was the one who used to drive the sports cars through the estate gates, always insisting on picking Dorrent up from his academy. He had loved his uncle deeply; Dean had been his idol, the one man who always brought a sense of warmth into the cold environment of the Grefo family.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify