The Villains Must Win

Chapter 363: Alistair Cain 23

The words cut through the moment. Though she avoided eye contact, Caroline’s attention was unmistakably fixed on the bed, on the sounds Selene could no longer seem to suppress.

"What is this about? I didn’t give you permission to be here," Alistair snapped, irritation roughening his voice.

He caught sight of Selene’s flushed ears and nearly laughed, his grip tightening as if to anchor her—before stopping altogether.

"Oh... ah..."

Her embarrassment softened, giving way to something darker, more dangerous. This was part of her act, to get to Alistair’s good side.

Caroline’s presence no longer mattered. She only wanted to hold on—to him, to the feeling, to the moment before it slipped away.

"Vince is outside, my lord," the maid continued evenly.

Alistair stilled completely.

Vince stood among the noble vampire lords—one of the few remaining allies from the conservative faction.

Unlike the newer generation of vampires, who were reckless, indulgent, and dangerously carefree, the old blood still understood restraint.

Modern times had made the younger vampires bold in thought and arrogant in ambition. They believed the world should be theirs to rule outright, no longer content to linger in the shadows.

And some of the noble lords supported them.

How troublesome, Alistair thought.

"Alistair..."

Selene felt the pause like a crack in the air. She pressed herself against him, arms wrapping around his broad frame, eyes full of quiet insistence. He did not move—but neither did he pull away.

At last, he reached up, cradling the back of her head, and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. The smile he gave her was fond, but burdened.

"That’s enough for now."

She tightened her hold, brushing soft kisses along his jaw. "Don’t go."

"I can’t." A flash of irritation crossed his face before he mastered it. Carefully, he guided her upright.

Selene stood still, vulnerable, biting her lip as the distance between them grew.

"Do you really have to leave?"

"Yes."

"But it’s late..."

"I’ll be back soon."

The promise lingered in the air—uncertain, dangerous, and heavy with everything the night had interrupted.

Alistair barely spared them a glance as he drew his robe around himself. In the next breath, his presence vanished—no sound, no lingering trace of power, as though he had never been there at all.

The room felt colder without him.

Selene remained where she was, exposed and suddenly aware of the silence. Caroline stood nearby, still and composed, her expression unreadable.

With a quiet sigh, Selene reached for her own robe and slipped it on. The fabric felt heavier than before.

So his heart isn’t mine yet, she thought.

Still... he had let her live. That was progress enough.

Even after everything. Even after she was no longer untouched.

That alone meant something.

"You really seduced our Lord," Caroline said at last, her arms crossing over her chest, her posture sharp and tilted with disdain, "just to sleep with him?"

Selene met her gaze calmly. Then she smiled.

"Jealous much?" she asked lightly. "Or are you simply surprised I’m still alive—even after sharing his bed?"

Caroline’s lips curled into a thin smirk. "Hmph. I don’t care what you do," she said coolly. "But you truly lack foresight. You’re no longer a virgin now. Your blood won’t taste as sweet as it once did."

She leaned closer, voice dropping. "It’s only a matter of time before Lord Alistair grows bored of you."

Selene didn’t flinch.

Instead, she tilted her head, beaming. "Really? I suppose only time will tell."

Caroline’s eyes darkened. She stared at Selene for a long moment—long enough for something sharp and ugly to flicker beneath her composure—before turning sharply on her heel and leaving the room.

The door shut behind her with a quiet finality.

Selene remained standing, her smile slowly fading.

The warmth drained from her expression, replaced by something more thoughtful. More resolute.

I know what I risked, she thought. And I know what I gained.

She had not claimed his heart—but neither had he discarded her.

And for now...

That was enough.

====

Selene woke before dawn with her heart in a frantic gallop, breath caught in her throat as though she had fled from some half-remembered nightmare.

Pale morning light crept through the narrow windows, washing the stone walls of her chamber in ash and silver.

She lay still for a moment, listening.

Silence.

She was in her own room.

Her fingers curled into the sheets as relief settled—uneasy, fragile, but real.

Whatever had transpired the night before, whatever she had feared when she closed her eyes, had not followed her into the morning.

Selene rose and dressed quickly, tying her robe with practiced hands. The academy was never truly asleep, but the hour before dawn belonged to shadows and servants.

Today, the kitchen duties had fallen to her, and routine, she told herself, would quiet the restless thrum beneath her skin.

She padded down the stone corridor, stretching as she walked, yawning softly. The air grew warmer as she neared the kitchens, heavy with the faint scent of embers and old bread. She turned the corner—

—and froze.

A shadow lay draped across the countertop, wrong in shape and darker than the gloom allowed. It moved.

Selene gasped, her breath sharp and loud in the stillness. Instinct took over. She rushed forward and struck the switch.

Light flooded the room.

Alistair stood braced against the counter, one hand clenched tightly at his abdomen. Dark blood stained his shirt, soaked through the fabric, dripping slowly onto the stone floor below.

"My Lord!" Selene cried, panic bursting through her composure as she hurried to his side.

Oh no.

Oh, no.

Not Alistair. Not him. Not the man whose presence alone could tilt the balance of the world she lived in. The potential villain must not die here.

No villain will die under my watch. Selene said internally.

"You’re bleeding," she said breathlessly, her hands hovering before she dared to touch him. "My Lord, you’re bleeding badly."

Her fingers pressed gently against his side, feeling the depth of the wound beneath the cloth. It was deep—far deeper than it should have been—and the flesh beneath her touch felt unnaturally slow to knit itself whole.