Chapter 32 Public Retribution
My arm throbbed where the feral vampire’s claws had torn the skin. The makeshift bandage—Klaus’s silk cravat—was already soaked through, a dark, wet stain spreading against the abyss-silk of my dress. Dust from the shattered crates coated my hair, turning the midnight strands grey. My skirt was ripped at the hem, dragging on the floor like a broken wing.
I looked like a survivor of a shipwreck.
Beside me, Klaus looked like the storm that caused it.
He hadn't bothered to button his coat. His white shirt was torn at the shoulder, revealing the pale, scarred skin underneath. His hair was wild, falling into his eyes. He held his sword sheathed at his hip, his hand resting white-knuckled on the hilt.
He didn't speak. The air around him was so cold it hurt to breathe. It wasn't the temperature of the room; it was the aura of a man who had walked to the edge of his own sanity and barely stepped back.
"Klaus," I whispered, the silence becoming suffocating. "Everyone will see."
"Good," he said. The word was a shard of ice.
"We look like... we look like we’ve been fighting."
"We have." He corrected. He didn't look at me. His eyes were fixed on the double doors ahead.
We reached the guards outside the ballroom.
They were the same men who had bowed to us earlier. Now, they took one look at Klaus’s face and flinched. They didn't ask for an invitation. They didn't announce us. They threw the doors open as if escaping a fire.
The music hit us first. A lively, bouncing reel that jarred against the violence still humming in my blood.
We stepped onto the threshold.
This time, the music didn't stop. The orchestra played on, oblivious. But the crowd... the crowd noticed.
It started as a ripple near the door. Vampires turned, glasses halfway to their lips, smiles freezing on their faces. The ripple became a wave. Silence spread through the room, cutting through the chatter like a scythe, until the only sound was the oblivious violins and the heavy, rhythmic thud of Klaus’s boots on the marble.
He didn't stop. He didn't acknowledge them.
He walked straight down the center of the room, his grip on my arm bruisingly tight. He wasn't supporting me; he was anchoring me.
I kept my head high. I felt the dust on my face, the blood on my arm, the rip in my dress. Earlier, Vespera’s burlap rags would have shamed me. But this? This wasn't shame. This was evidence.
I saw the confusion in their eyes. They saw the blood. They smelled the ozone and the dust. They looked from the Grand Admiral to the Siren, trying to understand what kind of violence had occurred in the last ten minutes.
Klaus had a target.
I followed his gaze.
Lady Vespera was holding court near the fountain of wine. She had recovered from her earlier fall, though her pink dress was still stained. She was laughing, her head thrown back, her hand resting on the arm of a young Duke. She looked triumphant. She looked like a woman who was waiting for a scream that never came.
She didn't see us approach. Her back was to the door.
"It’s really a tragedy," Vespera was saying, her voice carrying over the music. "Some creatures just aren't built for the court. They wander off. They get... lost."
The Duke she was talking to looked up. His eyes went wide. His face drained of color. He pulled his arm away from Vespera’s hand as if she were on fire.
"Vespera," the Duke whispered, taking a step back.
"What is it, darling?" Vespera asked, swirling her wine. "Don't tell me you're afraid of a little..."
She turned.
The glass in her hand didn't drop this time. She gripped it so hard her knuckles turned white.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
She stared at me. She stared at the bandage on my arm. She stared at the dust in my hair.
She was seeing a ghost.
"You..." she breathed. "How..."
Klaus didn't stop until he was standing inside her personal space. He loomed over her, a dark, jagged shadow against the gold of the ballroom.
The orchestra finally trailed off. The conductor, sensing the murderous intent radiating from the center of the room, lowered his baton.
The silence was absolute.
Klaus looked down at Vespera. His face was a mask of terrifying calm. There was no shouting. No roaring. Just a stillness that felt like the split second before an avalanche.
"You look surprised, Vespera," Klaus said. His voice was soft. conversational.
Vespera trembled. She looked around for support, but the circle around her had vanished. Everyone had backed away. She was alone on an island of marble.
"Peri," she stammered, a nervous, high-pitched laugh escaping her throat. "I... look at you! You're a mess! What on earth happened? Did the little fish try to bite?"
She tried to deflect. She tried to make it a joke.
Klaus didn't blink.
"There was an accident," he said smoothly. "In the East Wing storage room. Someone left a cage open."
Vespera’s eyes darted to my arm. She saw the blood soaking the silk cravat. A flash of disappointment crossed her face—I was wounded, but I was alive.
"How terrible," she lied, taking a sip of her wine to hide her shaking hands. "You really should be more careful with your pets, Peri. They are so fragile."
"She is not fragile," Klaus said.
He reached out.
Vespera flinched, expecting a blow.
But Klaus didn't strike her.
He gently took the crystal goblet from her hand.
"May I?" he asked, though he already had it.
Vespera let go, too terrified to resist. "I... of course."
Klaus held the glass up to the light. The red wine swirled inside, thick and rich. He studied it like a jeweler inspecting a flaw.
"You enjoy the finest things, Vespera," Klaus murmured. "Silk. Wine. Cruelty."
"I don't know what you mean," she whispered.
"I think you do."
Klaus’s hand tightened around the delicate crystal bowl of the glass.
He didn't squeeze quickly. He did it slowly.
The sound echoed through the silent ballroom.
Spiderweb fractures appeared in the crystal. Wine began to weep through the cracks, running over Klaus’s black leather glove.
Vespera gasped, taking a step back.
Klaus closed his fist.
The goblet exploded.
Shards of crystal and red wine sprayed outward. Vespera shrieked, shielding her face.
Klaus didn't flinch. He didn't drop the remains. He held the broken stem and the jagged shards in his clenched fist, squeezing until the leather of his glove strained.
Dark, thick liquid dripped from his hand.
It wasn't just wine.