The Criswell's Curse

“Lord Terrel, I see you received my invitation.” Ophelia stated politely, averting her eyes to the younger siblings standing in the back. Mace and Ralph held hands as the eldest tried to provide some kind of reassurance to the youngest.

“My loving fiancée recognizes me solely by my voice; I am, indeed, one lucky man.” Terrel grabbed her hand forcefully, pressing his lips on it, eyes connected to hers.

Ophelia’s skin erupted, wishing to crawl back on its own, hoping to escape his touch. And yet, his grasp on her wouldn’t disappear, just like the cynical smile on his rather crooked lips. She frowned momentarily, giving her fiancé an ounce of extra joy.

The girl’s mind kept on jumping around, from one scenario to another. She despised this man, hoped to see him rot underground, in the Blasphemy he had come from, but her emotions couldn’t let it show. Terrel wouldn’t control her resolve, her brilliance.

Noticing the overwhelming silence and Ophelia’s dark stare, Mace intervened. “Brother, we should go.”

“What did you say, little shrimp?” Terrel crept back, facing his siblings, eyebrows drawn in a thick line of hairs across his forehead. “Who are you to order me around!?”

Mace’s body backed as a reflective movement once his brother’s arm rose, ready to strike him. Ralph had let go of his brother, now watching everything unfold from behind the carriage. His little arms trembled as he grabbed the wheels, terrified of what was about to happen.

The Earl remained quiet, carefully watching this scenario unfold. Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t a Wharton’s vassal, nor was his status higher than the heir of a Duke - he couldn’t intervene.

He’s a complete beast... Ophelia’s mind was becoming clearer by the second. This man cared not for appearances, cared for nothing but his own selfish desires. He lacked awareness, etiquette, morals. He would truly be more handsome with his head severed, cut in a clean swing of a sword. Seeing how the situation was escalating quickly, the noble lady inhaled deeply and stepped forward.

“Are you going to abandon your fiancée?” Her words made Terrel’s attention shift back to her, like a one-year-old infant with an attention span of a dog.

“Of course not, my dear. I would never do such a thing... shall we go?” He stretched his arm covered in that thick brownish colored suit he constantly wore.

A shiver ran down her spine once their bodies intertwined, connecting through the touch of their palms and clothes. Even then, she muttered up the courage to keep up her facade, to pretend everything was alright. Devlin simply followed behind, next to Mace and Ralph, as Terrel had completely ignored his presence.

Gracefully, they walked toward the inner garden, feet stepping on the bright blue cloth covering the dirt floor. Delphiniums and blue poppies lingered in beautifully carved jars, rising in greatness on a handful of carefully placed cornerstones. The sweet scent of lavender and freshly cut grass emanated from the nature surrounding them, creating a rather refined environment.

Once they passed the tall trees, entering the event area, silence formed. Servants and nobles alike focused their attention on them, like hawks hunting down their prey. Reality had finally hit them: The Black Rose was the Wharton’s fiancée. All those eyes, compelled by desire and curiosity, were nothing but shattered dreams that once strived, illusions that were dissipated with the simple sight of a man.

“I am afraid I have to excuse myself. The guests are waiting.” Ophelia stated while removing her hand from his arm; however, as she was about to leave, Terrel grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer towards him.

She bumped into his chest harshly, being hurt by the several golden buttons adorning his rather pompous attire. Without being able to suppress her true feelings, Ophelia glared at him, causing his grin to widen.

Terrel couldn’t help but to wish those fiery eyes to be his, to become bound to him, to subdue them to his will. All her theatrical displays, her carefully built facade of yearning, of being a good fiancée was simply that: a mere deception.

Her light blue eyes, filled with a spiking resolved, a pure hatred, only made him want to ruin her further. From everything he had done in life, this would be one of his greatest acts, the best choice for his sole pleasure.

“You may go, my dear, but don’t forget...” Terrel grabbed Ophelia’s chin, lifting it up. His lips smashed into hers forcefully as her arms struggled to leave. Eyes focused on hers, as if this was another competition of greatness, of power. His teeth bit her bottom lip strongly, allowing the sweet taste of blood to flow into them before letting her go. “... you belong to me.”

Faint words traveled through the wind as guests talked about what they had just witnessed with their own two eyes. Some were experiencing frustration, as they wished to be in Terrel’s shoes; others simply found this scene an irresponsible display of affection between a couple; and the minority laughed at the poor girl’s misery.

Bradley could only watch this unfold from his table. The cake in his grasp had crumbled onto the floor, causing cream to cover his fist. Right at the knots of his articulations, a certain paleness could be seen, contrasting the popping veins traveling all the way to his jaw. His emerald eyes were sharp, observing, planning, cursing. How could Terrel dare to taint his possession?

He could see it. The horror in her eyes as she backed away, the faint tremble in her hands, the small drops of blood pumping from the cut on her pale lip. That man was truly a menace, a creature who didn’t deserve the life he had received.

I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.

Were the thoughts roaming their minds, even though neither Bradley nor Ophelia knew of such a fact.