Vengeance Through Passion

He was the devil himself, and no, this was no metaphor.

With his silver hair and unreadable eyes, exuded a malevolence that seemed to defy human nature. Every gesture, every word was calculated, every inch of him radiated an unholy arrogance, his mere presence a reminder that not all monsters wore horns or carried pitchforks. No, some demons draped themselves in the finest silks, like the one standing before Aricia now—Vincent Blackwell.

He stood there, towering over her, his gaze cold, almost disinterested, as if she were nothing more than an inconvenience. For reasons known only to him, he decided at that moment to disrobe. With a deliberate flick of his wrist, his heavy, dark robes slid from his shoulders and fell into a pool around his feet, leaving him standing in nothing but a pair of embroidered undergarments—fine, expensive things that looked more like they belonged on a nobleman at court than a man about to wash off filth.

It was absurd, and yet the way he moved, with such confidence and ease, made it seem like this was the most natural thing in the world. Aricia's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening as her mind struggled to comprehend the situation. His body was lean, muscled, and too perfect for a man she despised so thoroughly. Even his undergarments were ostentatious, threaded with silver and green, a clear display of his wealth and vanity.

He knew she hated him. gods, he knew all too well. That was the infuriating part.

"Cover that squirrel-painted thing!" Aricia snapped, her voice higher than usual, betraying the whirlwind of emotions battling inside her. She pointed accusingly at his undergarments, her face flushing a deep scarlet. It wasn’t just the absurdity of the situation, it was how effortlessly he made her feel vulnerable.

Vincent glanced down at himself, then back up at her, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t seem fazed in the least by her outburst, and that only made her anger burn hotter.

It was the first time she had seen a man out of his robes, the first time she had seen a man like this—undressed and unconcerned. It was just a fleeting glimpse, but it was enough to make her heart race and her blood boil. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to look away, but she couldn’t. She hated him, loathed him even before she knew him, and each new encounter only deepened her resentment. He was insufferable, arrogant, and the way he carried himself only reinforced her belief that he thought the world owed him everything.

Martha, the kind-hearted baker, had offered Vincent the use of the shack to wash off the filth from his journey. She had been generous, as always, but Aricia hadn’t expected him to use the bakery itself as his bathing quarters. She certainly hadn’t expected this.

Vincent let out a soft huff, as if her distress was little more than an inconvenience to him. His eyes briefly flickered over to her as she crouched on the ground, her back pressed firmly against the wall, shielding herself like a tortoise retreating into its shell. The smirk on his lips grew ever so slightly, as if her discomfort was somehow amusing to him.

“Martha!” Aricia shrieked, jumping to her feet with more force than necessary. She darted out of the back room, her hair whipping behind her as she stormed through the bakery’s back door. She needed an escape, some distance from the madness she had just witnessed.

Burdened with frustration and a growing sense of humiliation, Aricia stumbled into the front of the bakery, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. There stood Martha, her soft, elderly hands holding a bundle of clothes—plain and simple garments that looked like they belonged to someone’s grandmother. Aricia’s fists clenched at her sides, every ounce of her anger threatening to spill over.

"What is it, dear? Has our guest had his bath yet?" Martha asked, her voice calm and soothing as always, but her eyes sparkled with mild curiosity. She glanced over Aricia’s shoulder, clearly expecting Vincent to follow behind, cleaner and more presentable.

“I wish he would fall on his back and crack his skull open,” Aricia spat, the venom in her words shocking even herself. She was shaking, her rage barely contained. “But not enough to kill him. No, I want him to live. I want him to be a drooling vegetable for the rest of his life, while I rain terror on his entire family!”

Martha’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the intensity of Aricia’s outburst. “That was... quite specific. Almost as if you have been planning it.”

“Oh, I have.” The words slipped out before Aricia could stop them. It wasn’t a lie, though. She had indeed been planning this. Or something like it. For a very long time.

She was engaged to one of them, after all—the Blackwells, the most insufferable family she had ever known. Whether it was the arrogant brother Cealric, or the even more annoying one standing half-naked in the back room, her hatred for their family ran deep. But what was his name again? The one she despised the most?

“I don’t even know his name,” Aricia muttered under her breath, her brow furrowing in frustration.

“Whose name?” Martha asked, tilting her head in confusion.

Before Aricia could answer, the bakery door burst open with a loud crash, and Freya—always the whirlwind—burst inside, her eyes wide and her chest heaving as though she had just sprinted the entire way there.

“You would not believe who I saw last night!” Freya announced, her voice nearly a shout. Her excitement was palpable, radiating from her like heat off the sun. Aricia groaned internally, slumping into one of the wooden stools by the counter.

“Tell me about it,” Aricia muttered, though her tone made it clear that she had little interest in hearing whatever nonsense Freya had brought with her this time. She was still fuming from Vincent’s unwelcome display.

Freya, completely oblivious to Aricia’s mood, bounced over to her, her hands fluttering with excitement. “Oh, I would, but where have you been all morning? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” She paused only for a moment before greeting Martha with a bright, “Good morning, Martha!”

Martha, still holding the bundle of clothes, nodded politely. “Good morning, dear.”

“Now,” Freya continued, practically vibrating with energy, “I have to tell you! I was so excited last night that I couldn’t sleep! I came rushing to your home this morning but alas you were nowhere to be found. This man—oh gods, Ricia, this man—he’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’ve never been this serious in my life!”

Aricia rolled her eyes so hard she feared they might get stuck. Freya was the queen of DRAMA, and if Aricia had learned anything in the years she’d known her, it was that Freya’s excitement often came with a healthy dose of exaggeration.

“At first, I was confused, I didn’t know what to think, but I decided not to dwell.” Freya continued, her voice growing more breathless with each word. “But then—oh, gods, Aricia—it took every bit of my willpower not to tear the fabric off his clothes and—”

“Language, Freya,” Martha called from behind the counter, her voice stern but not unkind.

Freya flushed slightly but pressed on, undeterred. “I’m serious! This man was sculpted by the gods themselves. He’s perfection! No, he’s more than that—he’s otherworldly. He might be a god, for all I know!”, "I think I need an award for how well I pulled myself together."

Aricia massaged her temples, feeling a headache coming on. It was one thing for Freya to be dramatic, but this was a whole new level of ridiculous.

"Hear me, it's almost forbidden to speak of him." Freya confessed.

'I've heard that before.' Aricia thought silently.

Freya leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s from the Fire Clan—the Blackwells! The first son of—”

But before she could finish, the door to the back swung open with a creak, and Vincent appeared once more. He carried a pail in one hand, his skin still glistening with water from his recent bath. Droplets clung to his muscled chest, sliding down the smooth planes of his torso in tantalizing trails. His shoulders were broad, his body lean and powerful, every inch of him exuding strength and control. A green towel hung loosely around his waist, the fabric clinging to his hips in a way that only accentuated his form.

Freya’s eyes widened, her face flushing a deep shade of crimson as her mouth dropped open. “Holy screaming mother of all witches,” she whispered, clearly embarrassed as she stumbled backward toward the door.

Without another word, Freya bolted from the room, her excitement evaporating in the wake of Vincent’s unexpected entrance.

Aricia, still seated on the stool, refused to look up. She could feel Vincent’s presence looming over her, feel the heat of his skin and the smugness radiating off him like a second skin.

“Why is everything in there so green?” Vincent complained, his voice sharp and annoyed. “It’s like I’m bathing in baby vomit." Vincent complained as he rustled a towel over his wet hair, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Young man," Martha’s voice was calm but stern as she approached, "put some clothes on. Customers will be arriving soon."

"Yes, or we might all go blind," Aricia muttered under her breath, still refusing to acknowledge him fully.

Martha handed Vincent a set of clothes—plain, modest garments. "It’s not much, but it’s better than what you were wearing."

Vincent blinked, eyeing the clothes with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. He seemed on the verge of protesting, no doubt tempted to remind them that his robes were worth more than the entire property, but instead, he swallowed his pride and accepted the offering with a resigned sigh.

He slipped into the clothes with little grace, emerging a moment later looking utterly ridiculous in the oversized fabric. The towel, still damp, hung awkwardly in his hand. Without a word, he tossed it over Aricia’s head, a casual insult that made her blood boil.

Her hands slowly rose to remove the offending towel, and she blew a strand of hair from her face with a frustrated sigh. "Curses," she spat, glaring after him.

***

The moment Vincent stepped outside, the rhythmic thudding of hooves on the earth grew louder, catching his attention. A fast-moving horse barreled toward the cottage, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. Perched atop the beast was Cealric, his hair reflecting the sun as his face broke into a wide, unapologetic grin. With an almost casual grace, Cealric dismounted, landing lightly on his feet as if the hard ride hadn’t fazed him in the slightest.

The two brothers couldn’t have looked more different in that moment—Vincent, with his dripping wet body clad in clothes far beneath his usual standard, and Cealric, in his finely tailored riding gear, pristine and smug.

Vincent didn’t bother with pleasantries. "Where are the clothes?" His voice cut through the air, sharp and demanding, as he fixed his cold gaze on Cealric.

Cealric, still grinning like the devil’s own, didn’t seem the least bit concerned. He took a moment to catch his breath, his amusement bubbling over into a full-blown laugh. "Seems you’ve already got that sorted," he teased, his eyes sweeping over Vincent’s ridiculous ensemble.

Vincent’s jaw tightened in barely restrained fury. He stepped forward and snatched the bag from Cealric’s outstretched hand with more force than necessary, his disgust evident in every movement. The bag was heavier than it looked, no doubt containing fabrics of the finest quality, but right now it felt like a weight reminding him of this humiliating ordeal.

"What a waste of resources," Vincent muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. He glanced down at the damp, ill-fitting fabric clinging to his frame—Martha's loaned clothes an offense to his usual immaculate appearance. Every fiber in his body screamed for the return of his dignity.

With a final, irritated glance at his brother, Vincent spun on his heel, his long strides carrying him away from the cottage and into the shadowy streets of Aelaras. Behind him, Cealric’s chuckle echoed, but Vincent didn’t bother looking back.