A Dangerous Obsession
Chapter 66 - 65

Chapter 66: Chapter 65

CHLORENDIA

The morning sun glared mercilessly as I swung the sword through the humid air, the weight of the blade familiar in my hands. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was an extension of myself, a way to channel everything boiling beneath my skin. My wounds were healing, but my pride? That was a long way from patched up.

Each swing of the blade echoed in the courtyard, sharp and deliberate. Thud. Slash. Thud. My target, an old training dummy made of straw and patched leather, stood resilient despite my relentless onslaught. The dummy wasn’t the enemy—it was a stand-in for everything else. For the expectations. For the judgment. For him.

My hair stuck to the back of my neck, damp with sweat. My muscles screamed for a reprieve, my palms slick and raw from gripping the hilt, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

I swung harder, gritting my teeth. My arms felt like lead, each motion slower, sloppier than the last. Still, I pushed forward, ignoring the ache in my hands. The dummy wobbled under the force of my strikes, straw spilling from its seams.

But then, the sword slipped from my grasp.

It fell to the ground with a dull clatter, the sound jarring against the silence. My hands shook as I stared down at it, my breath ragged and uneven.

I heaved a sigh, placing my hands on my knees to steady myself. Sweat dripped down my temples, soaking into the fabric of my tunic. The ache in my hands was a dull throb now, the skin raw and peeling.

And that’s when I felt it—that prickling sensation, like someone was watching me.

I snapped my head toward the stables, narrowing my eyes against the sunlight. At first, I saw nothing but the shadowed outline of the barn. But then, movement caught my attention. A figure lingered near the edge of the stable doors, half-hidden in the shadows.

Our eyes met.

It was him. The stable boy.

Lylda, I recalled. His name was whispered often enough among the maids, though not for any reason that mattered. The women fawned over his appearance, giggling behind their hands like love-struck fools. I didn’t see the appeal. He was tall, sure, with sharp features and hair that caught the light just right. But he was nothing more than a scrawny omega from a bloodline so weak it might as well not exist.

Weak.

The word echoed in my head, and I chuckled under my breath, shaking it off. How pathetic.

Lylda’s eyes widened when he realized I’d caught him staring. He quickly averted his gaze, turning back to the stable as though he could will himself invisible. But it was too late. I had seen him, and now, I couldn’t unsee the embarrassment flushing his face.

I picked up my sword, my hands trembling slightly as I gripped the hilt. My palms stung with the effort, but I ignored it, tightening my hold. Weakness wasn’t an option—not for me, not ever.

Swinging the blade again, I focused on the dummy, slashing at it with renewed vigor. Each strike sent waves of pain through my arms, but I refused to stop. If my father could see me now, he would scoff at my form, at my persistence. He would call me reckless, unrefined, undisciplined.

Good.

Let him scoff. Let them all scoff. I would prove them wrong.

But as I struck the dummy again and again, my gaze drifted back to the stable. To him. Lylda hadn’t gone far. He was back, watching me from the corner of his eye, pretending to busy himself with the horses.

I stopped mid-swing, lowering the sword.

"What are you staring at?" I called out, my voice sharper than I intended.

Lylda froze, his hands still on the reins of one of the horses. He glanced at me, then away, his jaw tightening. "Nothing, Miss Chloe," he said, his voice soft, almost deferential.

I hated the way he said my name, like he was afraid of it.

"If it’s nothing," I said, stepping closer, "then why are you still looking?"

He straightened, finally turning to face me fully. His gaze flickered over me—my sweat-soaked tunic, the sword still clenched in my hands—before settling on my face.

"I wasn’t looking," he said, his tone measured. "I was working."

I laughed bitterly, raising an eyebrow. "Working? Is that what you call lurking in the shadows, gawking at me like a fool?"

He bristled at that, his shoulders stiffening. For a fleeting moment, I thought he might say something—something sharp, something that would remind me he wasn’t entirely spineless. But then, he looked away again, his jaw tightening.

"Apologies," he muttered, his voice barely audible.

I scoffed, turning back to the dummy. Weak, I thought again, shaking my head.

But even as I resumed my training, I couldn’t shake the feeling of his gaze lingering on me. It wasn’t like the others—those prying, judgmental eyes that always seemed to follow me around the manor. His gaze felt...different. Not pitying, but not admiring either.

It was unnerving.

My sword slipped again, clattering to the ground. I swore under my breath, bending down to pick it up. My hands were worse now, the skin blistered and raw. Still, I lifted the blade, positioning it in front of me.

"My lady."

His voice stopped me in my tracks.

I turned, glaring at him. "What?"

Lylda hesitated, his brow furrowed like he was debating whether to speak or not. Finally, he said, "Your hands...you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep going."

I stared at him, stunned by his audacity. "And what would you know about it?" I snapped.

"I was... I was just worried," he said simply. His gaze dropped to the sword in my hand.

Anger flared in my chest, hot and uncontrollable. "And why would you be worried about me?" I spat. "Just because I returned to this pack bruised doesn’t mean I’m weak! You should be worried about your weak bloodline and your pitiful excuses for existence. Don’t lecture me."

To my surprise, he didn’t flinch. Instead, he held my gaze, his expression unreadable.

"Forgive me for stepping out of line," he said quietly.

The words hit harder than I wanted to admit. I clenched my jaw, turning away from him before he could see the flicker of guilt in my eyes.

"Get back to your horses," I said, my voice cold and dismissive.

Lylda hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yes, Miss Chloe," he said, his tone laced with something I couldn’t quite place.

As he walked away, I tightened my grip on the sword, raising it once more.

With gritting teeth I swung the sword, harder this time, as if sheer force could erase the frustration clawing at me. The dull thud of the blade against the battered dummy wasn’t enough to drown out the turmoil in my head. Every movement burned; every swing sent jolts of pain through my blistered palms. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

Another strike, and another. My arms were trembling now, muscles protesting with every motion, but the fire inside me wouldn’t allow rest.

And then I felt it—a shift in the air, like the very ground beneath me stiffened.

I froze mid-swing, the blade hovering in the air. My breath caught in my throat as a familiar aura blanketed the courtyard, heavy and suffocating. It wasn’t something you could see, but you could feel it. Like a storm gathering, silent and foreboding.

My eyes darted toward the manor, drawn like a moth to flame. There, standing in the shadow of his office window, was my father.

Even from this distance, his presence loomed. His cold eyes were locked on me, calculating, piercing through me as if he could see straight to my soul. His expression was unreadable, but his mere presence was enough to send a shiver down my spine.

The sword wavered in my grip. My instincts screamed at me to lower it, to straighten my posture, to act like I hadn’t been beating a straw dummy into submission for the better part of the morning. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t let him see the fear that threatened to bubble to the surface.

Our gazes locked for what felt like an eternity. I held my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. He didn’t need to speak to convey his judgment; it was written all over his face, in the slight curl of his lip, in the icy glint of his eyes.

Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.

His shadow slipped away from the window, retreating into the depths of his office like a phantom.

The weight of his aura lingered long after he disappeared, wrapping around me like chains. My arms dropped to my sides, the sword clattering to the ground for the third time that morning. I didn’t bother to pick it up this time.

I stood there, staring at the empty window, my chest heaving. Sweat dripped down my temples.

I wiped a hand across my face, smearing sweat and dirt across my cheek. My fingers were trembling, raw and blistered from the unforgiving grip of the sword hilt.