Raised From The Wild-Chapter 442: The Knight in Shining Armor

Just as Amaya believed she was on the brink of despair—her thoughts swirling like autumn leaves caught in a turbulent wind, her spirit plummeting into an abyss as dark as an unending night—the door flew open with a thunderous crash, shattering the silence like glass.

Light spilled into the chamber, washing away the shadows that had clung to her like cobwebs. In the doorway stood a tall figure, framed by the glow. His hair, ash-gray, caught the light like silver threads; his eyes, sharp and blue as glacial ice, locked on her with a look that was at once urgent and impossibly gentle.

"Marx," she breathed, her voice fragile, fragile as glass on the verge of breaking. "You came..."

He crossed the space between them in a heartbeat, his strides long, purposeful. Kneeling, he swept her into his arms with a desperation that trembled beneath his restraint. His embrace was firm yet unbearably careful, as though she were porcelain already cracked.

"Princess," he whispered, guilt and relief mingling in his tone, "I am sorry I’m late." His eyes searched her face, tracing every bruise, every tremor. "Tell me—Are you hurt anywhere?" Concern etched itself into his expression as he asked.

Amaya shook her head, her hair matted by sweat cascading over her shoulders as she weakly wrapped her arms around his neck, seeking comfort in his embrace. The heat radiating from his body enveloped her like a warm blanket, anchoring her in a moment that felt both safe and unsettling. Yet, beneath the surface of tranquility, a flicker of unease stirred deep within her chest. Something was wrong—subtle, elusive, like a note out of tune in a familiar song.

Marx gathered her effortlessly, carrying her from the cold, dim laboratory. His jaw was tight with determination, but worry flickered in his eyes. "You’re not yourself," he murmured, voice taut with unease. "What did they do to you? Your mind... it feels clouded."

She swallowed hard. Perhaps he was right. She was muddled, her thoughts still raw from the mental torment she had endured. The captors had not broken her body, but her mind still reeled in their grip.

"Where are the others?" she asked faintly, noticing for the first time that only Marx had come for her.

"I rushed ahead," he said quickly, adjusting his hold as though shielding her from unseen danger. "The others are sweeping the halls, securing the area, subduing those responsible."

"Where... are we, Marx? What is this place?" Her brow furrowed, disoriented. "How could they have taken me from the chalet, with all those guards so close at hand?" The haunting question echoed in her mind, a relentless reminder of her abduction that loomed like a dark shadow since the day it had happened.

Marx’s expression darkened. "We’re at the border of the three kingdoms. I’m still uncovering their reasons, but you don’t need to trouble yourself with that now. Rest, Princess. It may take time before I can get you safely beyond these walls."

’Princess.

Her mind snagged on the word. He had always called her Amaya or Aya. When did he start using that title? Or—was she mishearing him, her mind still fractured by her captors’ games?

"Go to sleep," Marx murmured, his voice a gentle caress that wrapped around her uncertainties like silken threads. "When you wake, everything will be well again."

His words flowed into her like a lullaby, gentle, irresistible. The cadence of his tone was so pleasant, so soothing, that her body betrayed her will. Her eyelids grew heavy, her thoughts sluggish, dissolving into fog.

The last thing she saw was Marx’s face hovering just above hers—his blue eyes like tranquil pools reflecting an unwavering strength—before darkness claimed her once more.

...

When Amaya stirred, she was no longer in the sterile dimness of the laboratory. Velvet curtains filtered lamplight into a golden haze. The air was thick with incense, cloying and heavy, burning in her lungs. Beneath her lay a bed too grand, too foreign, its silken sheets brushing her skin like whispers that did not belong.

Her head throbbed, her thoughts sluggish, caught between waking and dream. The last memory she held was Marx’s arms, Marx’s voice, Marx carrying her away. Marx saving her.

The chamber door creaked open.

A man entered. Marx. The same ash-gray hair, the same glacial eyes. And yet—different. He moved not with the urgency of the man she had known, but with the unhurried grace of a man certain of his dominion. His robe was deep crimson edged with gold, the crest of Ra-Iya emblazoned across his chest like a brand.

Her heart clenched.

"Marx?" she whispered, uncertain, her voice barely audible.

He smiled. The expression was polished, practiced, and just a shade too perfect. "Yes, Princess. I am here." His voice, deeper now, slid over her like velvet—smooth, alluring, dangerous.

Amaya tried to sit up, but her limbs were heavy, shackled by the fog still clinging to her mind. She could only watch as he crossed the room, his presence filling it like a tide.

Marx approached, the weight of his presence filling the chamber. He sat at the edge of the bed, beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face with deceptive gentleness. "I missed you so much." He lowered his head to kiss her on the lips.

Her breath hitched. His hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face toward him, his intent unmistakable. Amaya did not know, but panic surged through her; she pushed him away.

Marx’s eyes widened, wounded. "Why did you push me away?" His voice was soft, aching. "Didn’t you miss me? Don’t you want me?"

"I... I did." Her voice shook. "Of course I did." And yet... something inside her screamed this was wrong. That this was not him.

"Then let me show you my love."

The man removed his robe with deliberate slowness, the scarlet fabric sliding to the floor like spilled blood. His gaze never left hers as he leaned down once more, closer, closer—his blue eyes burning, consuming.

And Amaya thought, with icy terror: Those are Marx’s eyes. But the man before her was not Marx.