Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 45: Was That... Jealousy?!

"I have to kiss you."

Silence followed.

Maximilian’s face went scarlet. He studied her expression carefully... searching for embarrassment, longing, anything. There was nothing. She looked like a scientist about to peer into a microscope.

He pressed his lips into a rigid line. "There have to be other methods," he said stiffly. "Can’t we—discuss this rationally?"

"Don’t act coy now, Professor," Catherine replied, yanking him another inch closer by his tie. "If hatred could break this curse, I’d be orbiting Mars by now. Unfortunately, it doesn’t." She grimaced. "I don’t enjoy this either. So brace yourself. Let’s see if you turn into a frog."

She rose onto her tiptoes, eyes wide open, lips pressed together like she was about to swallow poison. Her entire face screamed martyrdom.

Maximilian grabbed her wrist. "This isn’t— I do want a kiss from you," he snapped, frustrated, "but not like—"

Their lips hovered an inch apart.

The door burst open.

"My dearest Maximilian!" a bright, chirpy male voice rang out. "I missed you terribly yesterday!"

Maximilian froze.

Catherine didn’t release the tie. She merely sighed, long and dramatic.

"Oh, wow," the newcomer exclaimed, delighted. "Woman—are you violating my Whitmore?"

Catherine blinked.

Slowly.

"...Excuse me?"

Violate? She was attempting to solve a supernatural curse... and somehow she was accused of sexually assaulting a man built like a seven-foot moose?

But then she actually looked at the intruder.

He was dressed as a tree.

No—worse. A bush. With actual branches stuck to his head, leaves tucked into his sleeves, green and brown paint streaked across his face so convincingly that if he stood still, he might photosynthesize.

...Is this the same man who dressed as a couch the other day?

"Dr. Preston," the bush-man smiled, teeth flashing through the foliage. "A pleasure."

"Is he from the Drama Department?" Catherine asked flatly. "And why does he know my name?"

"Ah, Dr. Preston," he extended a branch—no, a hand. "Allow me to introduce myself. I’m—"

Before he could finish, Maximilian slammed the door shut.

Catherine winced at that merciless slam. She turned on Maximilian, offended. "I was talking to him!"

Maximilian rolled his eyes.

The door opened again.

Maximilian grabbed the knob. "Remington. Not now," he growled and shut it again, locking it this time.

There was a brief struggle outside. Leaves rustled. Then footsteps retreated.

Catherine stared. "Remington... wait." Her eyes widened. "Isn’t that the Remington? The one you spoke to about my invitation? His family owns this building... The Winthorp is on his estate this year!"

She moved to open the door.

"What do you want, Catherine?" Maximilian asked quietly.

"What business is that of yours?" she snapped, tugging at the knob.

He held it firm.

"I told you," she said coldly, "I need a husband."

Someone eccentric. Detached. Perfectly convenient. She’d sign the papers, smile at galas, and otherwise live separate lives.

A flawless arrangement.

"Sir," she added icily, "you’re blocking my way. Move."

She took a step back when his gaze sharpened—something dangerous flickering beneath the surface.

"Why don’t we continue where we left off?" he asked softly, loosening his tie as he advanced.

Her heart slammed wildly. That pull... that treacherous flutter... threatened to drag her under again.

But then she remembered.

If I let this go further, the distance will shrink again.

And then...

NO!!!

He killed my children.

The thought struck like ice.

When she opened her eyes again, the warmth was gone. Her gaze turned dark. Her heart numb. Her blood boiling.

Maximilian felt it instantly.

"I’m sorry," he murmured, stepping back.

He returned to his seat fixing his tie.

Catherine stood there a long moment before sitting down herself, staring at him.

...So.

He had been jealous.

He looked every bit like a man preparing for a lecture—back straight, movements precise, expression carved from focus itself. Catherine, with nothing better to do and nowhere to escape, simply watched him.

Maximilian had always been like this. Serious when it came to work. Unchanged even after a lifetime.

Slowly... miraculously... her eyelids grew heavy.

It was a rare achievement for someone who had completed two doctorates by eighteen, someone who didn’t even remember what it felt like to fall asleep in a university building. And yet... here she was.

Just as she drifted off, Maximilian gently patted her shoulder.

"I have class," he said softly.

She gave him a lazy thumbs-up and curled deeper into the couch.

"Catherine," he added after a pause, "I think you should come with me."

She sat up, yawning. "What?"

"I’ll introduce you as my temporary teaching assistant," he said calmly. "Come."

"You’re remarkably fluent in lying, Professor," Catherine muttered, but she followed him anyway. It was not like she had a choice.

They entered the lecture hall, and Catherine took the seat meant for the teaching assistant. Instantly, dozens of eyes turned toward her, as if she’d descended from Mars.

She glanced down at herself. The tailored tweed dress. The pearl lanyard.

...Maybe she was overdressed for a TA. And too cute... probably!

She shrugged. Too late now.

The class was packed. Overpacked. Mostly women. Catherine frowned faintly. Since when were young women so passionate about history? And what branch of history did he even teach?

She glanced at the thick stack of papers in front of her.

Tests...? Was she supposed to distribute them? Grade them? Pretend she knew what was happening?

Maximilian began the lecture, projecting slides onto the screen. Dates. Kingdoms. Wars. Treaties.

And his voice...

Low. Even. Steady.

Hypnotic.

Now she understood why the baby slept so peacefully.

The room blurred.

Maximilian caught the faint shift in the hall... the subtle ripple of attention... and turned.

Catherine was fast asleep.

Head resting on the desk. Arms wrapped around the papers like a dragon guarding treasure. Deep, unashamed sleep.

His lips curved without him realizing it.

He walked over and gently patted her head.

She swatted his hand away, turned her face to the other side, and fell even deeper asleep.

His smile widened.

The entire lecture hall fell silent.

For the first time in the history of this class, the students witnessed the Ice-Mountain Professor... smiling.

The lecture ended. Maximilian dismissed the class swiftly, even the curious girls lingering to ask questions. One sharp look from him was enough to send them scurrying out.

He returned to her side and sat down, watching her sleep so comfortably in such an uncomfortable position.

His phone vibrated.

The moment shattered.

"Your lecture ended?" his mother asked when he answered.

"Hm."

"I’m at the university," she said. "Can we meet?"

Maximilian inhaled slowly, eyes drifting back to Catherine.

"I can’t right now."

A pause.

"Max... are you alright?" she asked gently. "You’ve been... strange lately."

"It’s nothing, Mom."

Silence stretched.

Then, softly... dangerously... she asked.

"Who was that girl?"

Maximilian didn’t answer right away.

His finger brushed a loose strand of Catherine’s hair where it had fallen across the desk. His lips curved, slow and unmistakable.

A smirk.