Vampire's Veil Of Obsession-Chapter 67: Punish Him

Zethan strode into the dark room, his presence commanding and absolute. As he stepped forward, the lights in the vast hall flickered on, one by one, illuminating the space in a cold, eerie glow. Each step he took seemed to summon the light, making the once-dark hall unnaturally bright—almost blinding in contrast.

The air in the room was heavy, thick with the scent of damp wood and something else—fear. A devilish smile played on his lips as he approached the chauffeur, who stood frozen in place, his body trembling despite the warmth of the hall.

The man's disheveled hair clung to his damp forehead, and his wide, terrified eyes betrayed his growing horror. He knew who stood before him now. And he knew there was no way out.

Zethan tilted his head slightly, amusement dancing in his gaze.

"Oops," he murmured, his voice laced with mock innocence. "Hope I didn't intrude."

Then he laughed—a sound so quiet, so cold, that it sent a violent shiver down the man's spine. It wasn't the kind of laughter that comforted. No, it was the kind that stole the air from the room, suffocating, inescapable.

The chauffeur remained silent, lips trembling, unable to find his voice. His instincts screamed at him to run, to flee while he still had the chance. But he knew better. There was no escaping Zethan Lyall.

No one had told him it was Zethan Lyall. They had known. They had set him up.

They knew that he would be finished the moment Zethan walked through those doors. They had used him as bait.

Zethan's gaze sharpened as he took another step forward. "Are you cold?" he asked, his voice smooth, almost gentle, as though he were speaking to a friend. "It seems the rain is merciless tonight... don't you think?" He chuckled darkly, the sound twisting into something far more sinister. "I could warm you up."

At the snap of his fingers, the massive doors swung open. A man entered, pushing a cart laden with wood, the wheels creaking as they rolled across the marble floor. The clatter of logs breaking the tense silence sent the chauffeur's heartbeat into a frenzied rhythm.

The cart rolled to a stop near Zethan's chair.

Zethan leaned back slightly, his smirk widening. "My wife wouldn't be happy to hear this, so let me show some pity—don't you think?"

His voice dripped with malice, amusement flickering in his gaze as he studied the trembling man before him.

"Let's play with fire," Zethan mused, his tone deceptively light he continued, "After all, the warmer, the better. You know, I'd like to hear your thoughts—it helps improve my torture skills. Come on, give me some feedback Mr Chauffeur."

His deadly gaze, however, said otherwise.

His men moved in perfect synchronization, bowing respectfully before setting the logs ablaze. The fire started small, delicate tongues of orange licking at the wood before growing steadily, swelling into something wilder, more untamed. The heat pressed outward, distorting the air above the flames, casting flickering shadows across the pristine marble.

The chauffeur began to shake, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the temperature in the room climbed.

Sweat pooled at his temples, slipping down his pale skin in thick rivulets. His hands twitched, useless at his sides.

Zethan watched him, his dark eyes gleaming with wicked delight. "Still cold?" he mused. "Let's fix that."

Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a small, unassuming seed-like object. It was smooth between his fingertips, deceptively simple—yet deadly. Without hesitation, he tossed it into the fire.

The effect was immediate.

The flames roared to life, expanding violently as an eerie blue hue overtook the orange glow. The heat intensified, devouring the air, growing so hot it felt suffocating.

A bloodcurdling scream tore through the massive hall.

Zethan merely chuckled, leaning back in his seat, eyes closed, savoring the sound.

"Music to my ears," he murmured.

******

Inside the quiet room, the only source of light came from the dim glow of the table lamp, casting soft shadows across the walls.

Lilia sat by the open window, her head resting against the frame as the cool breeze swept through, sending strands of her hair flying to the side.

Her gaze was fixed on the thin air, lost in the endless darkness of the night. The wind was growing stronger, each gust rattling the windowpane as if trying to break through. The air smelled of rain—fresh, crisp, and foreboding.

Then, a loud crack split the silence.

Thunder roared across the sky, shaking the very foundation of the house. Lilia flinched slightly, her fingers tightening around the edge of the chair.

The storm was getting worse.

And yet, despite the chaos outside, an eerie stillness filled the room, wrapping around her like a silent whisper in the dark.

She had lost count of how many times she had checked the clock, each glance only confirming what she already knew—it was late. Too late. Midnight had long passed, yet he still hadn't returned.

Still, she waited.

Only the heavens knew how long she had been waiting, how desperately she had clung to the hope of his arrival.

The cold bit at her skin, yet she barely noticed. Her body shivered, but it was exhaustion that weighed on her more than anything else. Her eyes grew heavy, her blinks slower. It had been hours.

And then—

The door creaked open.

Her back straightened immediately at the sound of footsteps approaching.

Zethan stepped inside, his presence filling the room like an unspoken force. His sharp gaze swept across the bed—it was empty. A flicker of confusion crossed his face before he noticed something else.

The room was colder than usual.

His jaw clenched as he turned, his eyes locking onto the figure by the window. Lilia sat there, her head resting against the ledge, her breathing slow and steady, on the verge of sleep.

She was clad in a black silk nightgown—thin, delicate, and entirely useless against the bitter chill seeping into the room. His expression darkened, irritation flashing through his features.

What was she thinking, sitting there in the cold, waiting for him?

Displeasure flashed deeply across his face. So what if he hadn't arrived earlier? Was she really planning to stay up all night, refusing to rest until he returned? His jaw clenched slightly as he strode toward her.

Water dripped down his silver hair, trailing over his sharp features and soaking into the loose fabric of his shirt. It was clear he had bathed before coming here—knowing full well that when he had first arrived, his body had been stained with blood.

The sight of him in that state would have terrified her.

So, before stepping into their room, he had cleaned himself up in a different bathroom, keeping his silent promise never to let her see him like that. The last thing he wanted was for his wife to witness him in such a brutal, unrecognizable state.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Lilia suddenly stood.

"My husband, you're back!" she said softly.

The words stopped him in his tracks.

Something in his chest tightened at the unexpected sound of it. My husband. It echoed in his mind, silencing the reprimand he had been about to deliver. Before he could process it, she ran toward him, her small frame colliding against his as she wrapped her arms around him.

She clung to him tightly, pressing herself against his body without hesitation. The warmth of her softness, the way she molded against him—it left him utterly speechless. The sweet scent of her filled his nostrils, making everything even more maddening.

His sharp eyes flickered downward.

Her hand—bandaged.

His irritation deepened. At least she had tended to it, meaning the first aid kit had been used. A small relief. But the thought of her in pain, of her sitting here alone, waiting in the cold for him, unsettled him in ways he couldn't understand.

Before he could speak, she suddenly pulled away.

To his surprise, she turned toward the bathroom. He remained still, watching in silence as she disappeared inside, only to return moments later—holding a blow dryer.

She approached him without hesitation, taking his hand in hers.

"Come with me," she said gently.

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Zethan had no idea why, but he followed.

She led him to the vanity, where her skincare products were neatly arranged in perfect order. Guiding him down onto the chair in front of the mirror, she plugged in the blow dryer, her movements smooth and deliberate.

A low hum filled the air as warm air whirred to life.

To his surprise, she lifted the dryer and began running her fingers through his damp silver hair, working with practiced care. Her touch was gentle yet firm, threading through the strands as she focused on drying them. Through the mirror, his dark eyes studied her, tracing the quiet concentration on her delicate face.

Then, with a soft click, the mirror lights flickered on, bathing them both in a golden glow.

The soft illumination cast a warm halo around her, highlighting her features—the curve of her cheek, the delicate arch of her brows, the slight pout of her lips. She looked ethereal, yet there was an undeniable strength in the way she carried herself. His wife—his beautiful, fierce wife.

As she moved the dryer through his hair, her strokes were careful but purposeful. It wasn't just about tending to him; there was an unspoken message in her touch.

"I know you're a very capable, strong, and fearless husband," she said, her voice even, though a thread of emotion wove through it. "But I would like you to know that you have a wife now. And she'll be very, very worried if you come home late."

She met his gaze through the mirror, her expression firm, her eyes sharp with warning. "So I want you not to come home late. Is that clear?"

Zethan simply nodded. He wasn't sure why, but seeing her like this—serious, brows slightly furrowed in a mix of annoyance and concern—only made her more adorable. And the way she was scolding him—it reminded him of a mother lecturing a child for staying out too late, or a wife chastising her husband for forgetting to pick up the children from school.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she continued, "So next time you arrive late, you'll be punished. Is that clear?"

A smirk tugged at his lips. His fierce innocent little wife, acting as though she could truly discipline him. He found it utterly endearing.

She caught the smirk through the mirror and narrowed her eyes. "I'm serious."

He chuckled, his deep voice filled with amusement as he met her gaze. "I know, my wife."

But why did part of him feel a strange thrill at her words?

A slow, almost lazy grin spread across his lips as he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a lower, teasing register.

"I came home late today," he murmured. "Aren't you going to punish me for that?"