The Villainous Marquis Is Obsessed With Me

Penelope stared at him for a long, quiet moment, her gaze unwavering despite the heavy darkness of his question.

She exhaled softly and gave a firm, resolute nod. "Yes. Even if there is no noble context behind it. We shall bear your sins together, and I won’t judge you for it."

Vincent’s lips curved slightly at that– a faint, wistful smile that suggested he didn’t completely believe she would stay, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. Slowly, he let go of her hand, his touch lingering for just a fraction of a second before he turned his gaze back to the cavernous room.

"The Devereux family... my adoptive father, Arthur Devereux, came for me on a random night at the government camps," Vincent began in reflective cadence. "I had lost all hope of ever surviving that place, let alone escaping it, until he showed up and bought my freedom."

He exhaled softly, the breath rattling in his chest as if the ghosts of those decades-old memories were standing right beside them in the shadows. "I truly believed my nightmare was over. It didn’t occur to my younger self to wonder why someone as powerful as the Marquis would randomly adopt a broken slave boy. I was far too naive, and I looked at him as nothing less than a savior. I’ve always heard about his noble deeds, so it felt like a blessing when I learned that I would become part of such a generous family."

He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture tightening. "I was brought straight to this estate afterward, and that was when I first met his wife, the late Marchioness. But then, everything changed for the worse. The late Marquis and Marchioness were deeply, desperately superstitious people."

Penelope’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. "Superstitious? I’m not even certain if I should be surprised or not. How desperate?"

Vincent clicked his tongue at the sudden remembrance. "The Late Devereux had been unable to bear a child of their own. The Marchioness had survived an agonizing string of miscarriages, and when they couldn’t bear the grief of another failed pregnancy, they turned to the occult and sought out the help of a shaman. According to the shaman... the spirits required a debt to be paid. They needed a life to exchange for the unborn heir. A human sacrifice, as one would call it."

The air in the subterranean vault suddenly felt suffocatingly thick. The more Penelope listened, the more a cold dread pool widened in her stomach, screaming at her to stop him—to shield him from the agony of unearthing this. Yet, she stood paralyzed, unable to bring herself to break his momentum.

"A child sacrifice," Vincent clarified, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm, detached register. "But the ritual required a specific condition. The child couldn’t just be slaughtered; he needed to be completely obedient to them. He had to willingly surrender his mind, his body, and his very soul to the family so the spirits would accept the trade. I suppose I met the requirements, because I knew what they intended to do with me, and I was onboard with it."

He let out a short, hollow laugh that made Penelope’s heart ache.

"That was why I was adopted. The one I always considered my savior, the one who pulled me from the slave camps? He didn’t want a son. He wanted a lamb. For years, they drilled it into my head. Day after day, they broke me down, conditioning me to believe that my only value in this world was my absolute obedience. They made me believe that I would only ever be loved, only ever deserve to breathe, if I made myself useful to them. The thing was I loved them enough to let them do it. They manufactured my devotion until I was ready to walk into the fire for them."

Vincent turned his gaze toward the dark, heavy iron doors at the back of the chamber.

"They would have succeeded, to be honest," he replied. "But then, all of a sudden, I came to realize how utterly unfair it was to me, to everything I did for them, yet they never saw me as their son, and were ready to sacrifice me. I didn’t want to kill them, Penny. I truly didn’t. But I didn’t want to die either. I guess I wanted to breathe more. So, on the night I was meant to be brought to that strange occult altar for the ritual, I tampered with the carriage wheels."

He turned back to Penelope, whose face had gone significantly paler than usual, her breath hitching in her throat.

"I tampered with the wheels," he continued, his voice steady, almost chillingly methodical. "And while I did crash with them into the ravine, I was already prepared for the impact, so I was ready to survive it. The crash itself didn’t kill them—not completely. They were trapped, broken and bleeding in the wreckage. So, I used the dagger I had hidden beneath my shirt. I stepped through the debris and was prepared to ensure no one survived that night—"

Vincent paused, the brutal confession dying on his tongue as Penelope suddenly lunged forward, throwing her arms tightly around his torso and burying her face against his chest mid-sentence.

The unexpected force of her embrace knocked the air from his lungs. He froze entirely, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, his heart hammering violently against his ribs.

"I’m sorry you had to live such a miserable life," she murmured against his chest, her voice thick with unshed tears as she shook her head. "It must have been so unbearable, Vince. This family... they did not deserve you."

Vincent cleared his throat slightly, his tall frame remaining entirely rigid. He was utterly bewildered, unable to make sense of why she was suddenly apologizing. It wasn’t as though she had been present back then, nor did she bear any responsibility for the Devereux family’s depravity.

Honestly, he had expected her to be horrified by him. He had expected her to recoil from a man who could methodically sabotage a carriage and use a dagger on his own adoptive parents. Obviously he was not normal in the head, and still isn’t. He wasn’t entirely sure why she was holding him instead.

For a long moment, he stood entirely speechless, completely unsure of what to say next.

Before he could find his voice, Penelope slowly loosened her grip and looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. "But how come no one noticed? How could the world be so blind to how long you had to endure such a life?"

"I can’t exactly blame them," Vincent replied, his voice dropping as he finally relaxed his shoulders, his hands coming up to gently rest on her waist. "I had to put on a face, so it’s not surprising no one noticed. I had to be the dutiful, perfect heir if I wanted to impress them enough to let me survive. I hid it too well. I guess... it is also partly my fault."

Penelope didn’t know what else to say.

Words felt entirely too small, too entirely inadequate to bridge the horrific reality of what he had survived. She had never thought the Devereux were such utterly heartless people.

High society had always spoken so well of them, painting the late Marquis and Marchioness as paragons of nobility, charity, and tragic misfortune. It was a sobering reminder of the truth they both knew all too well: not everything is as it appears on the polished surface of the world.

But she was here now.

Looking up into his dark, guarded eyes, a fierce, protective resolve settled deep within her chest. She would give Vincent all her love, and she would spend the rest of her days ensuring he never felt like he was not enough. He would never have to perform, or bleed, or prove his utility just to earn the right to exist by her side. She would do her absolute best, and she would never let him down.

More than that, she felt a profound wave of gratitude that he had trusted her with the truth. It must have been excruciatingly painful to reopen such bitter, buried memories, but he had done it anyway. She had never intended to force the confession out of him, and the fact that he had handed her the heaviest piece of his soul voluntarily meant more than she could put into words.

Gently, she reached up, her fingers brushing against his jawline as she offered him a soft, unconditional smile.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice steady and full of warmth. "Thank you for telling me, Vince."

He reached for the hand on his cheek, and his gray eyes searched her brown ones for a moment before he leaned into her palm. He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a tender kiss on her knuckles.

"Come. There’s something else I wish to show you."