Mated to the Mad Lord-Chapter 272: Target Practice

Cain walked ahead, his movements slow but deliberate, while Uva followed closely behind, her footsteps light yet hesitant.

Though she couldn’t see his face, she felt the tension rolling off him in waves, thick enough to smother the very air around them. Her body stiffened in response, a tremor running down her spine despite her best efforts to suppress it.

All night, they had waited outside.

Not a single soul had dared to step into the mansion or leave without Cain’s express permission. Even the slightest movement had been measured, breaths held as if any disturbance might draw his ire.

Uva hadn’t slept—not that she expected to. The night had been spent in endless contemplation, her mind cycling through every possible scenario, each more gruesome than the last.

How do I survive this?

That was the only question that mattered.

A reward? That thought was laughable now. Even daring to bring it up would be an insult to the bloodbath Cain had orchestrated. She had seen the bodies—what little remained of them, at least. And though she had never been squeamish, not even as a witch accustomed to death and the grotesque, the sight had left her stomach lurching with unease.

They were his men.

Yes, they had run. Yes, they had abandoned their posts. But in the end, they were still his subordinates, yet he had butchered them with the same indifference one would reserve for insects.

The deeper into the mansion they went, the more her unease grew.

Cain’s office was in his personal wing, yet he led her downward—toward the ground floor. Straight for an office she knew all too well.

Her pulse quickened.

If it comes to it, I’ll betray Saurine.

The decision was quick and instinctual, survival outweighing loyalty. If I die now, what good is my alliance with her? Even if she came for her later, at least I’d live a few more years.

She swallowed, silently cursing herself for not taking a chance on Trivet, the doctor.

Just as her thoughts began to spiral, Cain came to an abrupt stop.

Uva barely managed to halt herself before colliding into his back—an accident that would have been nothing short of suicidal.

The weight of his presence was suffocating.

If before she had believed he merely disliked witches, now she could feel the hatred radiating from him like a tangible force. It seeped into the air, clawing at her skin, an unspoken promise of violence.

She kept her head bowed, eyes locked onto the polished floor. She did not move. Did not breathe too loudly.

Cain pushed open a door and stepped inside.

Uva hesitated—every instinct in her body screamed at her to not follow—but hesitation was just as dangerous. She forced herself forward, crossing the threshold just as the door swung shut behind her.

The first thing she noticed was Ravon.

The vice sat stiffly in a chair, but the moment Cain entered, he sprang to his feet as if struck by lightning. His face drained of color, his body going rigid with fear.

So, even he is terrified, Uva thought grimly.

His hands trembled, barely perceptible, but enough that she noticed. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, struggling to mask the sheer panic threatening to consume him.

Cain’s eyes locked onto him, and for a moment, the room fell into a chilling silence.

A massive monogamy table separated them, its polished surface reflecting the dim candlelight.

Uva took her position by the door, instinct urging her to stay put—but then Cain gestured.

"Move closer," his voice was low, but absolute.

She obeyed immediately, stepping forward until she stood beside him, her head still bowed.

If I make it past today, she thought grimly, I might as well beg Lord Vazer to help me.

Her face remained blank, unreadable, as she waited for what was about to unfold.

Ravon licked his lips, struggling to find his voice.

"Lo—Lord Cain! It’s so good to see that you’ve recovered!" he stammered, his voice betraying the anxiety he tried to suppress.

He stood as if he wanted to step back but dared not move, his entire body as tense as a cornered animal. His eyes flickered over Cain’s form, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the unnatural glint in his gaze, the wrongness that made his skin prickle.

Cain said nothing.

Instead, he walked toward the chair across from Ravon, moving with a slow, predatory grace. The room felt colder with each step he took.

Uva, standing beside him, remained utterly silent, willing herself to disappear into the background.

Ravon’s eyes darted between Cain and Uva, hoping for some kind of clue, some indication of what Cain intended—but all he saw in Uva was a woman too afraid to breathe too loudly.

Cain sat down, resting his hands on the armrests, his fingers tapping once... twice... before going still.

Ravon swallowed.

"If you needed something... all you had to do was ask, my lord. A-and call—"

Cain raised his hand, and Ravon instantly fell silent.

The movement was small, but what caught his attention was the knife Cain held.

A thin blade, its edge dark with fresh, wet blood.

Ravon’s breath hitched. He had seen the bodies. He knew what that knife had done.

"You seem well," Cain said, his voice carrying the weight of something unseen.

Sweat beaded on Ravon’s forehead, an icy trickle running down his spine. His shirt, once neatly pressed, now clung to his back.

"Y—yes, my lord," he stammered, knowing that nothing he said would ease the tension choking the air. "I am."

The room plunged into silence once more.

Cain stared.

Did nothing else—just sat there, watching.

A minute passed.

Then another.

Ravon’s breathing turned uneven. His fingers curled against his palms, nails pressing into his skin, but he did not dare wipe the sweat trickling down his face.

Finally, he broke first.

"The—The upper structures have been stabilized," he blurted out. "They should be completely fixed in less than two days!"

Cain’s gaze didn’t waver.

Then—

TSK.

The sound was soft but sharp, a click of the tongue that echoed like a death sentence.

Ravon froze.

"Did you poison the food?"

It wasn’t a question.

It was a statement.

Accusation laced every syllable, and the air shifted, growing heavier, pressing down like an unbearable weight.

Ravon’s hands turned clammy. His lips parted, but the words caught in his throat.

Cain’s fingers tightened around the knife.

Tension crackled like a live wire.

There was something in Cain’s eyes—a promise of agony.

"...I’ve been doing some vigorous thinking," Cain murmured, his voice even, almost conversational—but the underlying malice was suffocating. "I should be getting better. But I’m not."

Ravon’s throat bobbed.

"The only ones I trust even a little are my elite guards and the maids in charge of my food," Cain continued. His tone was deceptively calm, but his fingers curled tighter around the blade.

"So imagine my shock..." Cain leaned forward, just slightly, his presence swallowing the space between them. "...when I found out that out of the graciousness of your heart, you decided to involve yourself in it."

Ravon’s complexion turned ghastly.

His knees felt weak, but he forced himself to remain standing, his mind racing for a way to explain, to excuse, to—

Cain tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

"So tell me..." His voice was a whisper, yet it slithered through the air like a razor-sharp blade. "What. Was. It?"

Ravon’s lips trembled. His instincts screamed at him to deny everything—but the moment he opened his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake.

"Lo-Lord Cain, I swear that—"

THUD.

Cain exhaled sharply and stood up in a single, fluid motion.

His arm snapped forward.

The knife flew.

Ravon saw it coming.

His body reacted—too slow.

The blade sank into his shoulder with a sickening schlck.

Ravon let out a strangled gasp, his body jerking violently. His hands flew to his shoulder, but the moment his fingers brushed against the hilt, pain—searing, burning pain—exploded through his arm.

The wound throbbed. Blood spilled, dark and warm, soaking into his clothes, the wetness sticking to his skin.

He staggered, barely managing to stay on his feet, his breath ragged.

Cain’s voice was soft.

"You should’ve moved faster."

Ravon shuddered.

His legs almost buckled, but he forced himself upright, panting heavily. His body trembled, drenched in cold sweat, but his mind screamed at him—Don’t fall. Don’t show weakness.

Cain took a slow step forward.

Then another.

Each step sent shudders rippling through Ravon’s form, his bloodied hand clenched tightly around his wound.

Cain’s fingers twitched.

A shadow passed over his expression.

"Now..." His voice was almost gentle. "Let’s try that again."

Ravon swallowed down the lump in his throat, knowing that the worst had yet to come.