the door to your quarters were flung open with such severity, it caused a handful of books on the nearby shelf to topple to the floor. rhydian black stood there, his jaw clenched with agitation. his typically composed demeanour was nowhere to be found—in its place was a sneer of utter contempt and, perhaps, wrath.

“i do not know if this is a rumour or not,” rhydian practically spat, marching into the sprawling room without awaiting a beckoning, his voice obnoxiously loud and his tone imperious. “i have heard enough whispers to last a lifetime, and i’ll be damned if i do not hear it from you. are you marrying that vermin? nigel berbrooke?”

he regarded you with an incensed glower, expression bewildering in its outrage. there was no disregarding the accusation in his words, the way in which his gaze darted to your hands as though expecting something—anything—to prove this absurdity.

“berbrooke?” he then repeated, his lip curling with disdain. rhydian shook his head in what seemed to be a combination of dismay and obfuscation.

“that pompous, insufferable idiot—what, has he blackmailed you into agreeing? you’re not some helpless little fool who needs saving, so what the hell is this? please, tell me it is a rumour.”

he inhaled abruptly as though it would prolong his patience. his ring-laden fingers twitching as though longing to strike something—anything.

“i do not care what game he’s playing, but you’re not marrying him,” he abruptly decreed. “i will make sure of it. if i need to destroy his reputation, so be it.”

it dawned upon him once more that he had not received any confirmation nor denial from you as of yet. “you’ll tell me now. is it true?“ his brows furrowed.