Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 19: Sebastian Remington

One brought hunting dogs into faculty offices. The other wore camouflage indoors.

My Whitmore, he said...

Catherine felt something between secondhand embarrassment and professional horror settle in her spine. She inhaled once, deeply, and discarded the thought. Whatever they were doing in there...footnotes, metaphors, unspeakable theoretical frameworks, or... something else... was no longer her concern.

She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving behind two humanities professors: one who had mistaken interior design for personal identity, and one who very clearly belonged to no one at all.

It was, she reflected, an excellent reminder of why she did not suffer humanities nerds. They were more unpredictable than brainwaves and considerably more convinced of their own brilliance, an enthusiasm rarely matched by results.

***

"Sebastian."

Maximilian’s voice cut through the room, flat, sharp, and final. He didn’t like the way his eccentric friend was still staring at the doorway Catherine had vanished through.

"She..." Sebastian didn’t look away. In fact, he took a step in her direction, as though pulled by some invisible tide. "What a beautiful lady...!" The words slipped out of him, reverent and unguarded.

"Sebastian."

Still nothing.

"Sebastian Remington!"

The third time snapped him out of it. Sebastian blinked, finally turning back, awe still stamped openly across his face, as if he’d just watched a miracle walk away.

"I’ve never met anyone who speaks Latin as well as you do," Sebastian said, dropping onto the couch. When he sat, his patterned suit dissolved almost seamlessly into the bookshelf and upholstery, like a man who had been designed to belong to furniture.

Maximilian wasn’t even surprised.

Sebastian had always worn his oddities like costumes—loud, deliberate, impossible to miss. Even back in school, he had dressed like this, observing the world from behind strange patterns and stranger choices.

I like observing, you cretins, he used to say, whenever the laughter followed him down the corridors.

It had unsettled people and they responded by bullying. Sometimes, it still continued.

Maximilian glanced at him now, feeling the old, familiar weight of that knowledge settle in his chest. It had been a little creepy, yes, but cruelty was never deserved. And someone needed to stay. Someone needed to accept him as he was.

If Maximilian hadn’t, Sebastian would have been entirely alone and bullied to death.

So he had learned, long ago, to take Sebastian as a whole with his eccentricity, camouflage, and all... and call him a friend.

Maximilian exhaled slowly. "She’s mine."

The words startled even him.

Sebastian froze. His jaw slackened, his usual wit abandoning him entirely. For a man who made his living deciphering ancient languages and resurrecting forgotten civilizations, he found himself utterly stripped of words by that single, possessive sentence.

"Oh?" A beat passed. Then his grey eyes widened. "Wait—don’t tell me. Is she the one from the other night? My party. That restaurant?"

Maximilian gave a short nod.

Sebastian leaned back, expression sobering. "Do you want me to handle the footage from that night?"

He had seen Maximilian’s knuckles—split, bruised, still healing beneath the bandages. He could imagine the rest well enough. Maximilian Whitmore, the man known in their circles as a mediator, a scholar who preached restraint and insisted that violence was never the answer, even when justified, had struck hard enough to peel skin from bone. Whatever had happened in that restaurant had pushed him far past his carefully maintained principles.

It would be better if the authorities never saw that footage.

Maximilian’s phone vibrated in his hand before he could answer. He glanced down, lips curving faintly as he read the message.

Alexander Preston.

He looked up at Sebastian, something unreadable passing through his eyes. "I don’t think you’ll need to," he said quietly.

Sebastian frowned. "Why?"

"She’s Hunter Alex’s sister."

Sebastian shrugged, and his eyes landed in the direction Catherine walked away earlier. "She looks... young," Sebastian added carefully. "At least a decade younger than you."

Maximilian shot him a look, unimpressed by the implication. "She asked me if we knew each other from another life."

Sebastian blinked. Once. Twice. "That’s... oddly specific. Well?" He leaned forward. "Do you?"

"I wish not," Maximilian said quietly, his gaze dropping to the bandage wrapped around his palm. The dull ache beneath it throbbed in memory. "I don’t think we ended on good terms."

Sebastian leaned back with a sigh. "Dr. Catherine Preston," he said. "I heard she caused quite a stir at the symposium, right after her presentation. Accused of being... difficult. She must be here to meet Dr. Vale."

"Difficult?" Maximilian echoed, one brow lifting.

Sebastian’s lips curved, the smile of a man who already knew the answer. "Take a guess who was involved."

Maximilian didn’t respond.

"Renfield," Sebastian supplied, almost with relish. "The daughter, this time." He shook his head lightly. "I hope the beautiful lady has an airtight contract. Even then, even with Hunter Alex as her brother, I wouldn’t place my bets on her winning against the Renfields."

Something in Maximilian changed.

He leaned forward, slow and deliberate, forearms resting on his knees. The violet of his eyes sharpened, the blue beneath tightening until his gaze took on a cold, metallic edge, no longer scholarly, no longer distant.

"Tell me," he said quietly, "exactly what happened."

Sebastian smirked.

Believe it or not, Maximilian Whitmore was one of the very few who could go toe-to-toe with the Renfield family in their own arena and win. And from the look in his eyes now, it was clear he intended to stand at her side.

The beautiful lady, it seemed, had entangled herself with a man far more dangerous than she realized.

***

Catherine knocked once before entering Professor Gibson’s faculty office.

Jonathan Vale looked up.

His eyes widened in unmistakable shock, but only for a fraction of a second. He recovered quickly, smoothing his expression into something polite, almost warm. Dr. Gibson was absent; likely lecturing.

"Cathy!" Jonathan exclaimed, rising from his chair as though genuinely pleased to see her.

His gaze flicked immediately to the bandage on her forehead. His face rearranged itself into concern. "What happened? How did you get hurt?"

He stepped closer.

Catherine lifted her purse, not aggressively, just enough to create space. A boundary.

"I’m locked out," she said flatly.

Jonathan paused, studying her for a beat too long.

Something was off.

The gentle smile she used to wear so easily was gone. The softness in her posture had sharpened into stillness. Her green eyes were colder, clearer. Even the way she dressed—clean lines, deliberate makeup—spoke of someone who no longer wished to blend in.

He turned back to his desk, choosing professionalism like a shield.

"Dr. Ashley Renfield has raised concerns," he said evenly. "We have the right to terminate your access if it’s deemed necessary."

Catherine scoffed softly.

So that was it. They weren’t even pretending anymore.

"You cannot lock me out of my research," she said.

Jonathan looked at her then, really looked at her. His eyes sharpened.

"Your research, Miss Preston?" he repeated. "Are we still playing that game?"

The words crawled over her skin like insects.