Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert) novel Chapter 487

“I try to be good, and everyone walks all over me. But the minute I push back, suddenly I’m the difficult one!”

“I’m a person! I’m human, damn it!”

Sylvia’s neck strained, veins visible beneath her pale skin, her cheeks flushing with a wild, angry red. Her chest heaved with every breath as she glared at the man in front of her, eyes brimming with hurt and fury.

But Rupert… Rupert was as calm and unreadable as ever, cold and bottomless.

For a heartbeat, it was as if time froze. All her pain, all her struggle—he didn’t see it, or chose not to.

Rupert reached up and tilted her face toward him, his eyes flickering with something almost soft, but it was gone so fast she wondered if she imagined it.

His voice was low, cold, and steady. “Sylvia, if you’re mine, why would I ever let you go?”

The air between them was thick, suffocating. Sylvia tried to turn away, but Rupert held her fast, forcing her to meet his gaze.

His eyes darkened, a dangerous glint in them. Then he crushed his lips to hers in a bruising, desperate kiss.

Sylvia fought back with everything she had, pounding her fists against his chest, her panic rising.

Suddenly, Rupert shuddered against her mouth, then twisted her around, pinning her arms behind her back, trapping her tight in his embrace.

“Stay. Or you and your daughter can both spend some time in a cell. Your choice.”

She froze. She couldn’t see his face, but his voice was icy, his patience clearly at its end.

Sylvia clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white. Her heart chilled and her fight drained away.

Even if she hadn’t shown up today, Rupert would’ve found some way to force her hand.

“…I’ll stay.”

The words scraped out of her throat, each one costing everything she had left.

She looked around—a place that had been her cage for eight years, now snapping shut around her again.

And Rupert, behind her, wasn’t done yet.

“Go upstairs. Take a shower.”

She didn’t answer. She just started up the stairs, her figure so fragile she looked like she might blow away.

Rupert watched her go, a strange emotion flickering across his face—there and gone in an instant, replaced by a cold, stony mask.

Chris swore under his breath, but he got to work, hands steady and fast. Soon, the bleeding stopped.

Orson quickly gathered up the bloody gauze and medical waste. “I’ll go burn this.”

Once he was gone, Chris set a small dish in front of Rupert—a single, bloody bullet resting in it.

“All this for a girl? You hired a hitman, scrubbed every serial number off the gun and bullet, and the guy you caught doesn’t even have a real ID. There’s nothing to trace.”

“That’s how he operates,” Rupert said, lighting a cigarette. The smoke curled around his sharp features, making him look almost ghostly.

Chris wiped his hands with an alcohol wipe, eyes narrowed. He finally looked up at Rupert, his voice gentler, almost pleading.

“What are you going to do? Sylvia’s just a regular woman. You can protect her once or twice, but what then? You expect her to hide forever?”

Rupert’s eyes glittered, cold and hard. “This is my house. No one gets in unless I let them.”

Chris stared. “You can’t be serious. You’re getting married! What’s she supposed to do—hide in here for the rest of her life?”

Rupert’s voice was flat, his face unreadable.

“If that’s what it takes—then yes. For the rest of her life.”