The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1835

It was Dalton, who was now in his adult form.

But before Wynter could register the irresistible sensation of his touch, what struck her first was his distinct scent. Sandalwood, cool and faintly crisp—aloof and detached, yet strangely intoxicating.

Like Dalton himself, it carried the untouchable austerity of a snow-capped peak, as if it could freeze everything in its path.

Yet, his embrace was domineering. When his fingers brushed the curve of her ear, a heat seared Wynter despite his presence's chill. His other hand gripped her wrist firmly, pulling her closer against him as he fixed his gaze on Raleigh, as if it was a silent warning.

Not that Wynter noticed. All she could feel was the cool clarity he brought, cutting through the suffocating miasma around them.

Everything else faded, and her senses narrowed to him alone. His voice, low and deliberate, resonated against the back of her ear—her most sensitive spot, one few would know.

The proximity sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. His thumb traced her neck, pressing her further into him. His touch carried a faint, almost amused satisfaction.

Yet, the persona he wore hadn't changed. He spoke again. "Miss... The closer you look and the deeper you listen, the easier it is for filth like this to ensnare you, especially when it's… foreign."

His voice was slow, yet it seemed to cut through all surrounding noise, landing directly in her ears.

Wynter suddenly became aware of how inappropriate this must look to the others.

Ailithir, who rarely showed concern, now frowned slightly—as if Dalton posed more danger than the grotesque faces in the tree.

And honestly, she couldn't blame him. The way Dalton held her—one arm wrapped around her from behind, his tall frame bent to murmur against her ear—was borderline predatory.

When Wynter turned back, all she could see was the sharp line of his jaw.

Her gaze naturally aligned with his Adam's apple—a subtle, well-defined curve that carried an undeniable sensuality without being overly prominent. As he drew closer, it shifted ever so slightly with his movements.

It was as though he had been suppressing something all along, only for a hidden fierceness to finally surface.

And yet, his neck was almost unnaturally pale. His inner robes were fastened with meticulous precision, and the deep blue buttons, polished to a lustrous sheen, sat perfectly against his throat, right above that Adam's apple—restrained, controlled, and exuding a stark sense of ascetic restraint.

Probably because Dalton's presence was simply too overwhelming, all the resentment energy in the surroundings seemed to have vanished. His energy was so absolute that no one, neither in the heavens nor on earth, could compare.

When Wynter glanced back at the god-like face on the tree trunk, its mouth was still moving. She then turned her gaze toward Ailithir and her seniors, who were visibly affected, narrowing her eyes slightly.

Was she the only one who thought that the so-called sacred chant sounded more like wailing now? And not just any wailing—it carried an eerie discomfort, something unsettling to the core.

Stripped of its divine disguise, it no longer had the power to deceive.

The face on the tree bark, its mouth opening and closing, didn't resemble the serene gods. Instead, it was more akin to the grotesque idols found in the Golden Triangle.

Wynter had encountered similar statues during past missions—statues that, unlike the ones in Cascadia's carefully maintained churches, were often enshrined just outside courtyards. At first glance, they could startle anyone.

In that instant, Wynter understood the true meaning behind Dalton's words.

The Arcane Way typically couldn't handle foreign entities. Worse, any attempt at purification might only fuel their witchcraft. After all, the Mystic Path and the Arcane Way had always been distinct schools of thought.

When an imported sacred statue wasn't enshrined properly, it could transform into a corrupted mystic statue instead. Seeking its protection was futile. If anything, it might even drain the fortune of those who worshipped it.

This realization struck a chord with Wynter. No wonder so many past incidents outside the formation had connections to churches. Thinking back, the other party had been drawing power from the statue all along.

Even now, the very idol outside the formation bore traces of both Arcane Way and Mystic Path influences—blended together unnaturally.

For a face like this to manifest, something had to be buried beneath the tree.

"You're distracted." Dalton's hand tightened slightly on her neck.

Wynter ignored the intimacy of the gesture. Instead, she yanked him closer by the collar. "You—rein it in."

He'd still have to remain among the sects once she left the formation. It'd be impossible not to question what he really was with the way he was acting now.

"Hide your identity better. Do you think the other sects are like me, not caring what you are?"

She shielded his face with her body, ensuring no one knew her clarity came from him.

Moreover, the fact that Isidore had placed this grotesque face here meant he hadn't given up yet. In his mind, the Sacrificial Human Formation was a construct aligned with the Heavenly Law.

That meant the formation master was…

Wynter tilted her head up, leaning even closer into Dalton. "Don't give anyone a chance to hurt you."

Dalton's brow arched slightly, as if surprised by her reaction.

Logically, with her sharp mind, she should've noticed the murderous intent he'd just barely restrained. Yet, she remained unguarded against him—was this trust?

His gaze dropped to hers. Her eyes were clear and perfectly shaped. The outer corners were dusted with a tiny, barely-there mole. On her face, it carried an indescribable allure. It was the kind that made him want to see her unravel.

His fingers still rested against her neck, just above her collarbone. One squeeze, and he could snap that delicate throat.

But for a moment, he hesitated.

She embodied every human flaw—untrustworthy, cunning, and capricious. Her mountain was littered with boy toys, her attention flitting from one curiosity to the next. Yet, the softness beneath his fingertips gave him pause. Perhaps he wouldn't enjoy seeing her still and cold.

He'd always known humans were fragile. Compared to celestial calamities or demonic scourges, they were pitifully weak. But feeling it firsthand was different.

She was so slender and fragile. Yet, her pulse thrummed defiantly under his touch. Moreover, her eyes reflected him perfectly. Eyes like those deserved to be glazed with tears.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, she leaned in further, her breath grazing his jaw. For some reason, his throat tightened, an unfamiliar dryness clawing at him. Yes, tears would suit her.

On Mt. Nyxvarn, in her chambers, he'd glimpsed her with her outer robe discarded, the gossamer underlayer pooled at her waist—skin like untouched snow. It was impossible to tear his gaze from her.

It reminded him of the Sablemare's illusions, the ones it had conjured to tempt him. Back in Granville Village, he'd only felt contempt for the creature daring to mimic her. He despised any demon that wore her face to approach him. It only made him want to eradicate them all.

Whether it was human or an evil god, if it dared to invade her land and steal its fortune, she would rip it out at the roots and send it packing.

She formed a seal with both hands, channeling her spiritual energy into the tree branch. Her beautiful face was filled with unshakable arrogance as she looked down at the massive banyan tree.

The face on the tree trunk liked to laugh, didn't it? Then she would make it laugh to its heart's content!

With a smirk, she curled her lips at the trapped figures before clenching her fingers tight.

"Wait! I am a god! If you harm me, you will destroy your path to the Primordial Arcane and incur the wrath of countless Mystic Path followers.

"Put down the butcher's knife, and you shall attain enlightenment. The sea of suffering is boundless—turn back, and you will find salvation!

"The reason you cannot understand the Fankrit chants is because your comprehension is lacking. If you become my disciple, I will ensure you reach Primordial Arcane."

At first, the so-called god hadn't realized the severity of the situation. It never once imagined that someone could remain unaffected by its chants and break free from its illusions—least of all cultivators, who clung to their principles too tightly to defy "divinity".

It had once been revered in its homeland, worshipped with deep devotion. Here in Cascadia, it had to hide in the shadows, relying on secrecy to receive offerings. These Cascadians simply did not understand its greatness.

It had begun to regret its alliance with Isidore, hiding within this secluded courtyard. Although it had absorbed a great deal of Cascadia's spiritual fortune over the years, it was still far from truly coming to life.

And now, this audacious Wynter was about to destroy its very foundation.

The god's expression darkened as it tried to stop Wynter, but it was already too late.

Wynter showed no hesitation as she tightened her grip. Standing on Whitley's back, she pulled on the banyan tree's branches with all her strength. Her force was overwhelming—she wasn't just breaking a branch—she was tearing it out at the roots!

The courtyard's soil cracked open, and streams of black blood gushed out. Only then did the others finally snap out of their trance and see the so-called god's true form.

A heart. It was a heart, wrapped in dense black mist, pulsating violently. With every beat, it released a powerful energy of resentment, and it was embedded within the god's statue.

Jervis' expression shifted as he stomped his foot. "This is the statue that Isidore brought back from his pilgrimage. He claimed it was the True God!"

"I am the True God! I am of my land—"

Before the statue could finish speaking, Wynter struck again. Gathering all her spiritual power, she swung her sword straight at the heart. The blade pierced through it in an instant, and the black mist dispersed rapidly.

The statue's face froze completely. Its eyes widened in disbelief as it crumbled into nothing but stone fragments. It simply could not comprehend that she actually dared to defy the heavens.

But Wynter had never been one to hesitate. Smirking, she braced herself against Whitley's back and landed gracefully on the ground. She was sharp, fierce, and stunning.

"True God? It's funny how foreigners always think their scriptures work here. Someone ought to inform them that they could chant all they want as long as they keep it out of Cascadia."

Most people present didn't fully understand her last words. After all, the term Cascadia had yet to be coined.

But Dalton, who stood beside her, looked toward her. In his deep, unreadable eyes, a certain thought seemed to take root.