There are many things that Ominis does not mention neither to his wife, nor to the Burgemeester. There are many things that he hopes to keep secret, that he does his very best to hide, even so far as using the loathsome knowledge that he gained from his parents.
Rosalie does not know that he has known Mr. Sallow for decades at this point, nor that she herself was, once upon a time, very intimate with him, nor that her meek, blind husband sneaked in the fog last night and shot him with the Killing Curse before he could react, that the nuisance of the truth had been lost to the sea in this way. His old friend, ever the enthusiast for the Dark Arts, had grown complacent in these last few years.
She does not know that the parents and the, now deceased, husband of a certain Rosalie Sallow are searching for her too. That the Beausoleils are a wealthy family separated from their child under unfortunate circumstances, as their child was kidnapped by a group of disgruntled Ashwinders, hoping to avenge the death of a man called Victor Rookwood, or so they think. That they, through their extensive business contacts throughout Europe and the colonial empires, have sent people after people to seek her out from the vast lands all over the world.
No, she knows none of this, and how could she? Every day that passes, she remembers less and less of her mother and father. Memories were surprisingly fragile, easily disturbed and easily changed. Especially with the right incantations and potions to facilitate the process.
Would Rosalie ever know how much effort it took to keep her from them? To keep her where she belongs, which is here, in the Cape, with him? How many charms and curses he had to cast, how many people he led astray, how many untruths he had told? How much he made her forget? How much blood covered the hands she kissed every night?
If Ominis made his calculations correctly, she would never know, because what he does never say is the truth. Because the autopsy will never come, because that, no matter how much the Sallows or the Beausoleils or whomever pressures the Crown or the Ministry, no-one will ever come here and properly investigate the violence of this colony, because everyone just thinks that this is just how life is in amidst a three-way war. Because he knows all the right people in all the right places, and he knows how to play them too, as well as he does the politics of the Cape.
The only other person who knows of this truth, the only one left alive, is his older brother Marvolo, who was tied in the scheme through an Unbreakable Vow, money and shared guilt. Ominis would help him keep his own wife chained and his house financially afloat with some of the gold he got from war profiteering in exchange for silence and advanced information.
"Merlin." Marvolo had said with no small amount of amusement as he spun his pipe between his filthy fingers. "You are aware that you could suffocate a human with this much smothering, yes? Perhaps you ought to loosen your grip."
"Better in my hands than in another's." He had answered. "And I have been much too close to that scenario to ever risk it again."
Maybe his brother was right, albeit not just a little hypocritical. Maybe Ominis could never understand people in a healthy, productive way, the same way Rosalie had been able to. However, when he had first smelt her flower perfume, when he first heard the sound of his name with that sweet, sweet voice of hers, it did not matter, because he knows this feeling. This tightening of his throat when he is near her, the urge to tuck her away so that none may gaze upon her…
Most importantly, he knows it to be true. Love is love. Twisted, but love nonetheless.
The Gaunt, as much as it pains him to compare himself with his despicable lineage, have not gotten anywhere by playing nice. Ominis neither.
He is the one and sole cause of every misfortune that has befallen her ever since her Sixth Year in school. He may feel sorry for her suffering, but what is done is done. She is irrevocably his now, raised and grown in the Cape, under his guidance and surveillance. Fate could have made her invisible to him, but she had come to him, flower perfume and melodious voice. Soft and sweet, like the pastries his parents would never give him when he was little.
Rosalie cannot go back. He cannot either.
To her question of what she would do without him, Ominis does not have an answer. Instead, he tucks a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear, care shown toward the plucking of glaze lilies condensed in his soft touch. The tip of his finger, the delicate cloth of his glove, it lingers ever-so-briefly…
He is loath to let go. Especially when he so rarely allows himself to show such intimate affection.
Not for lack of trying, but because he knows she is not at the point where he wants her. She is not yet wholly dependent, unable to think of anyone else but him. He wants her pliant and willing, wants her to love him as much as he does her, with the same insanity and lack of limits. He wants her to have her at the edge, teetering toward total hopelessness, on the verge of being broken.
And at that moment, Ominis will piece Rosalie back together, exactly how he wants her.
"You will get through this, my love." He says quietly, schooling his voice into sympathy. "I will be here."
"Can you promise me?" The woman asks, looking over at him with despair.
He rests his hands over hers, and hums. The heat of her flesh bleeds through even the gloves, and he wants so badly, to press his lips to her skin and sink his teeth down.
"I already did." He finally says, filing down the sharp glint of his eyes until they are deceptively soft.
It is difficult, waiting for the right opportunity, but he knows patience. In the end, he outlasts all.
In the end, Ominis always wins.
