Page 27 of Goldrage
Lady Harrow barks orders into her phone. “Yes, immediately. Blood work. Full panel.” A pause. “I don’t care if you’re with another patient. This is a priority. Or would you like me to cancel my yearly donation to your hospital, Dr. Reynolds?” Another pause. “I thought so. Get herenow.” She ends the call with a savage satisfaction, her glare finding me across the room. The promise in her eyes needs no translation:When this lie unravels, I’ll make you beg for death.
I believe her. But I have to trust in Gideon to keep that from happening.
If he’s as good as he claims, the blood work will confirm my lie.
If he’s not…
Lady Harrow’s smile says she’s eager to make those plans for my public execution.
CHAPTER TEN
DANTE
The needle slides into Aurelia’s arm and I force myself to remain still. Every instinct screams at me to intervene and shield her from even this minor discomfort, but the chains beneath my blanket hold more than just my body—they hold the fragile truce keeping her alive.
I mustn’t react; there’s no telling what my brother will do.
Dr. Reynolds fills the vial, his movements quick and concise. The man knows better than to linger in this room longer than necessary. I’ve seen him plenty of times before. He’s one of Father’s preferred physicians, a man who learned long ago that discretion pays better than morality. His graying temples and steady hands speak of years treating wounds that shouldn’t exist, asking no questions about bruises shaped like fingers or cuts too precise to be accidental.
Dark crimson flows from Aurelia’s vein into the glass tube, and my chest constricts at the sight. Her blood, hervery essence, is being drawn out drop by drop. This urge to protect her from even this necessary violation is irrational, but I feel it regardless. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t acknowledge the needle’s bite, but I catch the slight tension in her jaw.
Glass clinks against metal as Reynolds switches tubes, each sound amplified in the oppressive quiet that’s settled over us.
Bianca shifts on the couch. She accepts a silk handkerchief from my mother and then dabs at her forehead with unnecessary drama. “This heat,” she murmurs, though the room carries the estate’s perpetual chill.
The corners of my lips pinch inward. Her performance grates against my nerves. She’s playing the delicate flower, as always, but I know she’s capable of darkness just like the rest of us. Valentine told me everything about how she conspired with Julian and my mother and revealed that I was at Lorenzo’s. I know exactly how far she’ll go to claim what she believes is hers. And if I was anything like Lucian, I’d punish her for it.
But I long ago grew weary of a life filled with violence and revenge. What Bianca did has already happened and we’re dealing with the consequences. What would hurting her accomplish? She’ll never change, and I simply don’t care enough. My only goal is to escape this house of horrors with Aurelia and my brother. I couldn’t care less about what happens to the woman I regrettably married.
My gaze returns to Aurelia, pulled by a gravity I can’t resist. The hollows beneath her cheekbones reveal dayswithout proper meals. Her shoulders curl inward, making her seem smaller than I remember. Those crude stitches along her throat stand out against pale skin.
Reckless.The word burns through me. My brother wielded that blade with the same carelessness he’s shown in everything lately. A millimeter deeper and?—
I shut down the thought before it can fully form.
She’s here. Breathing. That’s what matters. And my brother is… misguided. He’s been poisoned by the true evil still alive in this family: my mother. Julian has simply caught an illness I must cure.
By the window, our mother stands like a marble statue, her spine rigid. Her reflection warps in the old glass, creating a grotesque mirror of her elegant features. Every few seconds, her jaw tightens—a tell she’s never quite mastered. Whatever she sees in that garden feeds her rage, and I file the observation away for later analysis.
Julian’s footsteps create their own violent rhythm. Seven steps east, pivot, seven steps west. His fingers drum against his thigh in a pattern I recognize from our childhood—the same nervous tic that emerged whenever Father’s footsteps approached our rooms. But there’s something else threading through his agitation. His eyes keep darting to Aurelia’s still-flat stomach, and each glance carries something I’ve rarely seen from my brother.
Hope.
He wants this child with an intensity that should concern me more than it does. Instead, I find myself wondering if a baby might accomplish what nothingelse has—crack through the darkness consuming him. Give him something to protect rather than destroy.
If it’s his child.
I hate this uncertainty gnawing at me with sharp teeth. Aurelia and I were together multiple times before everything collapsed. There were no barriers between us, just heat and silent promises. And if Julian was with her first—something that makes undigested food rise in my throat—the timing allows for either possibility. Not knowing creates its own special torment.
If she carries my child—God, the thought creates equal parts terror and fierce joy. But the alternative—that my brother might have?—
Did he force her? When he locked her in that room, when he held all the power and she had none, did my brother cross that final line?
I’ve forgiven my brother for a lot, but that’s something I can never forgive. When I get the chance, I’ll ask Aurelia for the truth.
To get my mind off the anguish, I glance at Valentine. He hasn’t moved from his corner, but his entire being angles toward Aurelia like a plant seeking sun. The man who raised her, who betrayed her, who loves her still—all these truths coexist in the slump of his shoulders and the softness around his eyes when he looks at her. Our gazes meet across the room and understanding passes between us. Whatever our sins, whatever our failures, we’re united in one thing: keeping her safe.
I return my attention to Aurelia as the clock ticks down. Her focus remains fixed on the marble floor. Not once has she looked directly at me since whisperingher love to me. I’d swallowed my response. Too many eyes are watching us—Mother’s cold calculation, Julian’s manic attention, Valentine’s protective concern.
