Page 26 of Blood Vows
When I woke the next morning, it was to sunlight spilling through the cracks in the heavy curtains, painting the room in soft streaks of gold. For the first time in what felt like forever, I had slept soundly. No dreams, no screams, no shadows reaching for me from the corners of my mind. Just…stillness.
It took me a few seconds to remember where I was, to orient myself among the rich reds and dark woods of the room that was both beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. But then I noticed it.
Another tray.
This time, one sat waiting for me on the small table near the window, unlike yesterday’s breakfast, which had been waiting for me outside my door. My breath caught at the thought of Vas entering my room when I was asleep, asking myself had he taken the time to watch me? Or had he slipped in soundlessly like one of the ghosts he had spoken about before he was gone again?
How close had he been?
“No, Nessa, don’t do it…don’t think about him that way!” I scorned myself, but then my eyes caught on something sittingnext to the tray. Another neatly folded piece of parchment, which lay beside a new book.
Curiosity tugged me from the bed, and I crossed the room with eager steps that ignored my previous chastisement, as I couldn’t help the flutter of excitement that sparked, not even stopping to ask myself why this time. Which was why the sight of my breakfast, the steaming coffee, the buttered toast, the eggs and a touch of fruit came second to that note.
The handwriting was once again elegant, dark ink curling across the page in that same old-fashioned script as before.
Nessa,
Be ready by two this afternoon.
Wear the new boots in your wardrobe.
Dress warm.
Regards
V
I read it twice, then a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something that made more sense. Boots? I frowned, glancing toward the wardrobe. I could have sworn I had already seen everything inside it, the black dresses, the sneakers, the single pair of dress shoes. But when I opened the doors, there they were. A new pair of walking boots that looked sturdy yet surprisingly comfortable, lined with soft grey padding that promised warmth.
I touched them carefully, as though they might vanish, and found they were warm to the touch, almost as if they had been placed there moments ago.
“How did you…” I murmured under my breath, then stopped, trying not to read too much into it. Instead, I turned back toward the tray, eyeing the book he’d left for me this time. The title embossed in faded gold read Wuthering Heights, and a small gasp escaped. I couldn’t help but pick it up, my finger tracing the letters as a soft smile tugged at my lips despite myself.
It was a story I knew only in fragments from learning about it at school. A story of love that burned too fiercely and ruined everything it touched. Of two souls bound by obsession, torn apart by pride and circumstance, only to haunt each other beyond death. The kind of tale that left you aching, wondering if love could ever be worth that kind of destruction.
As I turned the book in my hands, I wondered if that was why he’d chosen it for me. A warning, perhaps. Or maybe a confession he didn’t yet know how to voice. Either way, it felt fitting in this house, this storm, this strange pull between us. All of it was like something ripped from the pages of a gothic tragedy I was only just beginning to understand.
“What are you trying to tell me this time, Vas?” I muttered, running a finger over the spine. I couldn’t deny the pull of curiosity, and not just about the book this time. Where was he planning to take me that required boots? Outside, obviously. The very thought sent a flicker of excitement through me at the idea of breathing fresh air again, of seeing something beyond these walls.
But as the excitement grew, another question rose quietly in its wake. Was it the thought of freedom that thrilled me… or the thought of seeing him again? I sank down onto the edge of the bed, the book open in my lap, though I wasn’t really reading. My mind kept drifting back to last night. To the warmth of his hand guiding me through the dark, the sound of his voice when he’d told me to call his name.
It shouldn’t have felt comforting. It shouldn’t have meant anything. And yet, somehow, it did.
I caught myself smiling faintly, shaking my head.
“Get a grip, Nessa,” I muttered.
“He’s your captor, not your…”
But I couldn’t even finish the thought, because a small, traitorous part of me already knew.
It wasn’t freedom I was waiting for at two o’clock.
It was him.
11
A WHISPERED GHOST OF TRUTH
