Page 17 of Blood Vows
It was hauntingly beautiful.
Like something pulled straight from a dark fairy tale. The kind with locked doors and whispered curses, where even the dust dared not settle for too long. From what I had seen, it was enormous, far too large for one person to live in alone.
And I couldn’t help but wonder… how lonely must he be here?
When was the last time Vasileios, or should I say, Vas… had spoken to someone, not as a monster or a captor, but simply as a man? When was the last time he’d shared a meal, a conversation, a laugh that wasn’t buried under bitterness?
It felt impossible to imagine.
Still, the thought stayed with me as I brushed out my hair and dressed in the simple clothes he had provided. Jeans. A soft black T-shirt. Plain white sneakers. Nothing remarkable, yet I lingered over every small detail as though my choices mattered to him somehow.
By the time I finally went to the door, I half expected him to be standing there. But instead, a tray sat neatly on the floor. Steam rose from a plate of food, and beside it rested a book with a folded note on top.
My heart stuttered as I carried it inside and set it on the table. The handwriting was elegant and deliberate, with each letter carved into the paper as though written with purpose, not carelessness.
I went to the liberty of ordering you breakfast. I would prefer you spend the day in your room, and so, to give you no reason to go searching for that knife.
I request that you join me for dinner.
Be ready at six.
V
P.S…I hope you enjoy the book.
A smile tugged at my lips. He hadn’t forgotten our little exchange in the kitchen. But when I looked closer at the book, my amusement faded.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” I murmured aloud.
The title alone sent a shiver down my spine.
I had never read it, yet I knew the outline of the story. One based on betrayal and revenge. Of a man wrongfully imprisoned, destroyed by those he trusted, only to return reborn as something darker, sharper, a creature of vengeance cloaked in elegance.
I stared at the cover for a long moment, running my fingers over the embossed title, wondering if this was deliberate. Was it a warning? A message? Or something far more personal, like a glimpse into who he used to be?
I looked at his note again. It was old-fashioned. Romantic, even. Yet the way the ink pressed into the paper felt almost possessive. Like the book, I traced it with the pad of my thumb before setting it down.
The food was still warm when I took my first bite, though I barely tasted the eggs and toast. My eyes kept flicking to thebook beside me, the weight of its meaning growing heavier by the minute.
It wasn’t just a story of vengeance. It was about the price of it. About how justice could twist into obsession until there was nothing human left to save.
Was that what he was trying to tell me, or was he trying to remind himself?
Either way, the message was clear.
Vengeance was what mattered to him. Making me now wonder, would there be room for anything else?
Or should I say…
Anyone.
8
DINNER GAMES
The morning stretched into the afternoon, and I found myself lost, completely consumed by the story he had left for me.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
