Page 19 of Blood Vows
The mask was different too. Gone was the harsh, leather half skull that had haunted my dreams. This one was subtler, sleeker, brushed silver that softened the sharp planes of his face rather than hiding them. It revealed more of him, the strong jaw, the mouth that looked far too human, far too capable of warmth.
His eyes met mine.
And for once, he looked startled.
I realised too late that he was staring, that the silence between us was stretching into something heavy and breathless. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Then, after a moment too long, he said quietly, almost gruffly,
“You look…different.”
It wasn’t a grand compliment, but the way his voice dropped made my heart stumble anyway.
“Thank you,” I said softly, a smile tugging at my lips before I could stop it. The smile seemed to undo him. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he looked away, exhaling sharply as though annoyed with himself. When his gaze returned, the warmth was gone, replaced by that brooding mask of indifference.
“We should go,” he said curtly, turning toward the hall.
I followed, the heels I had foolishly chosen clicking against the polished floor. The manor seemed different by the added light, proving he had more than just candles to light the way. Some corridors we walked along were lined with portraits that watched in silence as we passed. One painting in particular seemed to judge me more than most. A beautiful, regal woman that held her chin higher than the rest as if her purpose was to look down at the world. But it was the blood red jewel at her throat that really caught my eye. The deep red stone hanging from the necklace seemingly calling to me.
“Come.” His voice cut the cord, that for a moment had me fixated. My body jolting at his command, forcing me to continue walking. Ornate mirrors reflected our figures, his tall shadow beside my smaller one as we descended the grand staircase. The scent of old wood and waxed polish filled the air, mingled with something faintly floral, like lavender clinging to the edges of centuries past.
Every detail of the place spoke of wealth and age. Gilded picture frames. Marble busts. Velvet drapes in deep crimson andgold. England’s quiet decadence wrapped around the manor like a secret it refused to share.
When we reached the dining room, I stopped at the threshold, unable to hide my surprise.
It was…beautiful.
The table was long, carved from dark oak and gleaming beneath a cascade of candles that threw their light across crystal glasses and silver cutlery. A vase of deep red roses stood at the centre, their scent heady and intimate. It felt far too romantic for what this was supposed to be, and the thought unsettled me.
He moved to pull out a chair for me, the gentlemanly gesture at odds with the predator I knew him to be. I hesitated, nerves tangling as I stepped forward. My heel caught on the edge of the rug, and before I knew it, I stumbled forward straight into him.
His hands were on me instantly, one bracing my waist, the other catching my wrist before I could fall. My breath hitched as I collided with his chest, hard muscle meeting soft fabric, and for a moment, neither of us moved.
I felt it, the sharp inhale he tried to swallow, the way his body tensed beneath mine, caught between instinct and control. His heartbeat thudded against my palm, steady but faster than before.
“Careful,”he murmured, his voice rougher than usual.
I tilted my head up, our faces close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the glint of candlelight on his mask. His eyes burned with something I couldn’t name.
For a breathless heartbeat, I wondered what would happen if I leaned closer. But then he stepped back, his hands falling away as if burned.
“Sit,” he said, the word clipped, too sharp, as though he could erase the moment by sheer force of will. I obeyed, trying not to let the tremor in my actions show.
But as he moved to the head of the table nearest to me, I caught the faintest crack in his composure, the ghost of a smile he tried, and failed, to hide.
And I knew then, with a quiet certainty that both thrilled and terrified me…He wasn’t as immune to me as he wanted to be.
For a moment, I could still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin.
Then, from behind us, came the faint creak of the door. I turned, startled, as an older woman entered, carrying a large silver tray balanced in her hands. She was small and stout, her grey hair tied neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck, her face kind but weary in the way of someone who had worked hard her entire life.
“Good evening, sir,” she said softly with her soft English accent that I couldn’t help but find charming. Then her gaze flicked to me, before her eyes widened, the shock clear, even in the dim candlelight.
“Oh, I…I didn’t realise you had female company.” Her tone was polite, but there was an unmistakable tremor of surprise. Vas’s head turned sharply, the silver of his mask catching the light as he replied, his voice low and unreadable.
“This is the house guest I spoke with you about.” House guest. The words hung awkwardly in the air, tasting foreign, as though they were meant to sound normal but didn’t fit his mouth right. The woman nodded quickly, lowering her gaze.
“Of course, sir. I’ll just… set your evening meals down.”
She began arranging the dishes before us, her hands moving with practised grace. Steam rose from roasted vegetables, golden and glistening in oil. A cut of meat, perfectly seared, sat in the centre, surrounded by thick gravy that shimmered like liquid mahogany. A basket of warm bread rolls sat beside it, the buttery scent mingling with herbs that made the room feel suddenly, comfortingly human.
