Page 30 of Blood Vows
That was the excuse.
So, of course, then came the books. I told myself I chose them to occupy her mind, to keep her content, to stop her asking too many questions. But the truth was darker. I chose them because I wanted to know what stirred her, what made her heartbeat faster. What made her eyes light up when she spoke.
I told her she was a means to an end, even as I clutched her throat and forced myself to believe those words. But even after the second they left my lips, I knew it was a lie. That excuse had worn thin, unraveled the moment she looked at me with trust instead of fear.
The thought of her being taken from me was enough to rouse my darkness, to make it stir beneath my skin like a beast scenting blood. And for once, I did not fight it. I welcomed it.
Once, my darkness had been a weapon. Something I unleashed only when I needed to kill, to destroy, to take what I desired. But now, it no longer hungered for death.
It hungered for her.
Not her fear, but her breathless little gasps, the ones that haunted me long after she was gone from sight. The gentle tremor in her voice when she spoke to me with understanding instead of hate. As if somehow, she saw me.
As if she understood.
It terrified me.
I had never lived in hope, only in certainty. A certainty that I would one day make my family pay, that I would see my brothers fall for what they had taken from me. But now, I found myself living in hope for something entirely different. Something far more dangerous.
I hated her for it.
No, not her.
I hated myself.
For the weakness she revealed in me. For the way she made me question the very foundation of what I was.
All it took was her eyes, looking up at me with that quiet plea, that trust she had no right to give. As if I were her savior instead of her captor. As if I were not the man who had dragged her into these haunted halls, filled with shadows and bitterness of my own creation.
She was too good for this place, and she was far too good for me.
And yet, I could not let her go.
I told myself it was for the plan, that she was too valuable to release, but that was a lie I no longer believed. I wanted her tohate me. It was easier that way. I wanted her to see the darkness in me and be afraid, because her fear might still save us both. It would kill the hope that was growing like a sickness inside me, the hope that whispered she could be mine.
The hope that had begun to crumble everything I was.
After her nightmare, she had found a strange kind of comfort in me and in return, I craved to be her hero. To be the one she clung to when frightened. Every soft cry, every tremor of her body pressed against mine, every tear that soaked through my shirt, it all tugged at something buried deep inside me.
Since that night, she had grown braver. Her words came easier now, spoken without fear, sharp with truth and perception. Too perceptive. She saw more than she should, more than I wanted her to. I mocked her for it, teased her for reading too deeply into things, and yet, secretly, I desired it. I wanted her to look closer. I wanted her to see me.
The real core of me.
It was why I chose those books for her. I told myself it was to keep her occupied, to ease her confinement, but really, they were glimpses into my own fractured soul. Each story was a reflection, a mirror held up to my sins, my torment, my ruin. And she read them as though she could see right through me. And in her bravery, she pushed back. Called my bluff. Struck too close to truths I wasn’t ready to speak aloud. The ones I was still trying to hide from.
A secret war I waged within myself. The winning side born from
this obsession I could feel growing. One getting stronger, more powerful, until my will finally snapped, and I would have to give in to the sweetest temptation.
Perfection damned.
This morning had been no different. She had looked so peaceful in her sleep, so unguarded. I had stood there longerthan I should have, watching her chest rise and fall, the faintest crease between her brows even in rest. I had longed to reach out, to touch her, to trace the softness of her cheek. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. If she had opened her eyes and found me there, there would have been no excuse convincing enough to hide what I had become.
Even the mask I wore when she was awake was beginning to slip. The stoic coldness I had relied on for centuries was crumbling under her gaze, and she was starting to see through it…through me.
I was the one imprisoned here, not her. She may have felt trapped within these walls, but I was the one bound, shackled by my obsession. Every waking moment was consumed by her, no longer by the vengeance that had once driven me. Thoughts about what she was doing, by what she might be thinking, by what else I could do to make her stay a little more comfortable.
When I brought her here, it had been with a purpose. I had prepared everything, ensuring that nothing would remind her of who she was before. The soap was plain, scentless, nothing like the peaches that had once lingered on her skin. The clothes, deliberately simple, lacking any colour or personality. The dresses, nothing but an afterthought. I had hoped they would unsettle her, make her feel out of place.
