Page 2 of Blood Vows
But I also thought about Tal and Victor, knowing they would no doubt be worried sick. I couldn’t stop wondering what came next. Would he contact them for ransom? Would the dagger be the price they’d have to pay?
And what if they didn’t want to pay it? What then? What if it was too high of a price for the girl they had been cursed into loving? Because I already knew firsthand how important the dagger was to them. So, were they really willing to go to war? Or risk the threat of one? I didn’t know. But I feared both outcomes, because no matter which way it went, it was going to end badly.
Selfishly, yes, I wanted to believe they would give anything to save me. But the unselfish part of me couldn’t help but question how dangerous it would be for them if they did. From what I’d gathered, if that dagger ever fell into the wrong hands, the result could be catastrophic.
I felt foolish for trusting the enemy. But in the height of my emotions, I couldn’t help myself. I had seen that picture of Stacey and panicked. What I should have done was tell someone. I should have walked out of that bathroom and trusted them to handle it.
But I hadn’t.
I’d assumed they’d lied. That I couldn’t trust them. When in truth, that picture must have been taken before she was rescued, and I had fallen for it, like an idiot.
Wrapping myself in a big, fluffy towel, I stepped back into the bedroom and finally took in the details I hadn’t noticed before.
It felt like stepping back in time. The air was still, carrying a faint trace of something old. Like aged wood, candle smoke,and a hint of sandalwood that I suspected clung to him. The furniture was carved from dark mahogany, each piece heavy and ornate, like something rescued from a forgotten century. A grand four-poster bed dominated the room, its high frame wrapped in sheer, ghostly drapes.
A gilded mirror hung above the fireplace, its surface dulled with time, reflecting the soft flicker of the candles that burned low in their sconces. The walls were lined with shelves filled with books, the spines worn and faded, but each one cared for like memories he couldn’t bring himself to let go of.
However, on inspection, each one was useless to me as they were in different languages.
The curtains were thick, woven with golden fleur-de-lis over deep burgundy fabric, the kind of pattern that whispered of nobility and hidden sins. They matched the rich velvet chaise in the corner, the kind of thing you’d expect in a room meant for both comfort and control.
It was hauntingly beautiful, decadent in a way that shouldn’t have belonged to someone who lived in shadows. But then again, nothing about him seemed to fit neatly into the world I thought I understood. This room was no exception. It felt alive, like it was holding its breath…waiting, watching…just like I was.
The windows were adorned with intricate lead designs in diamond patterns, each pane catching the flickering light of an old chandelier that hung above.
It was beautifully archaic, with its blown glass lanterns, that was at least modernized with soft bulbs that mimicked candlelight. Their glow danced against the walls just like the real flames did. In fact, I questioned now, who had even lit those candles? Had it been dark when I first arrived in here? I couldn’t remember.
Thick red Persian rugs covered the floor, the colors blending perfectly with the dark mahogany furniture and the red-and-gold bedding. The room itself was enormous, almost like a small apartment. To one side sat a quiet sitting area with a low table and an armchair angled toward the fire, and to the other, a small dining table with two chairs.
Huge wardrobes lined another wall, carved from the same wood, and their mirrored doors speckled with age. They looked too heavy to open, yet when I tried, the hinges yielded easily with a whisper of oiled metal.
Inside, rows of dresses hung neatly in place, but I knew I wouldn’t be needing any of them, so I closed the door, moving on quickly. This time to large dresser that reached my shoulders. I tugged one open, and the wood groaned softly, the ancient joints protesting. Inside, I found neatly folded stacks of brand-new clothes still with tags attached. Plain shirts, jeans, soft jumpers, all of the best quality. Yet there were no patterns, no colors beyond safe shades of black, white, and grey.
It was as if whoever had bought them hadn’t known who they were buying for, so they had chosen the safest options possible. Or perhaps the person who bought them wanted to erase any trace of personality. To strip away vibrance before it could mirror the person beneath the fabric.
Even the sneakers, still boxed at the bottom of the wardrobe, were plain white. One pair of black dress shoes sat beside them, simple but elegant, able to match any of the dresses hanging above. What startled me most was that every size was correct.
Somehow, he had known.
In one drawer, I found pajamas, and finally some color, as if what I wore to bed didn’t matter, as he never had any intention of seeing them. I picked out a burgundy set, material soft as butter against my sore skin. No patterns, no lace, nothing to draw attention. Just comfort, pure and unadorned. I pressed the fabric between my fingers, marveling at how gentle it felt, and for a fleeting second, I forgot where I was.
Once dressed, I pulled the curtains closed shutting, out the pitch black beyond, along with the faint reflection of my bruised and beaten face. I knew I would be black and blue by morning. The glimpse I’d caught in the bathroom mirror had been enough to make me wince. I’d tried to keep the water from my face, careful not to disturb the bandages he had applied, though the ones around my wrists were still damp, clinging to sore skin. Because no matter how I tried, there was no way to wash all the blood from my hair or neck without getting my hands wet.
I remembered staring at those thin red rivulets sliding down the drain, the sight pulling me back to the kitchen, back to when he’d tried to wash it away himself.
He had been almost…I don’t know… offended by the sight of my blood. As though it had affected him. I could still see the image of his hand, strong and sure, squeezing the cloth in his fist, the pink-stained water seeping between his fingers. Every motion had been careful, deliberate, meticulous, like a man fulfilling a duty he didn’t understand.
Yet those hands, huge and calloused, had been unexpectedly gentle. The same could be said for the rest of him. He was a mountain of a man, my head barely reaching his chest, and yet he had handled me with a kind of care that didn’t belong to someone like him.
It made me wonder if there was even the smallest chance, I could ever crack that hard exterior. For clearly, on some level, he cared. Maybe not enough to admit it, but enough to show it. If he hadn’t, he would have simply tossed me into this room and locked the door. Or worse, kept his word and put me in a cell beneath the house. Either way, I would have lived, his bargaining chip intact, but he hadn’t done that.
He had acted in a way that went against everything I thought I knew of him. The tormentor of my dreams had become my savior, and that kind of irony was not lost on me.
I lay back on the bed after blowing out the candles, now debating whether to leave the chandeliers’ lights on or not. Admittedly, with the wind howling beyond the windows, rattling the aged glass panes, the events of the night looped in my mind. So, I couldn’t sleep. It was impossible. Whether it was the fading rush of adrenaline or sheer exhaustion, my body refused to surrender. He had probably assumed I’d pass out the moment my head hit the pillow, but that was far from the truth.
My mind was too full. My body too sore. And my head was now throbbing from the blows I’d taken. And it was just one part of me that was screaming for something as simple as painkillers.
Sleep wouldn’t come, no matter how I tried. The longer I lay there, the louder the ache in my head became, pulsing behind my eyes like a warning drum. Eventually, I gave up, the sound of frustration escaping my lips as I slapped my hands down on the thick material of the sheets,
