Page 79 of Blood Vows
My lips parted, ready to tell him, to explain how, in the chaos of the fight, she no longer had it. However, the words never made it past my tongue.
Because I felt it.
A strange pulse at the edge of my consciousness, soft but insistent. It was like a whisper, too faint to be words, yet too clear to ignore. A pull, dark and rhythmic, tugging at something inside me I didn’t understand. I blinked, swallowing hard as the air thickened. My heart pounded, not from fear but fromsomething else. It was like an invisible thread that seemed to hum between me and that memory of red light.
“Nessa?”His voice broke through the haze, gentle but concerned.
“What is it?” I blinked up at him, forcing a smile that felt far too tight.
“Nothing, just… tired.” I lied. He studied me for a long moment, his gaze sharp, as though he could sense that something wasn’t right. But then he nodded, taking my hand once more and leading me down the last stretch of corridor.
Still, even as we walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the necklace, that cursed red stone that had once hung around his mother’s neck… was calling to me.
And worse than that…
Part of me wanted to answer it.
29
A MOTHER’S MADNESS
The corridor deepened into shadow as we reached the far end of the west wing. Here, the air felt heavier, older and steeped in the weight of centuries. The faint scent of aged oak and candle wax clung to the walls, and beneath it all lingered something darker, something distinctly him.
He stopped before a large oak door carved with intricate, swirling patterns. The designs almost seemed to move in the low light, twisting into shapes that reminded me of wings, shadows, and flames. He pushed it open without a word, and I followed him inside.
The room was vast. A cathedral of darkness.
Heavy velvet curtains hung from high arched windows, their deep crimson folds swallowing the moonlight before it could touch the stone floor. Candles burned in wrought-iron sconces along the walls, their flames trembling against the slightest stir of air. The faint aroma of smoke and leather filled my lungs, along with the delicious scent of Vas, which I eagerly breathed in.
A four-poster bed dominated the space, its dark canopy draped in silk that shimmered like liquid shadow. Carvedalong its frame were symbols I didn’t recognize, one’s ancient, powerful and protective perhaps. On the far side, a massive fireplace burned low, the embers casting a soft, blood-red glow across the black stone hearth.
Books filled towering shelves that reached toward the vaulted ceiling, mingling with relics and fragments of history. Old maps, daggers and even a violin rested on its stand. On one wall, a painting half-shrouded by a torn sheet showed a storm-lashed sea. The whole room pulsed faintly with the same kind of energy that clung to him, one that was restless, alive and almost sentient.
“This will be safer,” Vas murmured, closing the door behind us with a quiet click that sounded far too final. His hand lingered on the latch, his jaw set tight, as though he was holding something at bay or locking it out.
Without another word, he led me through a smaller adjoining doorway, and I followed him into what could only be his bathroom. It was nothing like I expected. The space was vast, all dark slate and black marble, sleek lines softened by the dim, golden glow of wall lamps. The air carried the faint scent of cedar and something citrusy. A rainfall shower hung over a sunken bath built into the stone floor, and mirrors framed in matte steel reflected the low light.
The room felt masculine, brooding, utterly him. Beautiful in a way that made my chest ache with its cold elegance. He moved with silent precision, crossing to one of the counters where a long stretch of slate supported a porcelain basin.
“Sit,” he said gently, gesturing to the space. His voice was softer now, threaded with concern rather than command. I hesitated only a second before he took matters into his own hands by gripping my waist and lifting me to the counter. Then, once I was perched on the cool countertop, he turned thetap. The sound of running water filled the silence, steady and grounding, before he wet a cloth and returned to me.
The touch of the damp fabric against my broken skin made me shiver. He worked carefully, wiping the blood from my arm and shoulder with slow, deliberate strokes. Each movement was gentle, his expression focused and almost pained, as though every trace of red he removed was a mark against his soul.
“I think we’ve been here before,” I murmured, my voice soft but unsteady. His hand paused. For a moment, his gaze lifted to mine, dark and unreadable.
“Yes,” he said quietly, resuming the gentle motion.
“But I would rather it not become a habit.” The corner of my mouth lifted despite the ache in my arm.
“Then I guess I'd better try to stay out of trouble.”
“You won’t,” he replied, a shadow of a smile ghosting over his lips as he wrung out the cloth.
“You attract it.” I huffed at that as he moved closer, so close I could feel the warmth radiating through his black shirt. The same one that clung to his body, stretching over the powerful lines of his shoulders, and was playing havoc with my fluttering stomach.
His fingers grazed my chin, tipping my face toward the light as he inspected me for further wounds. His thumb brushed the curve of my cheek, and the touch sent a flutter through my chest this time, one that had nothing to do with pain.
The intimacy of it, the scent of him, the way his darkness seemed too quiet in my presence, it felt almost unbearable. He didn’t speak again, but the silence between us carried everything unspoken. His guilt, my confusion, the strange, fragile bond that had somehow survived the chaos of the night.
