Page 111 of Ashen Torment

I give a nod to the valet. “Laurence.”

Then I turn, beginning to walk away.

“Viscount!”

I ignore the call, returning inside the manor, leaving the courtyard and the cold behind.

And his voice.

Filthy liar.

15

Le Rêve

Dorian

Ihave held this cursed handkerchief between my fingers for too long.

The white fabric is crumpled, softer now, molded by the heat of my hands. The dried stain of my blood is a small, dark patch, and every time I run my thumb over it, I feel an irritation rising in my throat. The twilight light filters through the half-closed curtains, a pale reflection invading the study. It stings my eyes, but I do not rise to close them.

The ticking of the clock behind me is too regular. Irritating. It annoys me more than necessary. It is the same rhythm the Viscount’s voice held yesterday, when he decided to make me lose my patience with those overbearing phrases of his.

I do not understand my own soul? You strike me, you fret over me, and then you strike again...

I squeeze the handkerchief as if it were his throat, but it only sours my mood.

That boy seems to have made a habit of striking me whenever the opportunity presents itself.

I feel the pulse in my temple, the wound tugs a little, reminding me of his hand on my skin. That brief, precise touch I cannot seem to shake. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, eyes fixed on the stain on the linen. The ill-temper does not leave.

In fact, it burrows deeper.

Lucien bursts into the study without so much as a knock.

“Dorian, I have news.”

I barely move the handkerchief between my fingers, without taking my eyes off the dried bloodstain.

“Tell me, brother.”

He approaches but stops a few paces away.

“What happened to you?” he says, pointing a finger at my forehead.

I lift the handkerchief slightly, passing it from one finger to another. “A swan struck me with its beak.”

“Oh, a swa—” He widens his eyes. “Wait, what did you say?”

“It impaled me with its beak.”

He takes a step closer until he is standing beside me. The smell of his aftershave irritates me because it masks the already faint scent of honey coming from the handkerchief.

“Are you drunk, perhaps?”

I lift my gaze toward him, brows slightly furrowed. He points to the nearly empty bottle of brandy on the table.

“I was working, Lucien.”