Page 162 of Ashen Torment

When the wax cools, I slowly withdraw my finger and grab the envelope. I hand it to my valet, without taking my eyes off the paper.

“Give it to Ivan, so that he may take it to Rochefort Manor.”

He takes it, hesitant.

“As you wish.”

I pass my hand over my forehead, massaging away the residual tension.

“And specify to Ivan,” I lower my voice, “that he is to deliver it personally to the Viscount, or to his personal valet. No one else.”

He gives a quick bow, his shoes nearly scuffing the floor, and disappears from the room. I rise slowly from the stool and head toward my quarters. The corridor stretches out before me, empty, barely lit by the flickering light of the candelabras hanging from the walls.

“Lord Dorian, you cannot wander through the manor in this condition!”

Edgar’s voice reaches me suddenly.

I feel the pulse of my blood accelerate, a thin sneer carves its way onto my lips.

“Will you go and report to my grandfather, the Marquess, that you have seen my virility, Edgar?”

I keep walking without waiting for an answer.

I continue until I enter my room; the door shuts behind me, a sharp sound that seems to isolate me from the world. I strip off my now-soaked shirt, my hands tremble slightly as they slide over my sweaty body, my fingertips still warm from the past friction.

I move toward the mirror and my eyes stop on the reflection.

The face staring back at me is not mine, or perhaps it is too much so. The skin gleaming, the muscles taut, the veins still pulsing.

Every part of me bears the mark of the passion just consumed.

I do not recognize the eyes that are watching me.

What the hell have I just done?

The spoon sinks into the warm consommé while I flip through yet another page of the ledger, the Brownells’ affairs continue to flutter before me.

No response has arrived, the hours have crawled by, and the worthy Viscount has not yet deigned to offer me a reply.

I cut a morsel of lamb chop from the plate with the tip of my knife. Everything seems tasteless to me now.

Every fragment of yesterday still burns in my mind and in my flesh.

How is it possible, then, that not even a sliver of what blazes within me lives within him?

I grip the knife until my knuckles turn white. My wrist snaps, my arm tenses, and I hurl it onto the table.

I remain for an instant observing the spot where it landed, then lift the glass of Claret to my lips. The wine slides down, hot, leaving a bitter aftertaste that burns my stomach and awakens memories I wished to stifle.

His hand... I can still feel it, wrapped around me.

The black hair falling over his forehead, his breath close to mine, the tremor of his respiration when I wanted to close my lips over his.

Why?

Why did he stop his lips?

Why did he refuse the kiss?