Page 185 of Ashen Torment

“You may go, Étienne.”

His voice comes out thick, his face flushed, hair falling into his eyes.

Damn it.

He stares at a point ahead of him, but he cannot hold my gaze. I do not know whether to go to him or destroy everything.

My gaze fixes on the shoulder where that Brownell’s hand had been resting.

That spot.

The slight curve of the bone.

My throat burns.

My heart hammers beneath my shirt.

Something is about to happen.

Something I will not be able to stop.

25

Feverish

Evander

The door swings wide, and the light from the hallway floods the room, stinging my already weary eyes. I blink for an instant, and when I lift my gaze, he is there, standing motionless on the threshold.

Behind him, the light creates a silhouette so sharp it looks as though it were carved.

His open jacket falls in rigid folds, his hands do not move at his sides, yet his body vibrates almost imperceptibly. I follow his gaze, and he is not looking at me. His eyes are fixed lower, to the side. On Nathaniel. On the hand that still brushes my shoulder.

I only feel that contact now, the heat pulses behind my ears and trickles down the nape of my neck. The glass between my fingers is lukewarm, I tilt it without meaning to, and a drop slides over the rim.

The room sways slightly.

Or perhaps it is I.

Something breaks across his face, a sharp contraction along his jaw. I feel Nathaniel’s hand withdraw.

Étienne arrives, panting, too late.

“Viscount... Lord Vasiliev Ashford is here to visit.”

I incline my head slightly, the movement pulls at the back of my eyes. I feel the blood pounding in my temples.

“You may go, Étienne.” My voice comes out low and thick, as if I had to force it out.

My valet hesitates for a moment, then retreats, and the door clicks shut.

I remain seated because the floor feels far away, because my knees will not respond immediately, and because I know that if I were to stand now, the gesture would say too much.

Dorian is still there.

I keep my gaze fixed ahead, ignoring him, and I feel, without looking, that he has not stopped staring at the exact spot where, moments ago, there was a hand that was not his. I make a clumsy gesture toward him, trying to appear more lucid than I truly am.

“Lord Vasiliev Ashford... what a surprise.”