Page 209 of Ashen Torment

Étienne says nothing. He resumes buttoning my waistcoat, then my jacket, with the same precision as always, but something in the way he avoids my gaze betrays a realization that will never be voiced.

I leave the room without further delay and walk down the corridor toward the kitchens. The air changes as I approach, the scent of bread, of broth, of coal still glowing. In front of the door, I encounter Miss Turner. Her ash-blonde hair is gathered into two low buns at the sides of her head, a style that softens her face and makes her look younger. She stops abruptly and lowers her head.

“Good morning, Viscount.”

I answer with a slight nod and cross the threshold.

“Do you require something?” she asks, following me with her gaze.

“No, Alice.”

She hesitates a moment. “Should I call the cook?”

I shake my head slightly. “It is not necessary.”

She is about to withdraw, then she brightens, her blue eyes gleaming. “Oh, Viscount... something arrived for you this morning.”

My gaze falls on her nose, on the light freckles that dust it like gold dust.

“What is it?”

She moves aside and, almost on her tiptoes, points to one of the central tables.

“This arrived.”

A wicker basket occupies half the surface, heaped to the brim. Apples with taut, glossy skin; pears still opaque with morning mist; clusters of grapes that let drops leak onto the wood; heavy citrus fruits; ripe figs splitting just beneath their own weight.

“It comes from Ashford Manor,” she adds, lowering her voice.

I sigh, and a short, low laugh escapes me, devoid of mirth.

That insolent man.

“It looks very fresh,” she insists, “and of excellent quality.”

“Very well, Alice. You may go.”

Her enthusiasm breaks against me, her shoulders drop and her hands lace in front of her apron. She gives a small curtsy, then retreats, quieter than when she had arrived. The door closes behind me and I am alone. I move to the shelf and take a jar of honey. The glass is lukewarm. I open it with caution. The scent hits my nose at once, sweet and dense, almost carnal. I take a silver spoon, dip it slowly, and lift it. The amber thread lingers before yielding.

I bring it to my lips. The flavor slides down my throat, viscous, insistent. The imprint of his kiss is still there. His tongue, the raspy voice, that dull thud when he pressed his pelvis against mine.

A shiver runs through me. It begins at my mouth, descends into my chest, and tightens low in my body. My cock hardens once more against my will.

He must feel it, too.

He must be burning inside.

Like me, now.

I pull away from the spoon with a wet smack and let it fall back into the jar. I open a drawer and pull out a bowl of dried chili peppers.

Bright red, broken, curved like claws. I observe closely and choose them one by one. I take a knife and begin to mince them slowly, without haste. Then I sink them into the honey. The spoon clinks softly against the glass; every turn leaves a crimson trail in the golden density.

Let him feel it on his lips.

Let it burn on his tongue.

In his stomach.