Page 208 of Ashen Torment

“A dictionary.”

He lifts his chin slightly.

“You must find me a russe-français dictionary.”

A shadow of surprise crosses his gaze, quick as a reflection. “Russian?”

I nod and push the plate of broth further away. On the tray, I notice a cup of tea.

“Étienne, you know I do not like tea.”

He moves the cup, replacing it with a glass of cold water where a lemon slice floats slowly, and a vial of Sal Volatile.

I take that glass and drink.

“Why do you need to learn that language?” he asks.

“That indecent man uses his tongue to insult me, and I do not understand what he says.”

I bring my hands to my face and remain so, motionless, while my heart beats too slowly, with a lethargy that unsettles me more than any breathlessness.

The worst part is not that he saw me in that state, nor that he witnessed something that should have remained buried, it is that I allowed him to, that I offered no resistance, that I wanted him there, beside me, to still a tension that should never have been touched, nor acknowledged.

The Minotaur should have remained hidden in the labyrinth.

I rise slowly, and only then do I realize I am completely naked. I stand still, my body exposed to the fresh morning air, while the sheet slides down without a sound, baring my pelvis and thighs.

I look for my clothes, they are not on the bed. I find them instead folded with care, placed by the window.

It is then that other memories return, slow and disordered: the wine, the suffocating heat, the fever that made my thoughts muddled, and finally that kiss, sudden and inevitable. I see myself almost from the outside, my body pressed against his, the broken breath, fingers locking onto fabric as if to anchor myself. And immediately after comes the shame because I came without even truly being touched, solely from the proximity, solely for him.

And yet, he did not go further, he stopped.

This disorients me more than any excess would, because that is not how it works.

Those who desire me do not stop, they do not linger, they do not care who I am, but only what I can offer.

Does that bastard feel pity for me now?

“Is there anything else you desire, Viscount?” Étienne’s voice breaks the silence behind me.

I turn toward him, searching for words that struggle to find form.

“Étienne, what happened yesterday...”

“Nothing happened.”

I inhale slowly and nod.

“See to it that the others speak the same way.”

“Yes, Viscount.”

I get out of bed and he is immediately beside me, holding out my shirt, keeping it open just enough for me to slide my arms in; his fingers barely graze the fabric, careful not to touch my skin more than necessary. When he fastens the cuffs, however, he stops.

I look down. On my wrist, just below the bone, the mark is still there, purplish, distinct, as if the night had done nothing to erase it.

A bite.