Page 31 of Ashen Torment

I approach the old oak, carefully extract the slip of paper from the Marquess’s hat, and step back. Beside me, Richard turns toward the Viscount.

“Evander, which number did you draw?”

He lifts the paper. “Nine. You?”

“Five. It seems we shall be quite far apart.”

Then his gaze slides toward me. “Lord Dorian?”

I open my slip. My brow contracts for a moment.

“Nine.”

I lift my gaze and discern the Viscount’s shoulders stiffening.

Does he believe I intend to devour him?

Such egocentrism.

Richard tilts his head with a somewhat faint smile. “Oh, so you shall be together. A relief, at least, for two of my friends.”

He places a hand on the Viscount’s arm. “Good luck,” he mutters and moves away.

I avert my gaze from the Viscount.

“Fear not,” I murmur in a tone that slides between the ironic and the annoyed, “I have no intention of eating you.”

I take a step forward, sinking my heel into the thin layer of dry leaves. “Let us go.”

I do not turn back, but the slight rustle of his boots in the undergrowth confirms that he follows without hesitation. We proceed on foot, side by side but separated by a silence that weighs more than the metal of the rifle. Each step brings us toward the firing line, until we reach the point assigned by the draw: number nine, marked by a low post and a small red flag fluttering in the wind.

His valet positions himself behind him, Laurence does the same with me. The Head Gamekeeper advances along the line.

“Load!”

The command bounces through the silence of the woods, and every man prepares. The hunting horn echoes among the trees, I grip the rifle and take the first step into the vegetation.

To my right, the Viscount advances in sync. Twigs snap, rotted leaves yield beneath us, the scent of damp earth mingling with that of the cold morning air. We do not look at one another, yet I perceive his every presence.

The hunt has officially begun.

6

Bambi

Dorian

We walk side by side. Every now and then, low-hanging branches brush against my coat, but my attention is elsewhere.

The Viscount’s scent mingles with the woodland mist: wood and honey. A warm, slightly resinous note that shouldn’t be anything special, yet it stirs a hunger in me.

I feel my throat burn.

“Laurence,” I whisper without turning.

He understands instantly and hands me the flask.

I unscrew the cap and take a sip, an irritated sigh comes from beside me. The Viscount rolls his eyes with a slow movement.