Page 80 of Ashen Torment

My fingers move unconsciously to the spot where Dorian had just squeezed. It is as if my arm were completely pierced by thorns pricking me; I draw back a step, searching for Count Nádasdy.

I must leave.

I see him, motionless at the center of the hall, and beside him the man in the burgundy mask. I approach.

“Are you enjoying the paintings?”

“Certainly. Themes and concepts that are most stimulating, Count.”

A slight curl of the mouth and a quick flash in the Count’s eyes betray a complacency he does not quite dare to fully expose.

“Yes,” he resumes, hands joined behind his back as he tilts forward slightly, “Cendre d’Enfer knows how to translate onto canvas concepts—”

“Forgive me,” I interrupt, “but I must withdraw, Count. I sincerely thank you for the invitation.”

The man in the burgundy mask beside him moves his remaining fingers. “Was the vision too anarchic for you?”

“Illuminating,” I respond calmly, “but my time here has come to an end. I wish you a good evening.”

The Count remains still for an instant, then, with a measured smile that does not entirely hide his disappointment, he nods.

I turn my back and walk toward the exit, the freezing air greets me as soon as I cross the threshold, a fistful of pure oxygen that makes my heart leap after the suffocating heat of the hall.

The carriage awaits me a short distance away. The horses are restless, Benjamin and Étienne are in their places. I head slowly toward them, but a sudden sound forces me to turn. A heavy breath comes from a nearby spot. There is another carriage stopped; a man stands before it with a cigarette between his fingers. The smoke wraps around him like a shroud.

Lord Dorian.

Without his mask, his forehead is clear, his hair tossed by the wind, his features seem harsher in the night light.

Our eyes meet, and time is suspended for a few moments. Something thunders in my temples.

He averts his gaze and, with a sudden gesture, throws the cigarette to the ground with rage. The sharp sound hits me like a slap.

“Fuck,” he growls.

He turns and climbs into the carriage with rapid movements.

I stare at the spot where the cigarette was crushed into the earth, the smoke dispersing slowly into the cold air.

I lift my head, inhaling deeply once more, and with a controlled step, I approach my carriage. I climb in, the cold wood beneath my fingers contrasting with the heat I feel at the nape of my neck, and finally allow myself to be carried away from the flickering light of those candelabras and the bodies suspended on the canvases.

12

Hungry

Dorian

The door shuts behind me with a hollow thud, I hurl that godforsaken white mask away.

It strikes the floor with a sharp crack, a clangor vibrating through my ribs and shaking my chest. I run a hand through my hair, the strands sliding over temples damp with cold sweat.

“Unbelievable.”

I undress slowly, removing first the white waistcoat, then the shirt. The fabric slides off, and the night chill caresses my bare skin. I grit my teeth as a shiver of irritation courses through me while the Viscount’s face resurfaces in my mind.

I do not comprehend the agitation that has shaken me, and the thought of that pale face continues to burn behind my eyelids. My right hand clenches into a fist on its own, I reopen it slowly.

Why on earth did I do such a thing?