Page 83 of Ashen Torment

I seize the hammer. The chisel vibrates against the stone once more: the blows become faster, hungrier, angrier. My arms are strained, veins hard beneath the skin.

My hips stay too close, always there, swaying. A dance devoid of grace, devoid of shame. The dust rises, stinging my throat. But I do not stop.

I want to break him.

I want to put him back together.

I’m caught in a vice, pushed and pulled by a Need that doesn’t care for logic.

My length throbs with a blunt, vulgar rhythm—a heavy, indecent ache that betrays me more than any words ever could.

With my fingertips, I brush away the dust accumulated around the sculpted lips. The stone reveals itself as smooth, polished.

Another throb between my legs.

Stronger.

My breath hitches in my throat.

What am I becoming?

The chisel slips from my hands. It falls to the floor with a ring that seems to come from far away.

My knuckles are reddened, my fingers streaked with blood mixing with the dust.

I have never felt so hungry.

The candle wavers as if it wants to go out.

I do not.

The carriage jolts over a misplaced stone, the interior creaking, the wheels bite into the damp pavement as the city slides past the fogged glass. Lucien adjusts his collar.

“It was not easy tracking Hale down. He moves through the slums like a sewer rat.”

I keep my gaze fixed outside. Houses pass like distorted faces, people run, the smoke from chimneys scratches the sky. The reflection of my face in the glass looks like that of another man.

“Dorian?”

“I imagine. The important thing is that you found him.”

I return to the window, fingers drumming on my thigh.

“Are you alright, brother? You look terrible.”

The glass returns a tired half-smile. “Different from usual?”

Lucien sighs softly. “You look exhausted.”

“I haven’t slept a wink.”

I spent the entire night in the atelier.

I was determined to get rid of that sculpture.

To stop looking at it.

Stop touching it.