Page 90 of Ashen Torment

The flush on her skin turns into an offended pallor. She gives a slight curtsy and retreats toward the door. When she leaves, the silence returns, heavier than before. I am holding one of the documents between my fingers when I notice a slight burning sensation.

I look down, on my fingertip are tiny incisions, barely visible cuts left by marble shards.

Small, but annoying.

I rub my thumb over my forefinger and the pain flares up again.

The mind goes back where it shouldn’t.

I huff softly and run a hand through my hair, pulling back the strands falling over my forehead. The exhaustion clings to me.

The thought is unpleasantly clear: my body is yielding to lust.

I have been too busy, too tense. It takes what it finds. There is nothing special. There never is.

It could have been anyone.

Jane’s freckles, her rosy lips slide past me, but nothing moves inside me. Not even a trace of desire.

“I’ve known her for years, that must be it.”

Two knocks at the door interrupt me again.

“Enter.”

Laurence enters with his cautious step, carrying a package in his hands, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. He places it on the desk.

“My lord, Charles instructed me to deliver this to you. It is what you were looking for.”

I nod. The package draws my gaze more than anything else. I pull it closer, untying the twine without haste.

The volume appears.

Hypnerotomachia Poliphili.

I rest my fingertips on the edge of the cover and slide them slowly, following the embossed letters. I feel a sense of gratification settle over my shoulders.

Laurence tilts his head toward the tome.

“It looks like a very ancient volume, my lord.”

“It is. And very rare.”

“Charles reported that it cost no small sum. If I may... what will you use it for?”

“It is a gift.”

“For whom?”

The image arrives on its own, tangible and inevitable.

The Viscount lifting his gaze from the book, those indigo irises wide, those lips drawn in a stubborn line as he hurls cold, offensive words at me.

The cursed courage of that malchik.

I trace the spine of the volume with my finger, a thought creeps in, unseemly.

Perhaps he will blush.