Page 38 of Antiletum (The Nocturne #1)
Helpless under his knife
Delaney
N ight noises are loud on my trek back through the cemetery.
Dappled silvery moonlight is scattered about the ground and headstones through the thick summer leaves.
Arms wrapped around myself, I attempt to beat off the shivers wracking my body as I hurriedly weave through graves.
Trembles of regret laced with lingering desire.
Reconciling that the owl I adored so dearly is my husband I want to run back to and who I equally want to avoid.
Shakes refuse to fade, no matter how much distance I put between us, born from the way Val laid me out with his words, displaying every single truth about myself that I try to keep hidden but he can dissect me like a dead little frog, helpless under his knife.
Seeing through all my walls in a way that he has no right to, in a way that I have not allowed.
The gates of the graveyard loom, and through them walks a slight, older figure in a pair of dirt streaked overalls: the caretaker, coming from his stone house on the grounds.
I pause, heart skipping a beat .
“My Lady!” he calls, placing a hand over his heart as he startles. He recovers the action, inclining his head towards me in respect. “I came as quickly as I could.”
He glances over my shoulder. Following his stare, I’m met by a grave with a domed patch of grass over it, cracked and lifted from a dead body trying to escape the ground. Clearly this particular corpse broke through the casing of its coffin.
The caretaker continues uncertainly in my silence.
“Apologies if I’m interrupting. I’m not usually out at this time of night.
But I was woken by some disturbances. It was quite loud for a moment.
” His voice grows quieter, his words slower, reasons for said disturbances becoming clearer the more he speaks in my highly disheveled presence.
I gulp. Hard. Thinking about all the other graves and moved bodies within mausoleums.
“You’re not interrupting,” I inform. “I was only…”
At that horribly inopportune moment, Val decides to quit the graveyard as well.
“My Lord!” the caretaker gasps, even more shocked by Val’s appearance.
My husband waltzes up, shirt draped over his shoulder and trousers undone to showcase a scandalous sight of dark hair between the open flaps, ending just before you can see his cock. A strong need to race over to Val and fasten them closed myself beats at me.
I suppose I should be grateful he deigned to slip back into his pants at all.
His lips are as swollen and red in the low moonlight as my own feel. I barely manage to keep from pressing my fingers against them, making our midnight tryst all the more obvious. Like we could ever deny it at this point .
Val’s hair is a wild mess from how I ran my hands through it, dragging his face closer to mine.
Deos , this may be more mortifying than learning all my secrets I spilled to my owl were, in fact, going straight to my husband.
Who I just raised half this cemetery with in a wave of passion, waking the caretaker.
“Cheers, Austin,” Val greets, wholly unbothered while my mouth drops. He claps a hand on the caretaker’s arm. “Apologies for the mess.” Val offers him a sly smile. “I’ll be sure to make it up to you. Name your price. I’ll be in touch.”
My face flushes hotter.
So much for my attempted subtlety.
My husband’s attention turns to me. Adoring and hot at the same time. Like we didn’t leave things off in a fight. Tense. “ Ocellus .” The nickname sounds more like an ominous promise than anything else.
He leans forward, kisses my cheek. It occurs to me to push him away. But I freeze instead, remembering the fact that I am dedicated to my ruse of playing happy wife so I may achieve our goals for my own purpose. Find a way to free myself from our bond.
Val grins at me, devilish. Sinful. And without another word walks through the gate. Leaving me embarrassed and alone with Austin the Caretaker.
At least my cold shivers are fading away.
He averts his eyes. Clears his throat.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize quickly.
“No trouble at all, my Lady.” Even with his eyes trailed to the ground, I can see the corners of his mouth upturned, drawing irrefutable conclusions as to why things have been so terribly upended in the middle of the night .
Unfortunately, his assumptions are entirely too accurate. There’s no denying. Especially after my half naked husband presented himself right behind me.
With a shaky laugh, and a quiet thank you , I rush past Austin. Hopeful that I won’t run into Val again. Craving the quiet safety of my empty room, without company. The deos are on my side for the rest of my journey back to our apartments, the halls of The Citadel are void of life. Echoey and dark.
But any short amount of relief I held is wiped away the moment I swing wide the door into my chamber, an unwelcome focal point visible in the softly lit gas lamps.
My refusal to think about Val and all he said cannot be ignored as I stride into my room—thanks to a painting perched on an easel, invading the space atop my lush carpet.
Blatant and loud. Screaming of the antics of the person I want most to pretend doesn’t exist.
My heart stutters, fluttering straight into my stomach, making me feel light.
I’m not terrible.
Val downplayed his skills when I asked if he was any good. He isn’t just an artist—he’s a talented artist.
No. Talented is far too meager a description for the genius I stare at. Blood retreats from my face, leaving it cold and tingly.
Painted in exquisite detail is me at my wedding, garbed in black.
Ensemble complete with my bone, feather, and dried flower headdress.
Moonlight bounces off my hair, my skin, in a purely ethereal glow.
Like the hand who painted it views me as nothing less than a brilliant sun, the sole source of light.
The setting of trees and grass and midnight sky backlighting the focal point is made up of layers upon layers of vague depictions of my face.
Showcasing every emotion in mind bending detail.
Smiles. Tears. Rage. Uncertainty. But mostly, blank expressions of emptiness—a defense mechanism built out of years of loneliness.
Visually encapsulating every last word he lashed me with less than an hour ago.
He sees me. I can’t deny it. No matter how badly I immediately tried to purge his words tonight, or how it rakes at my already ruined heart.
In every single way, Valledyn can peel back my layers and inspect what’s beneath with nothing more than a glance.
Every dip and rise of my emotions. Etched into his mind, cherished enough to live there forever.
The painting is the spirit of yearning. Devotion.
Apology. Madness. Not only does it show every facet of myself, but it bares Val’s soul as well, one that wants to mold itself around every corner of mine.
It’s equally lovely and unhinged, eliciting a fierce reaction.
Begging me to go to him. To cry in his arms again and demand that he make this heartache right.
But it doesn’t matter. No amount of care or understanding can ever erase what he did.
A stake might as well be lodged in my heart. One through my lungs as well.
“How dare he?” I hiss with rage to no one but my lonesome self, staring back at this too visceral mirror.
Val has left multiple gifts for me in the last few days, all thoughtful and carefully chosen. Like the fucking owl brooch he gave me before exposing himself as a shifter and ripping away yet another thing that I love.
But this painting… It’s raw . Entirely too real. It reveals too much.
Before I can stop myself, I’m digging through my vanity until I find a sharp pair of shears.
Stomping back to the offensive image, wanting to chisel away at my hatred, I plunge the closed blades into the center of the painting, right through my own chest. And I swear, I can feel it explode in relief.
I stab repeatedly, turning hours upon hours of perfect work into nothing more than an empty, fruitless honeycomb.
It’s not enough.
With a scream, I throw the canvas to the ground, falling to my knees. Prying the shears open, I cut and cut and cut, until all that’s left is the broken, ripped scraps of what could have been.
The dove grey sheet on my bed is tossed on the ground.
I collect all the pieces of the painting, throw them in the center, and bring the corners together to create a sack.
Mindless, I haul it over my shoulder, a splintered piece of wood poking my back.
Trekking through my room, my cargo snags on the arched door framing.
Ripping it free, I span the hall to Val’s ajar door—inviting, as it always is.
An open gesture telling me he wants me to come in.
Oh, how splendidly that worked out for us last time.
Still, my foot kicks in the door, uncaring if I’ll be faced with him inside. Uncaring for him to witness how I wrecked his hours of outpouring. How he whittled away his time after our first argument.
But Val is nowhere to be seen. Not across the black cathedral bed.
Or sprawled on one of the velvet settees.
The door to his en suite is open and it’s as dark as my husband’s soul inside.
Equally a blessing and a curse. So he didn’t retire to his rooms after exiting the graveyard.
A nonsensical part of me wonders where he might have gone.
Shooing that question away, down the short set of stairs I go—straight to the large bed in the sunken, cozy room. I dump the remnants of my husband’s gift in the middle of the mattress, still damp varnish staining what would have been our marriage sheets.
“Here’s a gift of my own,” I seethe down at the ruin, breathing hard .
Val’s own heartache can soothe him in the lonely hours of night. He brought it upon himself.