Page 24 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

BLOODIED THINGS

KATHERINE

U pon the tide of mortals, I awaken in the dead of the night, shivering inside my cold bedroom chamber, only to discover the door to the communicative hallway between Dorian and me ajar. A yellow sliver spills onto gold-threaded rugs.

My heart beats faster as I pull the sheets to my chin.

Surely, I did not leave it so.

I lie still for a moment, for sound.

The fire has died. The castle is breathtaking. The weight of its silence settles into my bones. There’s no sound coming from the adjoining corridor—no footsteps, no shifting of stone, just that single crack of golden light on the floor.

My bare feet touch the rug, cold and cautious as I wrap myself in my robe. With breath fogging the air, I step closer toward the open door. There is a smell — a familiar one. Passionflower. It clings to everything.

Guilt comes fast.

With each step forward, memories replay of our bodies intertwined in this very room.

‘Tis my fault he imbibed.

Perhaps I am cursed more than he, for despite it all, I see him deeper, that part of him that clings to torture.

My eyes land on the ceremonial sword above the hearth of my fireplace. I cross the room and carefully lift it from its place. With the blade dipped low, I move quietly through the narrow corridor until his door appears.

‘Tis unlocked.

My heart pounds, and as I ease it open wider, moonlight spills in.

Dorian is splayed on the bed, half-nude, dressed in only tanned breeches, curled in the furs, sweat dampening his collarbone and chest. One arm is flung across his eyes, the other rests on a hard, muscular chest that glimmers with each breath he makes in deep, uneven strokes.

I cannot deny it, I wish to touch him—to feel him once more, and hear the yearning in his voice for me. Then, as my eyes adjust from inside that darkness, a shadow stands over him.

I don’t think. I raise the sword and my shadow flickers from behind. It is enough to make the shadow swiftly turn. It parries to the left and collides into the opposing wall.

I do not wait, with both arms raised, air expelled as I bring the sword, down.

“Katherine—‘tis only me!”

“Gabriel?” My voice catches and the sword's momentum loses trajectory. It hits the wooden floorboards with a thwack!

My bare feet slip over the polished wood and wobble before steadying myself. I stand there, with my arms outstretched.

“Gabriel,” I hiss, “what are you doing?”

He stands tall, composed, not startled. He does not retreat. There is no guilt on his face.

“I must do this Katherine, do not try and stop me.”

“You are speaking like a madman, Lord Gabriel. You could not call in the morning?”

“Your Grace, you know why I am here.”

I pull the sword free with both hands. “You came in the night—into his chambers—uninvited—and stood over him while he slept? What did you intend, Lord Gabriel?”

“I intended,” he says calmly, “to make a judgment.”

I blink.

Judgement?

He gestures to the side, toward the untouched desk. “He brewed passionflower for himself. I found the remnants downstairs. A sedative. High dosage. He’ll sleep through anything. You know why he does so. He knows why he does so. ‘Tis foolish to deny it.”

I glance back at Dorian’s still form. His skin is pale. His brow furrows slightly in sleep, as if troubled by dreams. But he doesn’t wake.

Gabriel watches me.

“I was wrong about him once,” the young lord continues. “In the forest, I hesitated. And that hesitation almost killed me. I won’t let that happen again.”

“He saved your life,” I whisper. “You owe him everything. You would not be here without him.”

“I am only here because of him.“

“And what have you witnessed since you’ve arrived? A man who has done everything he can to fix the past, to repair what was broken.”

Gabriel’s voice does not waver. “I see a man whose control is there one minute and gone the next. I see a man who loses place and time. Whose transformation is not merely physical but moral, who can ravage a woman and almost kill her — his own wife no less. You saw what happened to Isaac. The forest hunted us and made us doubt our senses. And still… he”—he points at the bed—“remains the most dangerous thing I have encountered.”

Furious, I grip the sword tightly. “He fights for us. He fought beside you. ”

Gabriel snickers ruefully. He closes the gap between us and peers down at me until his eyes burn silver in the moonlight.

“And still I ask myself, Katherine, what happens the day he does not wake as himself? When the demon wakes first—even if he loves you, ‘twill not be enough to keep you safe.”

“He would never hurt me.”

“He already has—“ Gabriel stops himself.

“You think I came here out of jealousy? I came because I cannot live with myself if I watch you become swallowed whole by something you think you can tame. He is not a pet, Katherine. He is a dangerous beast.”

I don’t answer. I cannot.

Gabriel simply does not understand.

He takes a step closer. “Leave with me. Tonight. No one would touch you. Not Ashwood. Not the Crown. Not even him. I will take you home—back to China.”

I raise the sword between us. “There is nothing but dishonour waiting for me in China.”

It is then that the accusation comes. “You love him.”

‘Tis enough to steal a breath and halt me.

I lower the sword.

“I don’t know what I feel.”

“But you’ll choose him. Even if it kills you.”

“I am no damsel.”

Gabriel exhales and his shoulders drop. “I know. I should never have asked it of you.”

He nods toward Dorian’s sleeping form.

“But mark my words, when he turns next on you, I may not be here to save you.”

He steps back.

Before he leaves, he hesitates in the doorway. “You’re braver than anyone gives you credit for, Katherine. And far kinder than he deserves.”

Then he is gone.

I don’t realise I’m trembling until I lower the sword and my arms shake with the weight of it. I kneel beside Dorian and press the back of my hand to his brow.

Still warm.

Still breathing.

Still him.

DORIAN

The furs are damp beneath me. My skin is slick, my throat parched, and my chest rises too quickly, as though I’ve been pulled from drowning. I wake to a taste like ash in my mouth. The fire has long since died. The embers are black.

Beneath the perfume of tonic, something more human bleeds through—skin and oil and something sweeter…

Katherine.

My eyes flick toward the open chamber door. Just ajar—an inch, maybe less—but it gapes like a wound. A line of candlelight cuts across the rug, fading where it meets the bed .

She was here. And she is not now.

I rise without thinking. The cold bites at my damp skin, but I ignore it. My body aches—an echo of sedation. I move like a man underwater, each breath thick, teeth clenched tight. No shirt. No boots. Just breeches and sweat and the slow-rolling fire under my ribs.

I reach the hallway. The corridor is still warm from candle smoke. The scent leads me like a rope, all the way to her door.

It is unlocked.

The moment I step inside, I see her.

Katherine.

She sits at the window like a carved thing, stone-still, eyes fixed outward into the night. Her robe is drawn tight, though one shoulder has slipped, baring a pale line of skin. Her feet are bare. Her hands are clasped, resting against her lap as though in prayer.

And at her feet—

A sword .

My sword.

“Katherine.”

She doesn’t turn.

The moonlight catches on the curve of her cheek. She blinks slowly and dreamily, an ethereal doll draped in embroidered cream silk.

He was here.

My voice is hoarse.

“Gabriel.”

She still doesn’t look at me but answers.

“He is gone.”

My heart thunders. I cross to the window, standing behind her. And there—through the low fog stretching over Ashwood’s lawn—I see him. A figure moving down the hill. Long coat, upright spine. Gabriel, walking alone into the mist. Leaving.

He was here.

While I slept.

While I was defenceless .

Coward.

The rage comes fast. It bleeds in my veins, all bitter and hot.

“Did he touch you? I will kill him.”

She turns her face just enough to glance at me, jaw tight.

“No.”

There is hesitation and then her lips part.

“He asked me to go with him. Said he’d take me back to China.”

The breath punches out of me. My fists clench.

“And you said?”

“I told him there’s nothing left for me there.”

My gaze drops to the sword. Then her bare feet. Then her mouth.

He stood here.

He stood right here.

He looked at her. Spoke to her.

Touched the air around her.

And she let him.

And now he walks away .

My body moves before I can stop it. One hand reaches out and takes her jaw—gently at first, then firmer. Tilting her face toward me. Her eyes are so calm, too calm. It drives me mad.

“He came to my chamber.”

“To judge you,” she says. “Not to touch me.”

“You stood between him and me.”

“I had to. I am not yours to hide.”

My hand drops.

“No,” I murmur. “You are not.”

But she is mine. Even now.

Especially now.

The candle flickers.

My spine tightens. A heat spreads through my chest. My breath grows faster. I feel the shift—subtle, but certain.

My hand closes around her wrist and I pull her up, up and against me, her robe parting with the motion. She gasps. But she doesn’t resist.

“He saw you,” I hiss with mouth at her ear. “He stood here and looked upon your face, and your hair unmade.”

“He did not touch me.”

“‘Tis indecent. I should call upon him at dawn. Shoot him between his eyes.”

“He is a Bow Street runner.”

I push her against the windowsill. Her thighs hit the cushioned ledge. Her hair spills loose as her head falls back. I press against her, my hands parting her robe further, exposing the soft hollow between her breasts. I grip the base of her head until our eyes meet. Where she cannot run.

He had her ear.

She will listen to me .

I demand it.

“You smell like him,” I lie.

She stiffens.

“No. I smell like you.”

My grip tightens.

I want to punish her—punish him.

Anger comes.

I was unconscious and she held a sword.

‘Tis unforgivable.

I seize her mouth with mine.