Page 27 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

The Dowager leans forward, fingers tracing the man’s chest, then the woman’s back. The woman purrs in response.

“Such passion,” she whispers lasciviously, “yet so concealed.”

She turns to me, black eyes widening as she smiles. “My dear Katherine, power requires sacrifices you have yet to understand. But pleasures that are also yours to take…”

Her hand brushes mine beneath the table. There is a faint prick, and I wince at the pain.

“Your blood,” she whispers, “binds us all, whether you wish it or not. You are family now. And we must keep some secrets to protect our family, don’t we? You know that better than anyone, don’t you?”

Dread choking me, but I force a smile. “Y-yes, of course, Your Grace.”

Inside that room of sin, I know.

I have no choice but to stay.

My throat tightens as the heavy door opens again. A girl is brought in quietly, escorted by a silent servant. Barely ten and eight, pale and drawn, her eyes pale with terror. A worn servant’s dress clings to her slender frame and she trembles, avoiding my gaze as she’s guided forward.

Lord Ernest watches with dark hunger. His eyes roam over the girl’s delicate body, practically dripping as she nears.

The Dowager’s voice turns saccharine sweet as she gestures her closer. “Come forward, my dear. Tonight, you’ll learn what it means to be part of the family.”

The girl swallows hard, knees weak, as Ernest’s rough hands grip her hips, pulling her close.

His mouth descends to her neck, teeth grazing skin pale as moonlight, then fingers slip beneath her dress, exploring with brutal greed that makes my stomach churn.

The Dowager watches, gleaming with cold amusement.

“How delicious,” she whispers.

When Ernest's hand roams underneath the maid’s skirt, and his lips part with desperate need, the Dowager raises a hand.

“Enough,” she commands .

Ernest freezes, chest heaving. The girl gasps, torn between fear and shame, but the Dowager’s smile deepens as she rises from her chair and steps forward.

And I can do no more than watch.

Her hands slide possessively along Ernest’s fingers, slick with the girl’s trembling heat. She pushes the girl aside with a cruelty that brooks no protest.

“Not yet,” the Dowager whispers. “Tonight, you serve a different purpose. Katherine, are you watching? This is just for you.”

The Dowager’s hand moves. They roam downward and yank his breeches down.

Ernest groans. “Yes, my Goddess…”

Her mouth finds him, swallowing his length with practised ease, eyes never leaving me. The man’s breath hitches, muscles tense as she takes him deep, slow and deliberate.

He pulls out, spit dribbling down the Dowager’s chin.

“Taste me,” the dowager instructs. The man inserts himself into the dowager.

He holds her there as the girl places her tongue onto the dowager.

He gasps as the Dowager’s fingers wrap around the girl’s throat.

She chokes, eyes wide with terror. There is excitement in the dowager’s eyes.

The maid stands frozen, tears glistening, while my skin burns with shame and horror.

I want to run but cannot.

From behind him, comes the nameless woman. She crouches below him, and her face becomes buried inside his anus.

He groans again. His teeth grit as he hisses.

“I am close…”

The Dowager pulls back, letting his seed splash onto the floor, smirking as he collapses on the nameless woman’s face, spent and obedient.

“Fuck.”

The fingers tighten over the girl's throat.

The girl chokes.

Anna brushes a finger lightly over the girl’s cheek. “You are family now. And family keeps its secrets. Now, be a good maid, and clean this up.”

The girl looks at me, pleading silently. I open my mouth but no words come.

“Yes, Mum.”

She lowers herself onto trembling hands and knees.

The box in my hand crumples more as her tongue laps the man’s seed off the polished wood.

My throat constricts, heat flooding my face.

There is no escape. No choice.

Then, the room is quiet again.

After, the maid says nothing. She escapes and the Dowager lets her.

Candles sputter in their holders. Sweat, iron, and the scent of fermented liquid cling all around. The girl has returned to the shadows with hollow eyes.

A servant appears in the doorway. The Dowager lifts her glass lazily, as if the entire evening had been no more than a passing indulgence.

“Well,” she sighs. “The hour grows late.”

I nod, with my hands clenched so tightly around my box of moon cakes, I am sure they are pulverised.

The Dowager rises first. She moves like silk and smoke. And I follow, dazed.

She walks toward me and straightens my cloak at the collar. Her fingers are warm.

“You did well,” she replies triumphantly.

I say nothing. I cannot speak.

Her hand cups my cheek.

“You watched, and didn’t run.” She leans closer. “That’s all we ask. Thank you for coming to supper.”

She presses a kiss to my forehead. Her lips leave behind something damp, and I don’t know if it’s wine or something else.

My stomach heaves.

“You are family now. Go home, Duchess. Rest.”

A servant opens the door. Outside, the carriage waits, and inside, Dorian is there, all dark and menacing beneath the moonlight. The horse snorts as Williams helps me inside.

“How was supper?” Dorian queries, “Not too boring, I hope.” He peers down and notices the box of mooncakes still in my hand, and frowns.

“I am sorry, Katherine. I do not think she means cruelty.”

I open my mouth and try to respond but nothing comes out, so I force a smile.

His eyebrow raises at the gesture. “Your Grace?”

The carriage door thuds closed behind me, and I jump.

“Katherine?” Dorian repeats. “Are you well?”

Inside that house, nothing ever happened.

Dinner. Dessert. Licking. Floor.

My stomach heaves and I close my eyes.

Nothing to report.

The Dowager’s kiss burns my skin.

My fingers twitch.

It is then that I eye Dorian’s bottle of tincture.

“May I?” I ask, and do not wait. I take the flask and drink it down.

Anything to make me forget.

It doesn’t take long for the tincture to begin its work, and Dorian, even being the barbarian he is, knows better than to stand in my way.

Shifting in his seat, he looks out the window. “I arranged for the Dowager to take the manor outside of Ashwood Castle. It’s convenient, and the stipend covers her needs.” He glances at me, with his gaze pulled down in apology. “We never knew each other before…”

A tight smile forms on his lips. “I’m glad she’s well looked after. After my father died, it was my responsibility to care for her.”

I swallow hard, as the memory of the evening returns. I do not correct him. I cannot tell him what I saw, or what I endured .

He has enough burdens.

“No… she was absolutely… manageable.”

Dorian’s eyes never leave the road as the carriage rolls forward.

“We deployed the poison along the forest’s edge last night.” His voice is measured. “The compound is formulated to halt the infection’s progression by targeting its root. It acts slowly, corrosive but contained.”

I lean in.

“The staff carried out the dispersal?”

He gives a nod.

“They understood the risks. None ventured beyond the perimeter. Direct entry invites death; the poison is our shield, not a cure.”

He glanced at me then, most seriously.

“The forest must be starved of whatever sustains the contagion. This method preserves the surrounding ecosystem while strangling the blight. Precision is key.”

My fingers tighten on the armrest.

“It’s a calculated poison.

Dorian’s expression hardened.

“Necessary and merciless. We are fortunate to have allies willing to dirty their hands.”

The tincture works quickly—too quickly. The heat in my chest spreads, dulling the edges of my memory but not erasing them entirely.

Nothing ever goes away.

Not here. Not in Ashwood .

Not in any place.

Dorian says nothing more for the rest of the journey. He watches me from the corner of his eye, but does not press. Perhaps he smells it on me—shame, or whatever sweet spice the Dowager laced into my wine. His gaze lingers when he thinks I’m not looking, but he says nothing.

Ashwood rises before us, windows dark, iron fixtures newly welded to its windows. The moment the carriage rocks to a halt, he slides across the bench and lifts me into his arms.

I do not protest.

“Thank you,” I offer.

“You are tired. Rest calls for you, Princess.”

He carries me out into the night air. The wind is sharp but his body shields me from it.

Inside, the marble floor claps underneath his boots. The staff, if they see us, pretend they don’t.

Dorian climbs the stairs two at a time, holding me like I’ll shatter. His grip is gentle but sure. Not possessive. Not afraid of me.

Afraid for me.

We reach my chambers. The door creaks open. The fire has been kept alive.

He doesn’t ask if I want help. Doesn’t leave me at the threshold like a polite stranger. He walks in and lays me upon the bed.

He kneels and the firelight dances over the ruined silk of my dress.

Dorian …

Wordlessly, he begins undoing the clasp at my throat. He peels my cloak away, folds it, and sets it aside. Then he slides his hands up to the fastenings of my gown.

“I can do that—” I begin.

But my hands don’t move and he doesn’t respond. Just continues with silent grace.

The buttons down my back come undone one by one. The gown loosens. He slips it down my arms, then lifts my feet to pull it away completely, revealing my shift beneath. It is modest. It is clean. And I am not.

His gaze remains focused on the task. But I do not miss the gulp of a swallow at his throat. My undergarments remain. He does not strip me further.

“Rest now.”

He pulls the quilt over my body and tucks it up to my chest. Then he sits on the edge of the bed. His hand finds mine above the blanket. They tremble.

“So,” he murmurs. “Was it… worse than I feared?”

I can’t answer. My mouth is numb with bitter tincture.

His jaw clenches, but doesn’t press.

A long silence unfolds. He stares into the fire, his thumb stroking my knuckles absently.

“I didn’t want her close. I sent her to that house because she was a stranger to me.”

I look at him. There’s shame in his eyes.

He doesn’t know.

I nod. It’s all I can manage.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the back of my hand.

It is most unlike him.

“I will return soon,” he says softly.

Then he stands and moves toward the door.

Before he can depart, my tired whisper comes.

“Don’t—Please don’t leave.”

His steps falter.

He turns back.

I pat the space beside me on the mattress.

“Perhaps there are theories you have on your mind you wish to displace?”

He hesitates, then crosses the floor and removes his coat, then his boots.

“You do not wish to speak of formulas and theories, Princess.”

He unbuttons his shirt, and my cheeks grow hot. It slips off his body and onto the floor. He lets it fall there and stands before me naked except his breeches and his boots.

My belly flutters.

Beauty does not choose its master.

I do not argue as he slides under the covers, careful not to touch me. I turn and meet him, with my forehead wedged against his throat.

Because he is right.

It is exactly what I want .

DORIAN

She doesn’t speak for the rest of the night.

And I do not ask.

Something has transpired. I know it by the way she stares at the hearth as if something inside it might speak. I fear she is overwhelmed by the ball preparations.

She talks of orchids from the palace.

I think more on it as I leave her in her chambers and descend the back stairwell, past the kitchens, past the wine cellars, into the lower vault where Everly waits.

Peter is already there, arms dusted with soil. He nods once—no questions asked.

“Whats that you got there, Your Grace?” William asks.

I do not remember taking them. The crumpled box is still tied with pink ribbon. I open of without replying and Willaim grins at the sight.

“Food!”

He takes one without asking and immediately bites into the pastry. Within seconds, his face changes.

“They are decidedly awful, your Grace. I will take them off your hands.”

He reaches over to take the rest and I shove it out of his grasp. His face falls as his failed subterfuge. I steal one before he has another chance and shove it into my mouth.

The pastry gives way easily. It soft with a hint of sweet. Not flaky, but a dense, crumbly shell. Then comes the filling.

It is a paste that is smooth, thick, almost creamy, lightly sweetened, but not indulgent. The flavour is subtle, between chestnut and vanilla, with a hint of something floral underneath. It is familiar, though I cannot quite place it.

My tongue hit the salted egg yolk in the centre. It is firm, a tad chalky, and briny. Then Earthy salt comes. I pause, chewing slower.

How…unexpected…

A hint of citrus pulls everything together.

The sweetness…

The saltiness…

The richness…

I finish the bite and look down at the rest of it and close the box. “I am remanding this box. It now belongs to me.”

Annoyed, William curses and reruns to work.

Barrels are rolled out from the old crypt storage. Iron-bound and sealed with wax. The stench is immediate—like rotted citrus, sulfur, and metal. A concentrated blend. Tincture, laudanum, dissolved lead salts, poison harvested from the Black Belladonna that grows by the eastern cliffs.

“I saw movement near the treeline,” Peter says quietly. “Something with too many eyes. ”

“Then we move faster,” I mutter.

We drag the barrels by hand. Just four men and I. No one must know. Not Katherine. Not Gabriel. Not even the Crown.

This place is already cursed.

I will not let it spread beyond the hill.