Page 14 of Goldrage (The Chrysophilist Trilogy #3)

CHAPTER TEN

DANTE

T he needle slides into Aurelia’s arm and I force myself to remain still. Every instinct screams at me to intervene and shield her from even this minor discomfort, but the chains beneath my blanket hold more than just my body—they hold the fragile truce keeping her alive.

I mustn’t react; there’s no telling what my brother will do.

Dr. Reynolds fills the vial, his movements quick and concise.

The man knows better than to linger in this room longer than necessary.

I’ve seen him plenty of times before. He’s one of Father’s preferred physicians, a man who learned long ago that discretion pays better than morality.

His graying temples and steady hands speak of years treating wounds that shouldn’t exist, asking no questions about bruises shaped like fingers or cuts too precise to be accidental.

Dark crimson flows from Aurelia’s vein into the glass tube, and my chest constricts at the sight.

Her blood, her very essence, is being drawn out drop by drop.

This urge to protect her from even this necessary violation is irrational, but I feel it regardless.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t acknowledge the needle’s bite, but I catch the slight tension in her jaw.

Glass clinks against metal as Reynolds switches tubes, each sound amplified in the oppressive quiet that’s settled over us.

Bianca shifts on the couch. She accepts a silk handkerchief from my mother and then dabs at her forehead with unnecessary drama. “This heat,” she murmurs, though the room carries the estate’s perpetual chill.

The corners of my lips pinch inward. Her performance grates against my nerves.

She’s playing the delicate flower, as always, but I know she’s capable of darkness just like the rest of us.

Valentine told me everything about how she conspired with Julian and my mother and revealed that I was at Lorenzo’s.

I know exactly how far she’ll go to claim what she believes is hers.

And if I was anything like Lucian, I’d punish her for it.

But I long ago grew weary of a life filled with violence and revenge.

What Bianca did has already happened and we’re dealing with the consequences.

What would hurting her accomplish? She’ll never change, and I simply don’t care enough.

My only goal is to escape this house of horrors with Aurelia and my brother.

I couldn’t care less about what happens to the woman I regrettably married.

My gaze returns to Aurelia, pulled by a gravity I can’t resist. The hollows beneath her cheekbones reveal days without proper meals. Her shoulders curl inward, making her seem smaller than I remember. Those crude stitches along her throat stand out against pale skin.

Reckless. The word burns through me. My brother wielded that blade with the same carelessness he’s shown in everything lately. A millimeter deeper and?—

I shut down the thought before it can fully form.

She’s here. Breathing. That’s what matters. And my brother is… misguided. He’s been poisoned by the true evil still alive in this family: my mother. Julian has simply caught an illness I must cure.

By the window, our mother stands like a marble statue, her spine rigid.

Her reflection warps in the old glass, creating a grotesque mirror of her elegant features.

Every few seconds, her jaw tightens—a tell she’s never quite mastered.

Whatever she sees in that garden feeds her rage, and I file the observation away for later analysis.

Julian’s footsteps create their own violent rhythm.

Seven steps east, pivot, seven steps west. His fingers drum against his thigh in a pattern I recognize from our childhood—the same nervous tic that emerged whenever Father’s footsteps approached our rooms. But there’s something else threading through his agitation.

His eyes keep darting to Aurelia’s still-flat stomach, and each glance carries something I’ve rarely seen from my brother.

Hope.

He wants this child with an intensity that should concern me more than it does. Instead, I find myself wondering if a baby might accomplish what nothing else has—crack through the darkness consuming him. Give him something to protect rather than destroy.

If it’s his child.

I hate this uncertainty gnawing at me with sharp teeth.

Aurelia and I were together multiple times before everything collapsed.

There were no barriers between us, just heat and silent promises.

And if Julian was with her first—something that makes undigested food rise in my throat—the timing allows for either possibility.

Not knowing creates its own special torment.

If she carries my child—God, the thought creates equal parts terror and fierce joy. But the alternative—that my brother might have?—

Did he force her? When he locked her in that room, when he held all the power and she had none, did my brother cross that final line?

I’ve forgiven my brother for a lot, but that’s something I can never forgive. When I get the chance, I’ll ask Aurelia for the truth.

To get my mind off the anguish, I glance at Valentine.

He hasn’t moved from his corner, but his entire being angles toward Aurelia like a plant seeking sun.

The man who raised her, who betrayed her, who loves her still—all these truths coexist in the slump of his shoulders and the softness around his eyes when he looks at her.

Our gazes meet across the room and understanding passes between us.

Whatever our sins, whatever our failures, we’re united in one thing: keeping her safe.

I return my attention to Aurelia as the clock ticks down.

Her focus remains fixed on the marble floor.

Not once has she looked directly at me since whispering her love to me.

I’d swallowed my response. Too many eyes are watching us—Mother’s cold calculation, Julian’s manic attention, Valentine’s protective concern.

And Bianca’s.

Admittedly, I’m the most concerned about her.

My mother’s hatred of Aurelia has always been clear, but Bianca’s is unpredictable.

Whereas my mother is calculated and careful, Bianca is a wild card.

She’s proven herself to be unhinged and obsessive.

One wrong word, one sign of the truth between Aurelia and me, and this delicate balance shatters.

In all of my calculations, I can’t anticipate how Bianca might react if she knew I’ve only truly ever loved Aurelia. And if the child is mine? I fear how Bianca might retaliate.

For now, she’s manageable as long as I remain silent. Chains hidden. Truth buried. Love unspoken.

The doctor withdraws the needle, pressing gauze to the small wound on Aurelia’s arm. Such a minor injury compared to everything else she’s endured, yet I track the procedure as though it matters. As though this tiny hurt might be the one that breaks her.

“I’ll get this to the lab,” Dr. Reynolds says, his voice carefully neutral. He knows better than to show an opinion in this room full of predators. He looks at my mother. “I’ll call you with the results.”

“When?” she bites back.

“Shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.”

She growls and I know that time frame is beyond her patience. She waves toward the foyer. “Then go. Hurry. ”

Dr. Reynold’s follows her orders. He quickly gathers the vials and his things and then flees the living room.

My brother resumes his pacing, and I study him with the same intensity I once reserved for our father’s moods. There’s something broken in Julian’s movements. Yet beneath the chaos lurks something… vulnerable. As though this potential child might save him from himself.

It leaves me more conflicted about whose child I hope the baby is. I want nothing more than to be a father… but is it better if it’s Julian’s? If having a son can somehow reverse the darkness that’s grown within him, that’s the better outcome.

Aurelia and I should have plenty of time to start a family once the Consortium falls.

Bianca’s theatrical sighing ceases abruptly. She rises from the couch, and my body goes rigid. I know this dance. She’s about to stake her claim.

“My poor darling.” The words drip sweetness laced with poison as she glides toward me. Her heels create sharp clacks against the tile. “This must be such a shock for you.”

Her hand lands on my shoulder like a shackle, fingers curling possessively into the fabric of my shirt. Every muscle in my body screams to shake her off and create distance between us, but I remain still.

Patience.

I have the divorce papers already prepared, tucked away in Lorenzo’s desk. But not yet. Not until I can extract myself without losing the war.

“Are you feeling alright?” She leans closer and her perfume makes me gag. “Do you need water? Perhaps some fresh air?”

Everything about her grates against my nerves.

In Aurelia’s presence, Bianca has transformed.

Each gesture is amplified, each word projected for an audience of one.

She adjusts my blanket, her fingers lingering against my chest. When she smooths my hair, I have to lock my jaw to keep from flinching.

“Your delicate condition requires such careful attention,” she says, loud enough to carry across the room. The words are barbed, aimed like arrows at the woman carrying a child that might be mine.

Aurelia’s head turns slightly. Our eyes meet for one tense moment, and the impact nearly undoes me. Pain flashes across her beautiful features before she tears her gaze away. The loss of that connection feels like losing a limb.

My Aurelia, if only you knew how much I long to hold you.

I’m desperate to push Bianca away, to cross this room and gather Aurelia against me and never let go. To whisper truths in her ear: that Bianca means nothing, that every moment apart has been agony, that the child Aurelia carries is wanted and loved regardless of its father.

“You shouldn’t have to endure such stress while you’re recovering.” Bianca’s voice takes on a demanding edge that makes my skin crawl. “Perhaps we should retire to our room so you can rest properly. I know how to help you relax.”

Our room. We’ve never shared a room—I’ve made certain of that—but the implication hangs in the air, beckoning Aurelia to pay attention.

“I’m fine, Bianca.” I keep my voice carefully neutral, though the effort costs me. My body has no energy and I sag against my wheelchair. “Thank you.”

Aurelia’s shoulders draw up toward her ears. She’s building her walls higher, brick by brick, trying to shut out Bianca’s performance. Trying to shut me out.

Bianca drapes herself across the arm of my wheelchair like an expensive accessory, sighing dramatically about the “horrible shock” of discovering Aurelia’s pregnancy.

Her performance reaches new heights of melodrama, but I barely register what this insane woman is saying. My attention is solely on Aurelia.

She’s magnificent. Wounded, wary, but unbroken despite everything they’ve done to her. Everything I’ve failed to prevent.

Two hours.

Then we’ll all know the truth.