Page 11 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)
His dark eyes held mine, secure and unreadable, but I swore I saw that same unspoken recognition within them. The same awareness had lingered between us since that first, unguarded collision in the corridor.
I was ensnared.
Trapped in an invisible web of longing, restraint, propriety, and something far more dangerous.
“Please forgive me for my outburst the other day,” I stammered, my voice a breathless whisper of decorum.
“No need to apologize.”
Lord Hassan’s voice was relief, smooth and silken, his accent curling around each word like smoke.
Deep. Rich. Laced with something elusive, something that hinted at lands beyond the horizon. There was a melody in his cadence, a quiet strength woven through his tone as if his words carried the warmth of sun-soaked deserts and the mystery of faraway kingdoms.
Something about him felt untouched by the rigid world I knew.
“I was the intruder in your household,” he continued, his gaze never wavering from mine. “I am the one who should take responsibility.”
A pause.
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his dark eyes—sorrow? Regret?—before his voice softened.
“Please accept my condolences for the loss of your brothers. If there’s anything I can do to soothe your sorrow...”
The words struck me unexpectedly, like an arrow loosed in the dead of night.
But before I could respond—before I could fully absorb the unexpected weight of his kindness—my father’s voice bombarded the moment, shattering the fragile thread between us.
“Lord Hassan is from distant Anatolia. He is here to do business with our society.”
The words hung in the air, thick with meaning.
Business. Our society.
My gaze hardened.
Dread crept down my spine, dousing the flicker of warmth that had so briefly thawed the ice of my existence.
How could he—this enigmatic stranger who had ignited such a tumult within me—wish to aid in my father’s shadowed dealings?
“The journey from Anatolia to England must have been long, Lord Hassan. It likely took you several months,” I said, my voice carefully controlled, masking the storm within.
“Fortune smiled kindly upon us,” Lord Hassan replied, his composure unshaken by the miles he had traversed. “The trip was without incident. And now, I’m happy to be here. Thank you, Lord Alexander, for the invitation to celebrate your lovely daughter’s betrothal to Lord Winston.”
The word betrothal crashed into me, and the blood seemed to drain from my body, leaving me weightless and raw.
A suffocating tightness coiled around my ribs, my breath hitching—a quiet, involuntary gasp. The sound barely escaped me, but I felt it—a small, invisible betrayal.
I forced a smile, one that did not reach my eyes.
Then, before anyone could notice the fracture in my composure, I turned quickly, my skirts rustling in a swift, desperate retreat.
The library.
Its towering shelves and the scent of old parchment offered sanctuary. A place where time stood still, where I could breathe without the weight of expectations pressing down upon me.
I pressed my palm against the cool mahogany bookcase, grounding myself as I willed my heart to still its frantic pace.
Lord Hassan—this man who had stirred something dangerous within me—was he merely another piece in my father’s grand design?
Was he a fantasy come to life, an illusion of something freer, something unattainable?
Or was he just like the rest?
A man entangled in my father’s intrigue.
A man I could never trust.
And yet…
Why did I long to?
As I watched, hidden among the shadows of knowledge and history, I felt the weight of my own trembling heart.
The man of my dreams was in my father’s foyer, yet dream and reality seemed locked in battle, warring within me.
My mind raced, caught between fear and an inexplicable longing.
How could I reconcile the two?
How could I blindly follow a heart that led me straight into the arms of a man who aided my father in his dark and treacherous schemes?
How could I dream of such things when I was already bound to Lord Winston?
The very thought made my spirit turn to stone.
* * *
At precisely a quarter until six, I was summoned to dinner.
The grand dining hall of my father’s estate was a monument to wealth and austerity—where excess and severity sat side by side like uneasy companions.
The mahogany table stretched before me, its polished surface gleaming under the golden glow of the chandeliers, reflecting a world that felt increasingly distant.
Servants moved in a quiet ballet, their appearance a whisper against the opulent hush. Plates were set down with proficient elegance, each brimming with delicacies meant to impress.
Roasted quail, fragrant with rosemary, lay in perfect rows. Oysters, still glistening from the sea, rested in their half-shells like stolen pearls. Glazed vegetables, vibrant against the stark china, added an illusion of warmth to the cold world around me.
Yet none of it touched me.
I perched at the edge of my seat, a rigid spectator to the feast. The aroma of decadence filled the air, but it only deepened the nausea curling in my stomach.
Beside me, Lord Winston’s bloated hand lunged forward, thick fingers closing around a drumstick with the graceless hunger of a man who had never known restraint. His meaty knuckles scraped against the delicate china, the jarring sound sending a shiver up my spine.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away.
Across from me sat Lord Hassan, his authority an undeniable force amidst the sea of powdered wigs and perfumed excess.
Unlike the other men, he bore no such pretense, whose artificial halos of white powder framed their ruddy faces in a parody of nobility.
His dark hair was slicked back, a mark of refinement that starkly contrasted the absurdity around us.
The neatly trimmed beard framed his jaw, highlighting the sculpted meticulousness of his features, and every time I dared steal a glance at him, the butterflies in my stomach pirouetted more fervently.
What was this?
This unfamiliar feeling—this quiet, simmering pull—toward a man who should have meant nothing to me?
Surrounded by pomp and circumstance, I felt like an intruder in my home.
The air was thick with the cloying scent of perfumed hair powder and the musk of ambition. My father’s associates—all members of his enigmatic society—exchanged nods and knowing glances, their conversation a private code I had never been permitted to translate.
Around me, the only women present were those who served. Their eyes remained downcast; their movements practiced and silent, their existence an extension of duty.
“Elizabeth.”
My father’s voice tore through my thoughts—brisk, commanding, inescapable.
“Yes, Father?”
His stare seared through me, intense and unrelenting—a gaze filled with unspoken threats and expectations woven into every glance.
A silent warning.
A reminder of my place.
The weight of it pressed down, suffocating, daring me to so much as think of speaking without permission.
And yet, despite the silent command that held me prisoner, I felt it again.
That magnetic pull toward the man across from me.
Toward Lord Hassan.
The one existence in the room who felt as if he saw me.
And I longed to be seen for the first time in my life.
I closed my eyes briefly, willing this night to dissolve into nothingness. But when I opened them, the nightmare remained.
My father was positioned at the head of the table, his glass raised high. The candlelight glinted off the crystal, casting fractured reflections against the towering walls.
“I am so glad you are all here,” he announced, his voice a proclamation, a decree that bound me tighter to my fate. “Tonight, we celebrate the union of two great families and strengthen our society.”
My heart pounded, its rhythm a warning drumbeat in my chest.
“Lord Winston is an esteemed member of our society who has brought us to our current glory.” My father’s voice rang with conviction. “Would you like to say a few words, Lord Winston?”
All eyes turned to the man who would be my husband.
But mine remained fixed on Lord Hassan.
Something was unnerving in the stillness that settled over his features. His expression remained impassive, composed, yet I felt the storm beneath his exterior—the subtle tension in his jaw, the unreadable depth in his dark eyes.
Was he truly one of them?
Or was there something more to this enigmatic visitor from Anatolia?
The scrape of a chair against the polished floor jolted me back.
With a creaking of bones that seemed to reverberate through the grand dining hall, Lord Winston heaved himself to his feet.
The flickering candlelight only accentuated his monstrosity—the waxy pallor of his skin, the folds of flesh around his neck, and the way his bloated fingers trembled slightly as he placed them against the table for support.
His voice slithered through the air, thick with unctuous pride.
“It is indeed an honor to be betrothed to Lady Alexander,” he declared, his tone dripping with self-importance.
The words left his lips like a sentence passed, a claim stamped upon me.
And then?—
“I have no doubt our union shall be most fruitful, and you shall bear the next heir for our society.”
The air in my lungs turned to ice.
The words hung there, thick and cloying, wrapping around my throat like a noose.
I felt the weight of every gaze in the room pressing down on me, waiting. Watching.
But I could not move.
I could not breathe.
I averted my eyes, a shudder rippling through me as I met the grotesque spectacle of Lord Winston.
His gaze held the mottled gleam of a half-eaten feast, glistening with something that sent revulsion crawling over my skin.
Greasy strands of hair escaped the confines of his powdered wig in rebellious wisps, and flecks of the evening’s repast clung grimly between the yellowed nubs that masqueraded as teeth.