Page 12 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

A smear of something—pheasant, perhaps, or the remains of a tarte tatin—adorned his cheek like a vile emblem of gluttony.

The scent that wafted from him was a miasma of decay.

I fought the violent urge to recoil.

“Here’s to the lovely couple!” someone bellowed, raising their glass high.

The chorus of agreements that followed rang through the chamber like a funeral dirge to my hopes.

My hand trembled as I lifted my glass, but I could not meet Lord Hassan’s gaze.

Earlier, he had set butterflies loose in my stomach.

Now, only loathing lingered, curling around my ribs like an iron vice.

I wished—prayed—for the earth to open beneath me and swallow me whole.

With a graceless thud, Winston’s ponderous form collapsed back into his chair, jostling the table and nearly toppling into my lap.

Instinctively, my hands shot out to steady him, and my fingers brushed against his coat’s damp, clammy fabric.

I recoiled, horrified, but only once he was upright did I snatch my hands back, my stomach twisting violently.

I grabbed my napkin and scrubbed at my skin as though I could wipe away the sensation of his touch.

But no amount of silk and friction could erase the taint of his filth.

A sudden shift swept through the room, as thick as an oncoming storm.

My father cleared his throat.

The low hum of conversation halted, his voice shattered the silence, crisp and unyielding.

“Gentlemen,” he began, his eyes dark with solemnity, “the Black Wraith has become a serious threat to our society and cause.”

A ripple of murmurs surged through the assembly, a tide of unease.

From down the table, my father’s gaze slid to where Lord Hassan sat, composed and silent.

Their eyes met.

A nod passed between them—so brief and subtle—that I almost doubted I had seen it.

Yet it spoke volumes.

What pact lay between them?

“He has destroyed important leaders in our society, as well as the societies themselves,” my father continued, his voice steeped in venom.

“The Black Wraith’s ruthless and barbaric actions have reduced our influence, eliminating our strongest allies across Europe.

The French society has fallen. And my sons—” He spat the words, a snarl curling from his lips. “My sons were slaughtered by his hand.”

A hush settled over the room, thick and suffocating.

I could feel its weight pressing in from all sides.

“He becomes bolder with each passing day,” my father said, his fists clenching at his sides. “And now, it seems, he—or perhaps an accomplice—employs a poison so deadly it melts flesh from bone.”

A chorus of horror swept through the chamber, gasps and muttered curses breaking the charged silence.

Fear.

Outrage.

The perfect storm of emotions, coiling and twisting, ready to consume.

And yet…

From the corner of my eye, I watched Lord Hassan.

Still. Silent.

His expression did not change, yet something about him shifted, an imperceptible tightening in his posture, a flicker in his gaze that sent my mind reeling.

Was it calculation? Restraint?

Or something far more dangerous?

My pulse pounded in my ears as I tried to assemble the pieces of this sinister puzzle?—

To understand what game was truly being played?—

And what role Lord Hassan held in its unfolding design.

“The Black Wraith is a coward,” Lord Winston declared, his voice thick with contempt.

The air in the dining hall closed in, pressing against my chest with an unbearable weight.

My fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.

I could almost smell the putrid stench of his breath as he leaned forward, savoring his cruelty.

“He lurks in the shadows, a marauder waiting to strike from the darkness,” he said, his words dripping with a perverse pleasure. “But we will not let him escape. When we finally apprehend him, he will pay dearly for his heinous crimes.”

A slow, oily grin spread across his bloated face.

“We will make him reveal his powerful alchemy recipe through brute force and relentless torture—no matter the cost.”

Torture him?

A fierce, primal crack echoed through me, breaking past the corset’s tight laces and society’s strangling grip.

Was my father truly involved in the business of torture?

A fire roared to life within me, an indignation that no longer fit within the confines of my silence.

My chair scraped loudly against the floor as I rose.

The clinking of cutlery ceased.

A stunned silence fell.

All eyes turned to the anomaly in their midst—a woman standing when she should not.

“What if this masked man isn’t a villain?”

The words left me before I could stop them, trembling yet defiant, breaking through the heavy stillness like shattering glass.

“Is it possible that he’s trying to reveal the flaws in our methods? Perhaps he sees societal issues and wants to create change by showing us the truth.”

A beat of silence.

And then, as if a conductor had lifted his baton?—

Laughter erupted.

Harsh.

Mocking.

Cruel.

It tore through the room, a symphony of ridicule that clawed at my skin, stripping me bare before their amusement.

But across the table, one man did not laugh.

Lord Hassan’s face remained unreadable, his dark eyes locked onto mine.

Silent. Inscrutable.

A flicker of something passed between us—something unspoken that sent a shiver down my spine.

“Good gods, Elizabeth,” my father spat, his voice thick with disdain.

The laughter ceased at once.

His gaze burned through me, devoid of warmth, devoid of anything but cold, absolute authority.

“What twisted tales have you been filling your mind with?”

His voice was deceptively calm—too calm. The kind of calm that preceded a storm.

“Where could you have possibly conjured up such a ludicrous notion? Have you been reading treasonous literature, hmm?”

The sneer curled my father’s lips as he leaned forward.

“Books of seditious libel?”

His snort reverberated through the hall, a sound not unlike an enraged bull, nostrils flaring, braced to charge.

Heat seared my cheeks, the blood pounding in my ears as though trying to drown out their scorn.

“I don’t read treasonous books, Father,” I muttered, the words barely audible above the low rumble of their continued mirth. “I’m a good and honorable woman.”

The declaration tasted bitter on my tongue; an admission meant to pacify rather than convince.

My father waved dismissively, already turning back to his loyal cohorts. “Leave the serious matters to the men. You’ve been reading too much tomfoolery.”

And just like that?—

The laughter rose again.

It was a physical force, pushing me back, shoving me down, pressing me into my seat.

Slowly, I lowered myself.

Each burst of laughter, each smirk exchanged across the table, was a lash against my armor.

I felt small. Foolish.

A flickering flame, snuffed out by the sheer weight of their ridicule.

But beneath the shame, beneath the trembling?—

Something remained.

A whisper of anger.

A smoldering ember that refused to die.

It curled around my ribs, whispering of justice and change—a whisper I could not, would not, ignore.

Then—

Silence.

A heavy, oppressive hush descended upon the room, thick as a suffocating shroud.

And then, Lord Winston’s voice?—

Dripping with venom, slow and measured, slashing through the stillness like the tip of a dagger pressed against my throat.

“And what insight could you possibly offer, my delicate flower?”

He drawled the words, savoring them, letting them fester in the air between us.

“You flutter in ignorance while we brave souls wage battles beyond your feeble comprehension.”

The sneer in his voice was a serrated blade meant to wound.

Meant to humiliate.

It meant to remind me of my place.

“I… I… I know enough to imagine change might be in order,” I managed, though as the words left my lips, they felt fragile.

Truthfully, I knew little of my father’s dealings—only the whispers behind locked doors, the veiled warnings in Mary’s hushed tones, and the fear that coiled in my stomach when my brothers left and never returned.

My father’s chair crashed with violence that sent a shudder down my spine.

Then—

A thunderous slam.

His palm struck the polished wood, the force rattling the crystalware, the chandeliers quivering in their chains.

I flinched, shrinking back, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Regret sank its teeth into me.

“Elizabeth, that’s enough!” My father’s voice cracked like a whip, raw with barely restrained fury.

His eyes blazed—not with concern or patience, but with something far colder.

“Stay out of this and let the men handle these important matters,” he spat. “The Black Wraith is no noble saint, after all.”

He swept his arm out, a theatrical gesture toward the men gathered before him, their expressions ranging from bemused to annoyed.

“Your insolence is not only unwelcome but laughable. Know your place!”

His words struck like a physical blow, stripping away any illusion of agency I might have possessed.

Across the table, Lord Hassan did not move.

A silent observer. A shadow carved from the darkness.

His existence was a weight, pressing against my skin, and for a moment, I dared to meet his gaze.

Searching.

For what, I did not know—an ally, an ounce of understanding, a thread of insolence stitched into his unreadable expression.

But his silence was a wall I could not breach.

And perhaps I was foolish to have thought otherwise.

Slowly, I lowered my gaze.

But the final blow did not come from Lord Hassan’s silence.

It came from the brutal, undeniable truth?—

My father saw me as nothing.

A pawn on his chessboard of power.

No voice.

No worth beyond the marriage that would secure his ambitions.

I stood, every muscle trembling, my voice barely a whisper.

“Forgive me, Father… will you excuse me? I need some fresh air.”

No response.

No acknowledgment.

The plea fell into nothingness, swallowed by the clinking of glasses and the murmur of conspiratorial voices weaving their dark plots.

As if I had never spoken at all.

And that was when I knew?—

I was not just powerless in this room.

I was invisible.

Leaving behind the suffocating walls of the dining room, I slipped through the ornate French doors at the end of the grand hallway. The crisp night air kissed my cheeks, cool and bracing against the heat of my humiliation.

Tears welled in my eyes, unshed, heavy with the weight of everything I could not say.

The scent of roses clung thick to the air, their sweetness almost mocking.

I reached out, tracing a trembling finger along the velvet petals, but the softness did nothing to ease my bitterness.

I had been in the garden longer than I realized—the sky had shifted, shadows stretching across the stone path, unnoticed.

I was caught in a maze of thorns and regrets, my life closing around me like the vines coiled along the iron trellises.

“I need to find a way to escape before it’s too late.”

The words slipped past my lips, a whisper lost to the night.

A sliver of hope flickered, fragile against the fortress of my father’s plans.

But fear and uncertainty gnawed at the edges of my resolve—how? When? Who could I trust?

And then?—

Footsteps.

Leisurely. Unhurried.

Drawing closer.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

Whoever it was?—

They weren’t supposed to be here.

The garden had been empty moments ago.

I turned slowly, the shadows shifting around me.

“Lady Elizabeth,” a voice murmured from the darkness. Low. Smooth. Dangerous.

A shiver ran down my spine.

Because it wasn’t just any voice.

It was his.