Page 18 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Her breath hitched, her fingers twisting into the fabric of her ruined dress.

“Lord Winston… that malevolent monster… stood over a man. His twisted form contorted in sadistic pleasure, his blade gleaming—slicing—mercilessly. The sight—” her voice cracked “—it was a nightmare made flesh. A symphony of agony and despair, one that seared itself into my soul, never to be undone.”

The tremor in her voice vibrated through the space between us, and I could feel it—like the bite of something cold just before it pierced the skin.

The grandfather clock in the corner beat a slow, ponderous rhythm, a reminder of time slipping between our fingers. A cruel echo of truth—that while she sat here, unraveling, the world outside remained unchanged. Wicked men still roamed. Horrors still unfolded in dim-lit rooms.

“Keep talking, Elizabeth,” I urged, my voice barely more than breath. Encouraging her. Coaxing her to unburden herself. To give voice to the nightmare that had stolen the light from her gaze.

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

She tried—gods, she tried. But the words refused to form, choking her from the inside.

“They had…”

Her hands clenched against her lap, fingers digging into the fabric, nails pressing into her skin as though the pain might tether her to the present.

“He, um… the man was?—”

Her head shook, frantic, desperate. As if she could shake it loose, dislodge the horror from her mind. But it clung to her.

Her eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. A dam, barely holding back the flood.

I exhaled slowly, carefully, measuring my next words.

“Did Lord Winston have…?” I hesitated. Even with all the wickedness I had seen in this world, knowing the depths of depravity men were capable of, I struggled to form the question. “Did Lord Winston have carnal relations with the man?”

The words hung between us, a grotesque wound cleaved into the silence. But I needed to know.

Her breath hitched, a choked noise catching in her throat before she buried her mouth against her palm.

And then— “Yes!”

It was more than an answer. It was a sob, a confession ripped from something too dark to name.

“He did it when the man was dying.”

The tremor in her voice shattered whatever restraint I had left.

“He stripped himself naked and?—”

She couldn’t finish—the words dissolved, lost in the space between us. But I didn’t need to hear the rest. The picture was already painted in blood and suffering.

My pulse pounded, a murderous drumbeat.

She shuddered, her fingers trembling against her lips. “Then this woman came in—she was dressed like a maid. They… they had intercourse with each other while the man was still bleeding, still gasping.”

The words tumbled from her in broken fragments as though speaking them out loud might lessen their weight. But nothing could lighten something so vile.

Something so unforgivable.

The cold fury that settled over me was absolute. A quiet, suffocating rage that coiled around my ribs and sank its claws into my bones.

My hands itched—ached—to wrap around Lord Winston’s throat, to crush the life from him slowly, to make him feel the horror he had inflicted upon another soul.

But first…

First, I had to shield the fragile creature beside me.

Because even monsters—even me—could dream of being a hero, if only for a moment.

Elizabeth’s voice cracked the silence like thin ice underfoot.

“I can’t marry him, Amir. I can’t live with someone capable of such evil. I need your help… please, help me escape this.”

Her words hung between us, as heavy as a noose waiting to claim its victim.

I wanted to destroy the society that had birthed such iniquity. To scorch their wicked halls to the ground and scatter their ashes to the wind. To wrap my arms around her and swear that no harm would ever touch her again.

But she was the daughter of my enemy.

And my embrace—my protection—could be just as perilous as the evils she fled from.

The tension coiled around us, thick and suffocating. The only sound was the slow, methodical ticking of the grandfather clock, measuring the seconds of our shared torment.

Then, as though gasping for air after being submerged for too long, Elizabeth lifted her gaze to mine.

Her eyes—raw, pleading—were liquid solace, beckoning me into their depths.

“I can tell you’re not like the men in my father’s society,” she whispered.

The words struck me like a blade, unexpected and unearned.

“Like” them?

I had been forged in the same darkness. Born of the same bloodstained cloth, stitched into a tapestry of monsters.

“What makes you think I’m different?” My voice was rough, edged with something bitter. “What makes you think I’m not a brute like the others?”

Her answer was a breath. Soft. A flicker of faith amidst the gloom.

“I can feel in my heart you’re not a beast.”

She spoke it as if it were truth. As if belief alone could make it so.

But she didn’t know.

She didn’t know what I had done.

She didn’t know what I was capable of doing.

How wrong she was. And how cruel it would be to let her believe otherwise.

“Oh, my dear Elizabeth,” I murmured, my voice a low, weighted thing. “I’m a creature of darkness, too. I do despicable and horrific things.”

The words sat heavily on my tongue, leaden with the truth I carried—the truth she must understand. I had no salvation—no hero lurking beneath the shadowed exterior.

I expected her to recoil, avert her gaze, see me for what I was—and shrink away.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she stood. A flurry of restless energy, her breath quickened, her fingers curling into her skirts as though bracing herself against an unseen wind.

“Forgive me, Lord Hassan,” she said, reverting to my formal title—a calculated shift, like a wall sliding into place. “But I refuse to believe you share the same cruel intentions as my father’s society.”

Her voice wavered, but her conviction did not.

She stepped back, ready to flee, to take the warmth of her body, the trust in her eyes, and the intoxicating scent of her skin away from me.

I couldn’t let her go.

Not when I had tasted the possibility of her.

Standing swiftly, I caught her wrist, pulling her back against me, her breath escaping in a soft, startled gasp.

The second our bodies collided, heat erupted between us—scalding, undeniable.

Her chest pressed against mine, her pulse frantic beneath my fingertips, her lips parting on a shuddered exhale.

I didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

I took her.

My mouth crushed hers, desperate, claiming. Her moan was swallowed by the kiss, a sound that sent fire racing through my veins. She melted against me, her fingers tangling in my hair, nails scraping along my scalp, sending sparks skittering down my spine.

I pressed her against the wall, hard—closing every inch of distance between us, making sure she felt me, every solid, aching part. My hands roamed her body, memorizing the curves, the softness, the way she shuddered when my fingers skimmed over her ribs, her waist, lower.

She gasped, her back arching as her thighs parted just enough to let me slide in close—pressing against her with slow, tantalizing rhythm, every movement a promise whispered through touch.

Her breath hitched, a whimper catching in her throat, her hands gripping my shoulders as if she didn’t know whether to pull me closer or push me away.

I traced my lips down her neck, teeth grazing her skin, feeling her shiver beneath me. She was intoxicating, a heady mix of silk and sin, and gods help me. I wanted to unravel her and see what she became when she stopped thinking and let go.

Her corset was in my way. The laces, the fabric, all of it—too much. My hands slid beneath her skirts, fingers tracing up her thighs, her skin fever-hot against my palms.

She gasped, her head falling back, her lips parting in wordless surrender.

I didn’t need her to tell me what she wanted.

I could feel it.

In the way her body moved against mine, in the way her breath came quicker, in the way her nails raked across my back, demanding, desperate.

I lifted her, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively, pressing her deeper into the wall, pressing her against me.

Her moan was sinful, wrecked, a sound that sent fire racing through my veins.

And I devoured it.

Tasting the hunger, the raw, desperate need building between us since our worlds collided.

She was fire, and I wanted to burn.

I would burn.

“Elizabeth,” I murmured, my voice thick, strained, betraying the war inside me. “I shouldn’t… we shouldn’t?—”

“Please, Amir,” she whispered, her lips brushing mine with every trembling word. “Allow me this moment. I have never felt want or desire until you.”

At her words, the last remnants of restraint crumbled.

I didn’t care about the consequences. Didn’t care about the chaos we were inviting, the ruin that would inevitably follow.

All I cared about was her.

I pulled her back into my arms, crushing her against me, my lips slanting over hers in a kiss that was fierce, unrelenting, all-consuming. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing—only raw need.

“I desire you, Elizabeth. I can’t deny it.”

The confession was guttural, ripped from somewhere deep inside me, but she already knew. She could feel it in the way my hands roamed her body, memorizing every curve, every dip, every shudder that coursed through her as she arched into me.

Her moan vibrated against my lips, her body molding against mine, pressing closer, needing more.

And fuck, I gave it to her.

Our mouths moved together in a frantic dance—lips, teeth, tongues colliding in a frenzy of need, want, and hunger.

I took advantage of the exposed skin, my lips trailing down the delicate column of her throat, sucking, tasting, biting.

“Amir…” she gasped, the sound raw, breathless, utterly intoxicating.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, nails scraping against my scalp as she pulled me back to her, desperate for more.

And gods, I wanted to give her everything.