Page 26 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)
The man who seemed to bend the air around us, shifting it into something heavier, something charged. The room had felt cool moments ago, but now, with each step he took, the temperature seemed to climb.
Damn him.
I clenched my fists in my lap, forcing my breath to steady, my pulse to slow. Stop. Don’t have feelings.
I had to remind myself—he declined to help me. He was a murderer, just like Lord Winston.
He was a member of my father’s organization. A killer. A man steeped in blood and shadow.
I repeated it like a prayer, a lifeline, something to anchor me against the tide of emotions threatening to pull me under.
And yet…
As I whispered those words in my mind, my heart betrayed me.
It fluttered—treacherous, reckless—like a bird desperate for escape.
I watched him, studied him, traced the contrasts that made up Lord Amir Hassan—his dark hair, swarthy skin, and chiseled features.
A man built from shadows, mystery, and secrets too heavy to be spoken aloud.
His eyes—gods, those eyes—had seen too much, held too much, yet they barely lingered on me before shifting to my father, nodding in polite acknowledgment.
“Lord Hassan,” my father greeted, oblivious to the storm raging within me. “Please, join us for breakfast.”
“Thank you.”
His voice, that low, velvety timbre, slid through the air, smooth and disarming. He moved with a grace that belied his strength, a predator who did not need to flaunt his power because it was simply there—woven into every measured step, every precise movement.
I hated that I noticed.
I hated it more that I felt it.
Despite the logic screaming at me to turn away, I couldn’t deny the pull—his undeniable gravity. The man who had stirred my soul, awakened something deep and forbidden and cast it aside as if it were nothing.
And yet, here I sat, caught between dutiful daughter and impassioned woman.
And I wasn’t sure which terrified me more.
Amir took the seat next to me.
The table suddenly felt too small, too intimate—a prison of fine china and clinking silverware. The space between us was negligible, and the brush of his knee beneath the cloth sent a jolt through my body that I pretended not to feel.
I focused on the delicate porcelain of my teacup, watching the steam curl into the air as if I could lose myself in its fleeting tendrils. But his aura was tangible, a force, shifting the air between us like a silent storm rolling in.
The maid scurried around, placing food in front of Amir, and the silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken truths, with ghosts of a past neither of us dared to name.
Then—
“I have excellent news to share, Amir.”
My father set down his cup quietly, his expression aglow with unmistakable pride.
“My daughter has decided to join our society.”
And just like that, the delicate balance I had tried to maintain shattered.
The room seemed to shrink, the air pressing in as if waiting for a reaction.
Amir’s gaze finally found mine, dark, unrelenting—ablaze with something searing through my core. I felt it like a touch, a slow caress over bare skin, igniting something dangerous within me despite my desperate attempt to remain detached.
“Really? What excellent news!” His voice was smooth, but beneath the polished words, something lurked. Surprise? Or something else?
His head tilted slightly as if weighing the truth behind my father’s declaration. “And what will you be doing, Lady Alexander? What role will you play?”
I parted my lips, a flicker of nerves coiling in my stomach?—
But my father’s voice cut through the air with the finality of a guillotine.
“She will take over her mother’s role—alchemy. Crafting poisons.”
The words landed like a verdict, a future before me in cold, absolute certainty.
Amir reacted instantly.
His posture shifted, muscles tightening beneath the fabric of his coat, tension rolling off him like a storm gathering on the horizon. It was subtle, but I saw the smallest crack in his impassive facade.
Was that concern flickering in his eyes? Or was it merely a reflection of my unspoken trepidation?
His cool gaze settled on me again, more piercing now, scrutinizing, assessing—as if searching for something he wasn’t sure he wanted to find. The air between us seemed to quiver, stretched thin under the weight of unspoken words.
“How are you feeling about this, Lady Alexander?”
The formality of my title on his tongue was intentional, laced with something almost venomous—a reminder of the walls between us.
I refused to falter.
I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze with quiet insolence.
“Quite confident,” I replied, my voice as smooth as silk, despite the storm.
Amir’s eyes narrowed, assessing, challenging. “All the other societies have developed sophisticated poisons. They have superior alchemists at their disposal. How can you keep up?”
His words were a stone cast into still waters, sending ripples of doubt through the room.
But I refused to let him see a flicker of hesitation.
“I have secret ingredients,” I said, letting the weight of my legacy settle around me like a cloak. “The English society was once known for its poisons.”
A shadow of a smirk toyed at the corners of Amir’s lips, an unreadable glint flashing in his eyes.
Then—abruptly, purposefully—he changed course.
“Have you recovered since the last time I saw you?” His tone was casual, too casual. “You were so stressed when your carriage broke down.”
His dismissive voice fanned the embers of irritation within me, the warmth of embarrassment flaring hot against my skin.
“Thank you for your concern, Lord Hassan,” I bit back, the title laced with pointed venom, a subtle barb meant to wound. “I am feeling better, but I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m far too restless.”
His expression flickered with something unreadable, intrigue maybe. Then, with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, he murmured, “Ah. Restlessness is said to be the sign of a coming revelation.”
The words hung between us, delicate yet ensnaring, a spider’s web spun from silk and shadow.
Was he mocking me? Or was there something more?
I yearned to press him, tear through the layers of mystery and indifference, and see what lay beneath. But the moment slipped away, leaving nothing but the ghost of unanswered questions.
Then—my father’s voice broke the tension, breaching the silence with ease.
“Elizabeth, since you have decided to take your role in our society—and with Lord Hassan here—I think it’s time I show you both my dungeon,” he declared, his eyes glinting with an unsettling excitement.
A cold dread seized me, its grip tightening around my ribs like an iron vice. My breath hitched, and I forced myself to remain still though every instinct screamed for me to run.
The dungeon.
Gods.
I stiffened, the walls seeming to press inward, the moment’s weight suffocating. From the corner of my eye, I caught Amir’s head tilting ever so slightly, his dark gaze flickering toward me—registering my alarm.
Yet his voice remained infuriatingly smooth, betraying nothing.
“I would be honored, Lord Alexander,” he said.
Too eager.
The words rang hollow, too perfectly conveyed—as if he welcomed the opportunity to peel back yet another layer of the sinister web my father had woven.
Slowly, we rose from the table, and I followed their lead, each step heavier than the last, the weight of inevitability pressing down upon me.
Amir remained close—too close. His silent company contrasted with the churning storm within me. Whether he was a guardian or a witness to my undoing, I could not say.
We entered my father’s study—a room as familiar to me as my thoughts. Or so I had believed.
He moved toward the towering bookcase, his fingers gliding over the polished wood as though performing a sacred rite. I watched, my breath shallow, as he knocked—once. Twice. Three times.
The hollow sound reverberated through the silence, a slow, ominous pulse.
Then, with deliberate ease, my father reached for the skull perched among the leather-bound tomes—a macabre relic of power and secrecy.
My stomach clenched as he twisted it.
A deep, resonant groan filled the study—the protest of something ancient, something weary, something meant to remain hidden.
The bookcase shifted, its movement slow and laborious, revealing nothing but darkness beyond.
A hidden chamber.
A secret buried within the very walls I had once thought safe.
My father’s dungeon.
The breath I hadn’t realized I was holding shuddered past my lips.
For a heartbeat, I was frozen. The revelation struck me dumb, a silent blow to my carefully constructed reality. While I had gone about my mundane routines all these years, something monstrous had lurked beneath my feet.
Fear slithered through me, coiling with the unmistakable sting of betrayal.
My father was silhouetted against the yawning void beyond the bookcase; his expression twisted in grotesque pride.
“Welcome to my torture chamber,” he announced, his voice thick with malicious pleasure.
I felt his gaze settle on me, searching—evaluating. Under his scrutiny, I felt exposed, as though he could see past my carefully controlled exterior, peeling back every layer until he found whatever darkness he hoped to lay within me.
“This, my dear, is not for the fainthearted.” His voice was smooth and purposeful, brimming with a test I couldn’t ignore. “But now that you have accepted your role and joined our society, it’s time for you to witness what we are truly about.”
A challenge. A threat. An invitation.
An initiation into a world of shadows and screams.
My resolve wavered.
But there was no turning back. Not now. Not with Amir watching.
He loomed beside me, a silent specter whose very existence reminded me of my choices. He said nothing, but I felt him—his quiet observation, his relentless scrutiny.
I inhaled quickly and stepped forward.