Page 27 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)
A chill coiled around us, wrapping like a shroud, thick and suffocating. The underground air was damp, thick with the scent of cold stone and something more insidious—a lingering trace of agony past.
We descended.
Each flickering torch we passed hesitated, its light stark against the stone, a feeble protest against the devouring darkness. Shadows danced along the slick walls, stretching, contorting—watching.
The uneven stone steps bit into my feet, and my hand trailed along the wall for balance. The texture was rough and unforgiving as if mocking my hesitation.
My mind whirled with the unspoken horrors that awaited below, but my feet—traitorous, determined—continued forward.
Deeper.
Darker.
Down into the abyss.
Amir was a silent pillar beside me, his occasional touch at the small of my back both a steadying force and a confusing comfort. The subtle pressure sent ripples of warmth through the ice of my fear—a contradiction that unsettled me more than the descent itself.
He was both an anchor and a temptation—a reminder of safety yet a sign of just how deep I was falling.
With each fleeting brush of his fingertips, my heart betrayed me, aching to lean back into him, to seek refuge in his arms rather than in my defiance.
But I couldn’t.
This path was mine to walk, and I would not cower.
The weight of my father’s expectations loomed before me, the horrors I had yet to witness pressing against my skin like a phantom touch. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from stealing glances at Amir, trying to read his expression in the dim torchlight.
What did he truly think of me—of us?
But his face remained an enigma, his features set in professional detachment. Yet the heat radiating from him, the charged intensity that simmered beneath his mask, felt anything but indifferent.
The stairwell finally ended, depositing us before a heavy iron door.
Centuries-old, marred by time and use, it was like a sentinel, guarding the secrets hidden within. Seeing it sent a fresh wave of dread curling through my stomach.
Amir’s hand settled on my shoulder.
I froze.
The warmth of his palm burned through the fabric of my gown, his grip firm but not forceful—a silent pause, a moment just for us.
My father pulled a large, ornate key from his coat and fitted it into the rusted lock with practiced ease. The metallic groan of tumblers shifting filled the silence, a prelude to whatever lay beyond.
And then—a whisper.
A breath against my skin.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Amir’s voice was low and intimate, stirring the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck.
His words caressed my ear, a blend of concern and provocation.
“Your father said this is not for the faint of heart. When you came to me the other day, you told me what Lord Winston had done. You were afraid, scared. This, I fear, will be worse.”
His tone was intoxicating, a dark melody woven with warning and temptation—a spell of danger and allure.
I should have recoiled from the seductive timbre of his voice. It should have chilled me and sent me running back up the stairs.
Instead, it drew me in.
Some part of me—the Elizabeth who still trembled and longed for innocence—wanted to flee, to pretend none of this was real.
But the woman I was becoming—forged in fire, shaped by betrayal and necessity—refused to break.
I lifted my chin, summoning a strength I wasn’t sure I truly possessed, and met Amir’s gaze.
“I’m not afraid,” I whispered back.
The words tasted bittersweet, a lie dressed as defiance. It was more than just an answer—it was a declaration of war—a challenge hurled at my own fear, a banner raised against the abyss waiting beyond that iron door.
Amir said nothing, but his eyes lingered on mine for a fraction too long—a silent acknowledgment of my rebelliousness. Or my foolishness.
Then, with a resounding clunk, my father pushed the door open.
The door groaned, revealing the next chapter of my life—one written in shadows and etched with pain.
There was no turning back.
I stepped forward, my pulse pounding in my throat, and stumbled into a tableau of torment that seared itself into my mind.
The chamber was a cavern of horrors, where suffering was both an art and a science.
Racks stretched limbs to the breaking point.
Iron maidens stood with their spiked interiors bared, their jagged maws hungry for flesh.
In the dim glow of torches, branding irons pulsed with hellish heat, their edges shining like embers awaiting their next victim.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and despair.
A sound rose through the chamber—a macabre symphony of agony.
Chained like twisted effigies, two women and three men hung from the walls, their bodies marred with bruises and welts, their raw wounds glistening under the quivering torchlight.
And in a shadowed alcove, another figure writhed upon a chair, the clank of his restraints punctuating his moans of pain.
I swallowed hard, my breath shallow, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.
This was it.
The heart of my father’s empire.
And I was expected to embrace it.
My father moved through the chamber with the delight of a child unwrapping a coveted gift. He reached for an instrument hanging on the wall—cat-o’-nine-tails, its leather thongs ending in twisted knots—and without hesitation, he set to work.
The first lash tore through the air, followed by the sound of flesh breaking.
A scream tore from the man bound before him, the raw, agonized sound lodging itself into my bones.
My father’s face was a mask of detached cruelty, his expression eerily serene as he worked as if this were a routine chore.
The image seared itself into my memory, a waking nightmare that would haunt me until my dying days.
My knees buckled. The room tilted, the stench of blood and burnt flesh coiling into my throat, threatening to drag me under.
Then—Amir’s hand.
Warm. Steadying.
His fingers pressed against my back, holding me upright, as if he had expected this reaction—as if he knew what was coming before I did.
His voice cut through the cacophony, a low murmur weighted with something unreadable.
“This is what we do, Elizabeth. We are monsters.”
His words should have been cold, but instead, they were final. Absolute.
“Lord Winston. Your father. Your brothers, when they were alive. Me.”
I turned to him with a jolt, seeking—something. Anything.
A flicker of regret? A plea for understanding?
But his face was a wall, his expression unreadable.
Still, his grip on me lingered—a contradiction in itself.
My stomach churned, revulsion rising like bile. I forced my gaze back to my father, and then—the horror twisted deeper.
His arousal strained against the front of his trousers, a grotesque testament to the pleasure he took in this brutality.
Sickness crawled up my throat.
“This is disgusting,” I spat, my voice barely above a whisper. “To see my father beating someone without mercy is?—”
I couldn’t finish.
Because before I could speak another word, another victim was dragged into view.
A woman—perhaps in her forties—was yanked forward by her hair, her feet barely catching the stone floor as she stumbled into the dim light.
She was battered but unbowed, her spirit not yet broken despite the constant tide of anguish that surrounded her.
“Here’s another plaything, Thomas,” the man sneered, shoving her at my father’s feet.
Her body crumpled to the stone floor with a sickening thud, her breath ragged as she fought against the weight of her fate.
I couldn’t breathe.
Twin pools of sadistic pleasure gleamed in their eyes—hungry, soulless voids that drank in her suffering with relish. My father paused briefly, his gaze sweeping over her trembling form, before indulging himself in the moment, savoring the power he wielded over her existence.
Then, with infuriating ease, he selected his next tool—a whip, its leather coils winding around his palm like a living thing. The weapon sang through the air, striking her bare skin with a crack that echoed through the chamber.
Her scream ripped through the oppressive gloom, a visceral, shattering sound that should have left no heart untouched.
And yet, it only fueled them.
My father’s voice was calm, disturbingly casual, as if discussing the weather rather than orchestrating a scene of unspeakable horror.
“You’re a filthy fucking Timeborne. You’re going to have sex with this man while I destroy you.”
His words, spoken with chilling nonchalance, struck harder than the whip itself.
The urge to flee clawed at my insides, a desperate cry of self-preservation tearing through my mind. Every instinct urged me to run, to erase this moment from my memory before it could consume me whole.
Yet—somewhere deep within me, something colder, deadlier, began to take shape.
A vow.
A seed of rebellion planted in the soil of my father’s atrocities.
This empire of suffering that my family had built…
It would fall.
But not yet.
Not today.
The stench of blood and fear was suffocating, coating my tongue with a metallic tang that made me want to retch. I was rooted in place, trapped between disgust, terror, and the cruel reality of my helplessness.
I wanted to move.
To scream.
To fight.
But the weight of their cruelty shackled me.
“I can’t do this.”
The thought repeated in my mind, over and over—a frantic, silent mantra.
And yet, in the depths of that helplessness, I made a silent promise.
I would end this.
Even if it killed me.
Amir beside me was both a comfort and a torment—a silent guardian, a shadow of warmth amid the ice of horror.
Then—his voice.
Low. Intimate. A whisper that wrapped around my trembling core like silk and steel.
“You’re not like this. You’re too pure. Are you sure you want to be a part of this?”
His words were a lifeline—a rope dangled over the abyss, offering escape. But they were also an accusation. A reminder of the innocence I felt slipping away with every second I remained in this room.
I couldn’t breathe.