Page 46 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

“You can’t mean that. I am your strength, Amir. Not your weakness.”

His head jerked, shaking violently as though trying to expel some terrible, unbearable thought. “No,” he croaked, his voice a raw wound. “You must leave this place. You must go to the Americas, my love. It’s safer there than here. The only way to escape the grasp of the Timehunters.”

His eyes held me captive, desperate.

“Pack your bags and go with Mary,” he demanded, his eyes smoldering with something deeper than pain—dread and resignation. “Leave me to face this nightmare alone.”

His plea cut through me sharper than any blade.

“I won’t leave you,” I hissed, my voice like a drawn wire, trembling.

“I will recreate the Noctyss poison. I will bring it to the masquerade. I will annihilate them all. They will not win. They will not break you.”

A shudder racked his body, but it wasn’t pain that caused it. It was something darker. Something festering deep inside him.

“You were my downfall,” he growled through clenched teeth. “My one weakness.”

The words struck like a whip, carving into me, but I did not waver.

“I promised we would destroy them together,” I countered, my fingers finding his, gripping them tight despite the tremors agonizing me.

His skin was cold, clammy, weakening.

“No. We can’t,” he whispered, his voice unraveling. “I should never have agreed to that. Salvatore and Mathias are too powerful. Your father will kill you.”

His breath hitched, his fingers tightening around mine like this was the last time he’d ever hold them.

“Escape, Elizabeth. Go. Start anew somewhere far away, where no shadows lurk in doorways. You are young. Beautiful. You deserve a kind husband and a happy home. Leave these monsters behind.”

I stiffened.

The words—get away, escape, leave it all behind—felt vile on my tongue, foreign and wrong.

“Get away?”

I spat the words, my revulsion thick in the air between us. “You think I could ever run? That I could ever abandon you?”

I shook my head, fire searing through my veins, my fury a beacon against the oppressive gloom of the dungeon.

“No, Amir. I will not run. I will make sure this masquerade happens. I will find a way to release you. You can’t stop me.”

My grip on his hands tightened.

“I will kill them.”

Every. Last. One.

Amir tried to shake his head, but the effort was futile—his movements hindered by the shackles of both his wounds and the unforgiving chains that bound him.

“Elizabeth...”

His voice was weak, stripped of its usual steel, his once-commanding being diminished by captivity and the weight of his concern for me.

I leaned closer, so close that my lips nearly brushed his ear.

“I am not the girl you think you need to protect,” I whispered, my breath a vow against his skin. “I am the woman who will stand with you against the darkness.”

And at that moment, I swore to myself—I would walk through the fire, become an instrument of vengeance before I would ever let them harm him again.

No more waiting.

No more fear.

I retrieved the vial, its contents shimmering faintly in the dim light. The liquid caught the torch’s glow, swirling like molten gold in my palm.

I held it to Amir’s parched lips, my hands firm despite the storm.

The potion slid down his throat—a silent prayer, a final rebuttal against the ruin they had tried to carve into him.

For a moment, nothing.

A breathless pause in the cold hush of the dungeon.

Then—color.

Gradually, the ghostly pallor of his skin gave way to a fragile warmth, the deathly sallow replaced by the faintest flush of life.

His chest rose and fell with more purpose.

Hope flickered.

I clutched his hand, my grip fierce. “You can’t stop me. Regain your strength.”

His eyelids fluttered, those dark, haunted eyes regaining their fight.

“I can’t regain my strength.”

His words were sluggish, edged with something raw. “I haven’t killed...”

The sentence trailed into a grimace, the truth too bitter to fully voice.

A chill slithered down my spine.

“What do you need?” My voice was urgent, willing him to ask for anything but that.

His jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around mine.

“I need to kill.”

A grate, hollow and irrevocable.

“I must inhale the souls of the dead.”

His admission was a death knell, spoken with the resignation of a man who knew his nature too well.

A cold shiver coiled through me—but I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t question.

I locked away the moral quandary for another time, burying it beneath the urgency of what needed to be done.

I met his gaze without flinching. “I’ll bring them,” I said, my voice unshakable, born from something deeper than mere conviction.

Worthless men would be a small price for his recovery.

As I exited the dungeon, the flicker of my torch sent twisting shadows slithering along the stone walls, mirroring the darkness unfurling inside me.

This was the path I had chosen.

No turning back now.

* * *

The next day, as I lingered outside Father’s study, the muffled voices within sent a different kind of chill.

Lord Winston. His voice, as grating as ever, dripped with arrogance.

But the other—a voice laced with the authority of command, steeped in cruelty—made my breath still in my chest.

Mathias.

“We can just gut Hassan,” my father’s voice came, casual, careless, as if he were discussing the pruning of an overgrown hedge rather than the brutal execution of the man I loved.

A cold hand gripped my heart.

“Out of the question,” Mathias countered, his tone one of absolute control. “We want a public execution.”

My stomach twisted.

“We will show the people what happens to those who stand against us,” he continued, his voice dripping with malice. “They must fear me. They must fear us.”

Each word was a dagger.

A blueprint of Amir’s suffering, of his staged, bloodied downfall.

No.

They would not have their spectacle.

Not while I still drew breath.

A fire erupted in my chest, and before I could temper the fury clawing its way through me, I shoved the study door open with enough force to send it slamming against the wall.

All eyes snapped to me.

A moment of silence, as thick as a storm cloud.

“Elizabeth!”

My father’s voice cut through the air, edged with disapproval. “Where are your manners?”

Manners?

They plotted a public execution, and he dared to chastise me for decorum?

I swallowed my revulsion, inhaled slowly, and then let my voice spill into the room—mocking, hollow, poisoned with ice.

“Forgive me,” I murmured, feigning breathlessness, my heart hammering beneath my corset.

Then, I tilted my head, eyes locked onto Mathias’ soulless gaze, mimicking his chilling words back to him.

“Yes, let’s make a spectacle out of Lord Hassan’s suffering.”

Let’s see if they could stomach the taste of their cruelty.

Lord Winston’s face twisted into something wickedly delighted, his milky eyes gleaming with sick satisfaction as if he had just witnessed a prized possession come to life.

“You’re finally coming around, my darling! This is wonderful!”

The words coiled around me like a noose.

I smiled, letting false enthusiasm coat my voice like honey over poison.

“Yes, my lord! I have seen the light.”

The endearment tasted like bile. A reminder of the role I must play.

“We will make this masquerade truly unforgettable,” I purred in a light voice, eyes gleaming with a fire they mistook for ambition. “We will strike fear into everyone.”

Father’s gaze settled on me, pleased, his eyes glinting with approval. Mathias, standing beside him, let a smirk curl on his lips.

“This is wonderful.” He exhaled, pleased. “How you’ve grown, Elizabeth! You and your husband will rule the English society. You will make a fine wife to Lord Winston.”

My stomach turned.

The very thought made my skin crawl and my hands tremble with the urge to tear him apart.

But I masked it. Smoothed it over with a serene, practiced smile.

“Yes, Mathias.” I nodded as though I were truly honored. “I will ensure the masquerade is a masterpiece of fear.”

Father leaned forward, interest piqued.

“Tell me, Elizabeth, how is the poison coming along?”

I did not hesitate.

“Very well! It will destroy our prisoner,” I said, my voice clear, betraying not a single crack. “His suffering will be talked about for years.”

Their satisfaction was palpable.

As I turned to leave, I could feel their expectant gazes on my back, my departure a final act of obedience to their vile plans.

But once I stepped into the night, back into the cool silence of the forest, the mask cracked.

I ran.

Not in fear—but in desperation.

When I reached my alchemist’s cottage, the weight of deception no longer suffocated me—it fueled me.

In the dim candlelight, my fingers found the velvety petals of the Noctyss bloom.

Lethal. Unforgiving.

“I’m going to make the most powerful poison.”

The words slipped from my lips, not a whisper, but a promise.

I would orchestrate this masquerade.

I would be the unseen hand, guiding them toward their demise.

I closed my eyes and pictured Amir—walking free from his chains, his strength restored, his enemies crumbling around him.

And then I pictured my father.

Lord Winston.

Their lips parted, gasps of agony spilling forth as their bodies succumbed to the venom I would slip into their veins.

A masterpiece of ruin.

I exhaled, slowly, my resolve hardening into something unbreakable.

“I will be the one pulling the strings.”