Page 55 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, bathing the room in gold—but it felt wrong, offensive against the darkness he brought with him.
His once-proud visage was a ruin of angry scars, twisted and unrecognizable, a remnant of the man I once feared and loved.
His gnarled left hand clutched the armrest with a bone-white grip, the veins bulging as though the wood might splinter beneath his wrath.
His right arm lay limp and lifeless, twisted awkwardly in his lap, a cruel mirror of the power he’d lost.
The man who had once lifted me high on his shoulders, who had filled our halls with laughter—before it turned to commands, punishments, and fear?—
Now filled the room with raw, unspoken fury.
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t breathe.
His eyes burned into mine, and in the stillness between us, I felt it?—
The tremble of the room, or perhaps just my bones, under the weight of his rage.
“Elizabeth.”
The word scraped from his throat, each syllable a shard of broken glass dragging across my nerves.
A shiver cut down my spine—cold, sudden, involuntary.
I told myself—I should not be afraid.
It played in my mind like a fragile mantra.
But it couldn’t silence the pounding of my heart, a frantic, erratic beat that echoed the throbbing guilt coursing through me.
He was my father.
And yet?—
The scars etched across his face, warped and angry, had remade him into a stranger.
A man sculpted by bitterness, loss, and rage.
“Father,” I managed, the word barely a whisper, foreign on my tongue.
Then he exploded.
The words erupted from him like a loud, violent, and lethal volcanic blast.
The sinewy cords of his neck strained, veins bulging with fury.
“I heard Mary say you’re with child!”
Spittle flecked his twisted lips, the sound ripping through the room like a weapon.
“Lord Hassan’s child.”
His legs, as limp as broken branches, hung uselessly beneath him—a grotesque reminder of the power he’d lost.
“You whore!” he thundered, voice cracking with venom and fury.
“How dare you disgrace our house!
“How could you consort with the enemy—the very man who razed our society to the ground!”
He spat Amir’s name as though it charred him, the syllables thick with poison and hate.
I flinched, the barrage of accusations hitting with the force of daggers, each one aimed at my heart.
The man who once made me believe I could touch the stars?—
Whose laughter used to chase away every shadow?—
Now he looked at me with eyes void of warmth?—
Eyes glazed with a cold, inhuman fury.
Eyes I barely recognized.
“Stop it!” I screamed, my hands flying to my ears as if I could block out his venom, his hate, his voice.
“Amir is not the monster you paint him to be!
“It is not him—it is you!
“You are the monster!”
I choked on the bile rising in my throat, every word tearing from me like shrapnel.
“I did what I had to do—to destroy your society.
“I am the alchemist who crafted the poison.
“I brought the French Timehunters to their doom.”
Silence.
A terrible, gaping silence.
It swallowed the room, sucked the air from my lungs, and left only the deafening pound of my heartbeat in my ears.
Then—
His face twisted.
Contorted with a wave of fury so raw and feral, I thought the earth might crack beneath us.
“Destroyed France? Destroyed my society? Murdered your future husband? Did you kill your brothers? You?”
His voice was a thunderclap—disbelief turning to a snarl of rage.
“How dare you stand there and claim such treachery!”
“Because it’s the truth!” I screamed, my voice shattering, jagged with grief and fury and despair.
“I am the alchemist behind it all. Not Amir. It was my hand that wrought this devastation. Not his.”
His face darkened, red as blood, the scars warping with every word, twisting him into something demonic—something no longer human.
“I want you out of this fucking house. Now!”
His roar shook the air, the words like an incantation to banish demons—only I was the demon now.
“I disown you. You are no longer my daughter. You are dead to me. Get out of my sight.
“You have one hour to leave this house.”
With a violent jerk of his head and a tremble in his crippled hand, he signaled the servant.
The young man, eyes wide with shock, stepped behind the wheelchair, his fingers quivering on the worn handles.
I pushed myself up from the bed, the motion instinctive, desperate. I stood—frozen—tears blurring my vision, the world around me cracking, crumbling with every breath.
His words still rang in my ears—words of dismissal, exile, betrayal—as I reached out to the man who no longer felt like my father.
“Father, you can’t mean that!”
My voice cracked, broken, raw.
“I have nothing—nothing with which to live!”
Desperation clawed through me, but he met it with a gaze of stone.
His voice dripped with venom, each word a blade to the heart.
“You should’ve thought about the consequences before unleashing something deadly.”
He sneered, eyes narrowing.
“And now look at you—pregnant with an illegitimate child, your lover dead, and without a home to call your own.
“You’re completely on your own now, Elizabeth.”
His voice cut through my sobs like a knife, slicing deep, leaving nothing untouched.
There was no warmth in his eyes.
No glimmer of the father I once knew.
Just cold, merciless disdain.
His words cast me adrift, and I felt the terrifying pull of an uncertain future, of a life ripped apart.
“Father, please,” I begged, reaching for him one last time, grasping for a scrap of the man who’d once loved me.
“I did this for us.
“What you were doing—it was despicable.”
But my plea bounced off the walls, unheard, unwanted.
His fury boiled over, a storm unchecked.
“Shut up! Get out! Pack your bags! You’re no longer welcome in this house.”
His eyes blazed into mine.
“I will tell the authorities if you don’t leave within the hour. One word from me, Elizabeth, and they’ll come for you.
“With orders to eliminate you on sight.
“And I’ll enjoy every second of it. Watching you meet your end.”
He jabbed a twisted finger toward the hallway, his lips curled in hatred.
The servant turned the chair abruptly, wheels shrieking against the floor.
And then they were gone—swallowed by the corridor, leaving only silence.
A silence filled with ruin.
And I—alone. Pregnant. Homeless. Hunted.
The chamber around me seemed to tighten, its walls pressing in, heavy with betrayal and abandonment.
But there was no time for grief.
There was no room for shock.
My limbs ached with weakness, but urgency seared through me, pushing my body into motion.
“Mary,” I gasped, my voice raw, but insistent.
“We must pack. Quickly.”
Her eyes met mine—a flicker of fear, then resolve. She nodded.
We moved in tandem, our hands trembling, every movement swift, frantic, necessary.
A few changes of clothing—wrinkled, hastily folded.
Hidden beneath the loose floorboard, a small pouch of coins was now our only wealth.
The locket—my mother’s portrait inside—pressed to my chest before being tucked away.
Each item hurled into worn leather satchels, their weight crushing as though we carried the remnants of a life severed by force.
“Be quick, Mary,” I whispered, the panic climbing in my throat.
My heart pounded like a trapped bird, frantic and helpless, its wings slamming against my ribs.
The house—once my sanctuary—now felt like a tomb.
Every creak of the floorboards screamed danger.
Every breath, every whispered instruction, felt like a spark in a room full of powder.
Outside the door, the mansion stirred, muffled voices and footsteps unaware of the exile unfolding behind these walls.
We moved like shadows, our steps cautious but propelled by the ticking clock of my father’s threat.
The corridors, once familiar, felt alien now—cold, vast, and merciless.
The mansion that had cradled my entire existence was now hostile ground, its grandeur a mockery of the life we’d been forced to abandon.
With our satchels slung over our shoulders, we carried not just possessions, but the weight of survival, loss, and beginnings forged from ruin.
“Stay close,” I whispered to Mary—my anchor, my only constant in a world that had turned its back on me.
Together, we fled the place I once called home, our shadows fleeting and forlorn.
Behind us, the door clicked shut—a soft, merciless, full stop to everything that had been.
It was over.
Ahead lay only the unknown, wrapped in morning mist and fear, as we hastened away from the crumbling edifice of my past.
The stables loomed—a rough sanctuary in our escape, smelling of hay, sweat, and freedom.
We burst through the wide double doors, our breaths ragged, desperate.
“Harry!” I called, my voice urgent, echoing off beams and rafters.
From the shadows, the stable hand emerged. His face was smudged with dirt and sweat, and his eyes narrowed as he took us in.
“Lady Alexander?”
Suspicion coiled in his tone, his gaze darting between our disheveled appearances.
A flicker of insolence gleamed in his eyes, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“Prepare a carriage. Now.”
The command cracked through the air like a whip, my voice leaving no room for defiance.
His expression didn’t falter, but I saw the shift behind his eyes.
The calculation. The hesitation. The thrill of power, if only for a moment.
“Seems the high and mighty can fall after all,” he quipped, leaning lazily against a wooden post, dirt-streaked fingers toying with a bit of straw.
I stepped closer, my gaze hard.
“Listen to me, Harry.”
My words were razor-edged with urgency.
“This household is dissolving into dust. Let me go—and get out of here yourself.”
His smirk faltered, fear flickering across his face like a crack in his armor.
The weight of my words settled into him, and whatever satisfaction he’d found in my downfall shriveled beneath the truth.
He moved quickly, hands trembling as he fumbled with bridles and harnesses, the echo of his mockery gone.