Page 7 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

His voice cracked through the air like a gunshot. She flinched violently, her entire frame going rigid, spine snapping to attention like a soldier summoned to heel. Trained. Conditioned. It wasn’t discipline—it was fear etched into her bones.

And then—she ran.

She darted like a deer beneath the jaws of a lion, pale skirts trailing behind her like smoke fleeing fire. The hallway swallowed her, but the echo of her flight lingered—soft footfalls, the whisper of fabric, the faint scent of rosewater.

She was gone in seconds.

But the icy aftermath she left behind didn’t fade. It settled in my chest like a bad omen.

I took a step forward, instinct urging me to follow—to ensure her safety or perhaps to quiet the inexplicable concern stirring in my chest—when the heavy thud of approaching footsteps shattered my focus.

I turned abruptly, coming face to face with him.

Lord Thomas Alexander.

His arrival cast a pall of dread over the corridor.

My eyes narrowed, a silent snarl curling beneath my carefully composed expression. So this was the man I had come to destroy.

Alexander looked like he had been sculpted from stone—but not in a way that inspired awe.

His face, weathered and deeply lined, bore no traces of noble hardship, no echoes of sacrifice or valor.

The creases around his mouth and eyes didn’t speak of battles fought with honor—they spoke of cruelty. Of blood spilled without remorse.

I didn’t need to know the stories.

I could feel the malice emanating from his very skin.

Whatever personal losses Alexander had endured, he had let them twist him, shaping him into something monstrous. Something beyond redemption.

And now, I stood before him.

A wolf in a borrowed name.

And he had no idea that I had come to bury him.

His long, dark hair fell past his shoulders in an untamed mass, tied carelessly at the nape of his neck.

It might have lent another man the air of a battle-hardened warrior, but on Alexander, it only deepened the unease he exuded.

I imagined it coming loose in the heat of combat, framing that cruel face in wild, unbound strands—a beast unleashed.

But his hair was the least of it.

It was his eyes that spoke the most.

Icy-blue. Glacial and bitter. Yet utterly devoid of warmth. There was no grief in them, no hint of mourning for his slain sons, no lingering sorrow for the lives he had crushed beneath his heel.

Only rage.

A seething, unflinching rage.

The kind that didn’t just ignite in moments of fury but thrived in destruction. The kind that fed on suffering.

Thomas Alexander wasn’t a man who fought for honor, nor did he kill out of duty.

He fought because he relished it.

“Lord Hassan?” His voice broke through the silence, crisp and edged with something unreadable. He extended his hand.

“Yes,” I replied, gripping it firmly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The pressure between us was a silent battle. His jaw clenched, his expression a mask of cold civility, but I could feel the violence barely contained beneath it.

This was not silent strength—this was a killer’s patience.

I recognized it. The way a wolf watches its dinner, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Alexander moved with planned grace; his every step was calculated. He wasn’t just a man who commanded soldiers—he commanded fear. And he reveled in it.

His noble attire was nothing more than a well-crafted disguise.

Beneath the pristine lines of his vest and fold of his shirt lurked a man who thrived on violence—not a warrior forged by hardship, but a pillager who wore civility like armor.

I could see him on a battlefield—not for honor, but for the thrill.

His coat flaring behind him, steel carving through flesh without hesitation.

No bloodied straps or battered scars marked his legacy.

He didn’t need them. His power was in the cruelty masked behind polish.

His clothes bore no stains of war, yet they reeked of it.

Not burden. Not memory.

Triumph.

Time had hardened Lord Alexander, but not how it should have.

There was no wisdom etched into the lines of his face, no quiet strength learned from suffering.

Only bitterness. Cruelty. A mask of hardened hatred had consumed whatever he once was, leaving behind nothing but a man who thrived on the misery of others.

Alexander’s resolve had not been forged by hardship—it had been sharpened by the desire to inflict it.

I felt no respect as I stared at him—no grudging acknowledgment of strength, no recognition of a fellow warrior.

Only revulsion.

Lord Alexander wore his cruelty like a second skin, and the longer our hands remained clasped, the more it felt like holding a blade by the edge.

I released him, the gesture brittle and brief—enough for appearances, nothing more.

Whatever goodwill his title implied, I felt none of it. Nothing good could come from this man.

“I see you’ve encountered my daughter,” he said at last. His tone was cold, indifferent, as if she were little more than an afterthought.

His lips curled into something that barely passed for a smile as he offered a perfunctory apology. “I must apologize, Lord Hassan. My daughter has no manners. Forgive her rude behavior.”

There was no concern in his voice. No fatherly irritation or disappointment. Nothing.

His eyes flicked past me, scanning the corridor where she had fled. And when he finally looked at me, his gaze was like a frozen abyss.

Empty. Inescapable.

“Please, join me in my study.”

A command disguised as an invitation.

With one last glance toward the young woman’s path, I acquiesced, falling into step beside him. His stride was assured, purposeful—but it couldn’t hide the malicious air that clung to him.

Much like the faint scent of tobacco that lingered in the air.

So did the promise of something worse to come.

As I entered his study, a guttural disgust clawed up my throat.

Standing in the center of the room was a man whose reputation for cruelty was second only to Alexander himself. The sight of him—the vile, corpulent figure surveying his surroundings with the self-satisfied air of a man who owned everything he touched—ignited a slow, smoldering wrath in my chest.

“Meet Lord Phineas Winston,” Alexander announced, a glint of something unreadable in his cold gaze. “This is my second in line.”

Winston.

The name alone was enough to curdle my blood.

Swathed in layers of velvet and lace, the old brute looked more like an overindulged peacock than a man of power.

But beneath the pretense of finery, his gluttonous appetite for dominance seeped through, coiling in the way he stood, in the smug curve of his lips, in the possessive way his beady eyes flicked toward me.

“Charmed,” I bit out, my voice a careful blend of civility and restraint.

Across the room, Alexander poured the brandy, the rich amber liquid swirling in crystal glasses. I took the offered drink, though the company of Lord Winston soured any appeal it might have held.

“Please forgive Elizabeth’s earlier behavior,” Alexander continued, his words smoothed with feigned apology. “There is no excuse for such behavior. She is to be betrothed to Lord Winston, and I believe the reality of it… took her by surprise.”

His words settled into the space between us, thick with unspoken transactions.

My grip tightened around the cool glass as realization dawned.

The reason for the young woman’s fear, her frantic escape, and the silent plea in her pale-blue eyes became painfully clear.

Elizabeth.

The ethereal creature who had collided with me, a fleeting breath of light in this decaying house, was to be bound to this twisted ruin of a man.

It was an abomination of a match.

A cage for a bird meant to soar.

And yet, to the men in this room, it was nothing more than a profitable arrangement.

“To a fruitful union between Elizabeth and Lord Winston,” Alexander declared, lifting his glass into the dim light. The crystal caught the glow of the lanterns, casting fractured reflections onto the walls—like the shattered future they had decided for her.

I raised my glass in reluctant mimicry, the brandy’s rich aroma doing nothing to mask my disgust. With each sip, I committed her name to memory—Elizabeth.

A beacon of purity, bound to be sullied by this unholy union.

After a moment steeped in false pleasantries, Alexander exhaled heavily, lowering himself to the imposing mahogany desk that dominated the room. He gestured toward two chairs, their ornate carvings more a testament to excess than taste.

“Please, have a seat, gentlemen,” he instructed.

I complied, lowering myself into the heavy chair. The wood groaned beneath me, a quiet protest to the unfolding conversation.

Alexander steepled his fingers, his gaze assessing. He was a man who calculated his every move, and this—this—was his opening gambit.

“Lord Hassan, your reputation precedes you.” His tone was almost indulgent, as if he were drawing me into some elaborate game he believed himself destined to win. “The Anatolia Timehunters are renowned for their prowess. It is a great honor to host one of such esteemed standing.”

“The honor is mine,” I returned smoothly, allowing my words to carry the right measure of civility. Play the role. Become the mask.

A pause.

Then, with methodical ease, I added, “I heard about the tragedy of your sons. My condolences.”

The words passed my lips like silk, effortless and empty. In the recesses of my mind, however, there was no grief, no sympathy.

Those sons had been cut from the same cloth as their father—ruthless raiders, men who had spent their lives wielding power like a bludgeon. They had met the fate they had earned.

Alexander nodded stiffly, the briefest flicker of something passing over his features before vanishing entirely. “Thank you,” he said, but there was no sorrow, no grief—only the hollow response of a man who understood loss not as pain but as inconvenience.