Page 74 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

The wind howled through the harbor, cold and unrelenting, tugging at my shawl as I clutched it tightly around my shoulders.

His head tilted, arms folding across his chest as he regarded me with measured doubt.

“A healer, you say?” His gaze flicked to the bundle at my chest, then back to me.

“And how do I know you’re not all talk?”

Without hesitation, I reached into my satchel and pulled out a small jar, unscrewing the lid to release the familiar scent of comfrey and honey, bittersweet and strong. “This mends wounds faster than any surgeon’s stitches,” I said with confidence. “Let me show you.”

Before he could reply, a shout rang out from behind him—a sailor staggered forward, his face pale, blood dripping from a gash in his forearm. He clutched at it, trying to stem the flow, pain etched across his features.

The captain’s eyes narrowed, flicking from the injured man back to me. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll talk—if you can fix that without him keeling over.”

I knelt beside the sailor, my hands steady. There was no room for fear now. As I cleaned the wound with seawater and applied the salve, I murmured to the man, wrapping the injury with a clean cloth. His pain eased as the salve worked its way into the gash, his breathing evening out.

When I stood, wiping my hands on my apron, the captain’s eyes had shifted—calculating, impressed.

“You’ve earned your place,” he said with a curt nod. “But mark my words, miss—if you can’t keep up, I’ll leave you at the next port.”

“I won’t disappoint you, Captain,” I replied, my voice unwavering as Roman stirred against me.

I wasn’t just leaving for safety—I was returning to fulfill a promise. My mother’s work—the Noctyss flower alchemy—awaited me in England, a legacy I was determined to perfect.

The creaking of the hull became my constant companion as we crossed the Atlantic. Life aboard was harsh—a rhythm of cold, hunger, and salt, broken only by the shouts of sailors and the roar of the waves.

But in the chaos, Roman was my anchor.

His tiny fingers curled around mine when seasickness tore at me. His rare, precious gurgles soothed my frayed soul. In his scent and warmth, I found the strength to face another day aboard that floating prison of wood and sail.

I would reach England.

For him. For my mother. For the legacy that still burned in my blood—the alchemy of the Noctyss flower, a gift I had vowed to perfect, just as she had once dreamed. Her promise was my compass, even when the world felt hopeless.

And I would not fail.

My skills as a healer were tested more times than I could count.

Splintered bones from brutal falls, deep cuts from careless blades, bruises from drunken brawls—night after night, by the flickering glow of a lantern, I stitched and wrapped wounds.

My hands remained unwavering as my body begged for rest, weariness clinging to me like a second skin.

Yet amidst the chaos, there was solace. The women aboard—hardened by the sea yet tender in spirit—became a lifeline.

They cooed over Roman, their eyes softening as they rocked him to sleep, singing lullabies drowned beneath the ship’s endless groan.

When duty called me away, I entrusted him to them—temporary guardian angels in the cramped quarters of our drifting world.

As the ship forged onward, carving white foam trails through dark waters, I clung to the image of England’s shores—a dream I could barely grasp, its edges frayed by fear. What waited there, I did not know.

After eight long weeks, the dock’s wooden planks groaned underfoot as I stepped off the ship, Roman cradled against my chest. The tang of salt and fish filled my nostrils, grounding me in a reality far colder than memory.

This was England, yet it felt distant, unfamiliar, like the ghost of a home I no longer belonged to.

I had nothing. No coin. No plan. Only the weight of regret coiled tightly around my shoulders.

“Why did I come here?” I whispered, the words snatched away by the wind—a ghost of a question, unheard and unanswered.

I wandered through the streets, Roman nestled close, each step more aimless than the last. The buildings loomed overhead, their windows dark eyes, watching with indifferent curiosity.

My feet carried me to the entrance of a tavern, its weathered sign swinging in the wind.

The stench of stale ale and sweat seeped from within, a warning.

I thought of renting a room—just one night, a chance to rest.

Before I could open the door, a man sidled beside me. His breath reeked of drink, his gaze sliding over me and lingering too long on the blanket swaddling Roman.

“You look like you could use some money,” he slurred, a twisted grin on his lips. “Maybe we can… make an arrangement.”

His insinuation sliced through my exhaustion, igniting a rage that snapped me awake.

Without a word, I turned and fled, quickening my pace, my heart pounding as I ducked down narrow streets until I was sure we were alone.

In the silence of a deserted alley, I collapsed against the cold stone, my body trembling.

I sobbed, the tears falling freely, mingling with Roman’s soft whimpers—a mother and child, both lost, both yearning for comfort that would not come.

“I shouldn’t have left,” I choked out, the words scraping like broken glass. The confession fell against the bricks, hollow and broken, swallowed by the silence of the alleyway.

The night pressed in around us, cold and relentless but even in the dark, I clutched Roman tighter, drawing what little strength I had from the warmth of his small, fragile body.

I had to survive.

For him. For the promise.

For the legacy that refused to die in me.

When the sobs finally ebbed, a fragile resolve rose in their place, like the first flicker of dawn against a storm-wrecked sky. Despite the regrets that clung to me like burrs, I forced myself to breathe, to move.

“Let’s go back to my childhood home,” I whispered to Roman, trying to infuse my voice with hope. “Maybe… maybe it’s still standing.”

The journey there was one of ghosts. Every step echoed with memories—my mother’s laughter, the gentle hum of her voice as she spoke of the Noctyss flower, of the alchemy we were meant to perfect together.

Those halls had once been filled with light and purpose.

Now, I walked toward them as a stranger.

But the house that greeted me was not the sanctuary of my youth.

Another family’s laughter rang from within, soft and foreign, replacing the silence that once belonged to us. The walls were intact, the garden overgrown, but nothing remained of what was once mine.

I knocked, hesitant, each rap of my knuckles a plea for something I could never reclaim.

A maid answered, her eyes scanning me—disheveled, worn, clad in strange attire with a babe in my arms. Her gaze had no recognition, no flicker of understanding—just polite confusion.

“I’m sorry, miss,” she said gently. “But you can’t stay here.”

The door closed.

And with it, the last tangible piece of my past.

I stood motionless momentarily, the weight of the loss pressing down like a stone. Then I turned, staggering through the dimly lit streets, Roman’s cries slicing through the night air. Each wail was a lash against my soul—a reminder of the ruin I had brought upon us.

My father’s world was gone.

His once-vibrant society—now dust and echoes.

Because of me.

Because of Salvatore. His betrayal, the murder of my father, stained my soul like ink spilled across a page, a mark that could never be washed away.

“Shh, my sweet boy,” I whispered, cradling Roman close, my words trembling and feeble. I rocked him gently, my shoulders shaking with exhaustion and fear. “What will we do?”

The question lingered in the night air, unanswered, suspended like a fragile thread in a world that no longer made sense. We wandered beneath the streetlamps, their flickering glow illuminating a city that had once been my home—and now held nothing but shadows.

My feet, driven by instinct and the ache of memory, carried me down a familiar path. The cobblestones led me to the remnants of a life that now felt like it belonged to someone else.

Amir’s townhouse loomed ahead—silent, a ghost of what it had once been.

I remembered it alive with warmth, with laughter that spilled into the night air, and with love that wrapped around me like a cloak.

Now, the windows were dark, the light inside long gone, and I stood outside a place I could no longer enter.

The iron gate groaned beneath my touch as I pushed it open. I climbed the stone steps, my body trembling beneath the weight of my son, of my grief, of the shattered pieces of my heart.

There, I sat—clutching Roman tightly to my chest, his small body the only light left in the darkness.

“I promised you the world,” I whispered, tears cascading freely, each one a testament to broken dreams. “But I’ve failed you. No money. No family. No home. What kind of mother am I?”

Roman clung to me, his tiny hands gripping my dress, his whimpers echoing the sorrow that consumed me.

The night deepened, the wind biting as it swept through the empty streets. I shivered, pressing my face into Roman’s hair, mourning all we had lost.

Then, something stirred. Wisps of black smoke curled through the air, twisting around us and coalescing into a familiar form. My breath caught in my throat, and my heart stalled.

Strong arms enveloped me. The scent of cedar and leather filled my senses, wrapping around me like a dream I never dared to believe in again.

I gasped, my heart slamming against my ribs. Slowly, I lifted my head.

Amir.

His eyes met mine, filled with pain, love, and a thousand unspoken regrets.

“Amir...” It was all I could manage—his name a whisper of disbelief, of wild, reckless hope.

A sob broke free as I clung to him, collapsing into the only arms I had ever truly belonged to.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” he murmured into my hair, his voice breaking with every word. “I should never have listened to Lazarus. I should have fought to be with you.”

Tears blurred my vision as I raised trembling hands to his face, needing to feel him, to prove he was real—solid, warm, alive. My fingertips brushed his skin, and a sob escaped me.

“You’re alive,” I breathed, a fragile mix of wonder and grief. The impossible had happened. He was here.

Amir nodded, eyes locked onto mine with fierce, unwavering purpose as if anchoring me back to the world we once shared.

He surrounded me, impossible and undeniable, a sanctuary against the storm of despair I had lived in for too long.

His warmth seeped into the frozen corners of my soul, thawing the despair that had wrapped around me like a second skin.

His touch was spectral—gentle yet brimming with the strength I had always known in him—a warrior’s hands, a protector’s heart.

“Watching you alone has been torture,” he said, his voice low, raw with anguish that mirrored my own. “I never stopped watching over you. I never stopped loving you.”

Tears streamed down my cheeks as he gathered us into his arms—Roman and me—with a tenderness that shattered me—a tenderness born not just of love but of loss and longing too vast to name.

He lifted us effortlessly, holding us close as if we were the most precious things he had ever touched. As we crossed the threshold of the townhouse, the door swung open without protest, as though the house itself recognized our return—welcoming us back into the embrace of shadows and memories.

Inside, the floorboards creaked underfoot, familiar, mournful sounds echoing through the stillness. The air smelled faintly of cedar and old paper of time long passed. The remnants of our love still lingered here.

For the first time in months, a glimmer of happiness pierced the sorrow. It was fragile, flickering like candlelight, but it was there, fiery in the darkness.

But I knew happiness never came without a price, not for us.

Never for us.

What would the cost be this time?

I didn’t know.

But with Amir’s arms around me, Roman safe against my chest, I would face it—whatever it was.

Because love like this didn’t die. It endured.

Even through darkness.

Even through time.