Page 8 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)
“Their loss is deeply felt.”
“Indeed,” I acknowledged, keeping my voice even.
Inside, my thoughts moved like pieces across a board, arranging themselves for the next play.
The game had begun.
And I would play my part to perfection.
Alexander’s gaze darkened, his voice laced with venom as cold as his frostbitten soul.
“It was the Black Wraith who killed them. That masked scourge.”
A shiver coursed through him—fear, rage, or perhaps anticipation. Then, with a sudden burst of fury, he slammed his fist onto the desk, making his crystal glass rattle in protest.
“That man must be caught and tortured. We will make an example of his death.”
His voice rose like a gathering storm, each syllable charged with wrath. “His men are decimating our Timehunter societies. He released a foul poison and burned the place to the ground.”
I lifted the brandy to my lips, allowing its warmth to coat my throat, buying myself a moment to weigh my response. Careful. Calculated.
“Why do you think it’s just one person?” I asked, letting my words hang like an unwelcome guest. “In our society, we operate in teams.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened. “It has to be him,” he insisted, as stubborn as the ancient oaks lining his estate.
I tilted my head slightly, feigning intrigue. “A serial killer craves notoriety. He wouldn’t change his stripes. This is the first we’ve heard of a poison being used. I’d wager it was someone different.”
A test. A flick of the blade, seeing how deep I could injure, before he noticed the wound.
“Nonsense,” Alexander scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “The Black Wraith is the culprit. He has been known to experiment in his killings.”
Experiment.
Has he?
A slow smirk threatened to curl at the edge of my lips. I stifled it with another sip of brandy, the irony almost too rich to swallow.
Because I knew his every move.
Because I was the Black Wraith.
Alexander’s eyes simmered with conviction, blind to the irony before him. “Your Anatolia society is strong,” he continued, shifting gears, sensing an opportunity. “We can help each other. My friend, Lord Francis, says you have different methods.”
I leaned back slightly, letting the firelight flicker against my composed expression.
Lifting the brandy to my lips, I took one final sip—the liquid fire searing away any lingering taste of complicity.
“You have my partnership,” I declared, each syllable as brittle as the winter air beyond these suffocating walls.
No sooner had the false allegiance left my tongue than Lord Winston stirred beside me, laboriously heaving himself upright. His voice, meant to be a hushed whisper for Alexander alone, carried through the room like an ill-timed proclamation.
“We should ask Mathias before consulting with the legendary Timehunters of Anatolia. We shouldn’t be allying with them without Mathias’ approval.”
The room tensed.
Alexander’s response came like a thunderclap, a bellow of sorrow and rage so sudden it sent a jolt through the air.
“Where was Mathias when the tragedy happened?”
His face contorted, grief twisting his chiseled features into something raw and unnatural. “He didn’t save any of them! I had to leave the festivities. And when I returned—” His voice broke, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“Everyone was dead.”
Then, as if its weight had grown unbearable, he threw back his head and howled—a guttural cry, full of anguish and something more dangerous—something unhinged.
“My sons were among the dead.”
The cry echoed through the study, rattling the empty glass in my hand.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, with a shuddering breath, Alexander collected himself, though his wild, fevered eyes remained.
He turned to Winston, his gaze ablaze with something far more than grief—conviction.
“No, Lord Winston. The best thing is to join forces with Anatolia.”
A smile ghosted his lips, but it was not a smile of warmth. It was the smirk of a man who had made up his mind and decided how history would be written.
“Mathias will be happy.”
I studied him carefully, my expression unshifting.
Desperation had its claws in him.
And desperation forged alliances that reason never would.
At that moment, I knew—this was a battlefield, and the true war had just begun.
I would have to tread carefully, for the path before me was treacherous.
And I intended to survive it.
“Indeed, Lord Winston, the Black Wraith must be ensnared,” I said smoothly, my voice calm amidst the storm brewing in this room.
Every word was a move on the board, a carefully placed piece in a high-stakes game.
“However, I suspect there is more to this shadow than meets the eye—a secondary player, perhaps.”
Alexander leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with interest.
“And how, pray tell, might we unearth this mysterious accomplice?”
I allowed a calculated pause, feigning deep contemplation while ensuring my next words carried enough weight to steer the conversation.
“By baiting a trap grand enough to draw them both from hiding,” I proposed, masking my revulsion beneath a facade of eagerness. “A masquerade. A lavish affair where none can resist the allure of obscurity.”
A flicker of something dangerous crossed Alexander’s face, his earlier grief momentarily forgotten, replaced by the glint of intrigue.
“Brilliant, Lord Hassan!” he exclaimed, the weight of his sorrow cast aside like a discarded cloak.
I stiffened at the title. It was not mine. It had never been mine.
“Please, call me Amir,” I corrected, my voice firm but controlled. That borrowed name was a shackle, an illusion I had forged—but I would not let it define me.
Alexander inclined his head, his lips curling slightly as he let my name roll over his tongue. “Very well, Amir.”
He savored it. It was as if, at that moment, he believed he had won some silent battle between us.
“We shall announce Elizabeth’s engagement at the soirée,” he added, his tone brimming with satisfaction.
Something twisted inside me.
The thought of her bound to another—to Winston—sent a slow, rumbling revulsion curling through my chest. But I buried it, forced my hands to remain still, my expression unreadable.
“Yes,” I murmured, my voice betraying nothing. “The Black Wraith would not pass up such an occasion.”
Across the room, Winston’s rheumy eyes gleamed with something repulsive—anticipation, desire, victory.
“We’ll extend invitations to every society,” he crooned, his lips parting in something akin to glee.
And in that moment, I saw it for what it was.
This was not just a game to them.
This was a hunt.
And I was standing in the center of the snare, waiting for the jaws to snap shut.
But they had made one fatal mistake.
They believed they were the predators.
They had yet to realize?—
So was I.
Alexander, ever the master of pretense, slid down from the edge of the desk with the ease of a man who believed himself untouchable. He crossed the short space between us, his heavy hand landing on my shoulder—meant to feel welcoming, but laced with possession.
“Amir, I am overjoyed that you’re here,” he declared, his voice thick with satisfaction. “I insist you stay as my guest.”
I resisted the urge to recoil. The idea of remaining within these walls, steeped in their machinations, was insufferable.
“Thank you, but no,” I declined smoothly, unwilling to let them draw me deeper into their world of cold stone and colder hearts.
Alexander’s smile did not falter, but I caught the flicker of something else beneath it—an irritation he was too controlled to voice.
“Then at least grace us with your company at dinner tomorrow,” he pressed, his determination as tireless as a wolf scenting fresh blood. “The betrothal announcement will be made. And then we will follow up with a grand announcement at the soiree.”
I hesitated for the briefest moment before inclining my head.
“Very well.”
The words left my lips like a sentence passed.
As I turned to leave, retreating into the solitude of my thoughts, the image of her lingered—porcelain skin, soft blue eyes gleaming with untold sorrow, a fleeting moment of fragility colliding into me in the dim corridor.
Elizabeth.
A woman about to be sealed into a fate worse than death.
The question gnawed at the edges of my mind, refusing to be silenced.
How could I stop it?