Chapter 10
The hour grew late.
Steam rose from the bath, curling against the dim light of the hearth. I sank into the heat, willing it to soothe the tremor that had followed me since supper and that restless ache Sylum’s kiss had left behind.
When I emerged, Nelly waited by the table, already setting out a tea service.
“Mrs. Ashby sent a special blend tonight,” she announced softly, pouring the tea. “She says it’s perfect for restless nerves.”
I nodded at Nelly, giving her an appreciative smile. “Thank you and please thank Mrs. Ashby for me as well.”
She turned to me then, her nose crinkling slightly. “His Grace sent word that he’ll be late returning from the stables,” she muttered. “He asked that you take your rest, my lady.”
I hid my disappointment behind another polite smile. “How unfortunate.”
She lingered a moment, studying me with soft, curious eyes, then poured the tea and added honey with practiced care before helping me apply the salve Mrs. Ashby had given me for my scar.
Though I hated to admit it, her kindness, however small, was beginning to soften my feelings toward her.
“Sleep well, Your Grace.”
“I hope so,” I murmured.
When she left, closing the door with a gentle click, silence flooded in. I crossed to the fire, clutching my robe closer around me. The silk clung to my damp skin, hugging my curves with every movement.
I sipped the tea.
It was sweet. Almost too sweet. Honey lingered on my tongue, thick and floral, and warmth unfurled in my chest like a slow-burning ember. With each sip my thoughts grew softer, blurred at the edges like slipping into a dream.
I told myself I would wait. I wanted to be awake when Sylum came. I wanted to remember the way his voice softened when he said my name. But the warmth was so heavy that my limbs sank into it like sand.
As soon as I laid down, the plush mattress hugged me so lovingly that my eyes drifted closed. I felt myself slipping, softly, gently, into sleep.
I wasn’t sure when I’d fallen asleep, only that I was no longer alone in my mind.
A faint click pulled me back, the delicate turn of a latch.
My eyes opened, heavy as stone. The ceiling swayed gently above me. The fire had burned low, nothing left but embers breathing faint light into the dark.
Footsteps. Slow and measured, booted softly against the floorboards.
I tried to move, but my limbs were leaden. The tea still sang through my blood, thick and honey-warm.
A figure passed near the hearth.
Closer.
My heart quickened even as my body refused to rouse. Then came a voice, velvety and familiar.
“Lucy,” he murmured.
Relief flooded me. “Sylum…”
He crossed the room with slow, deliberate grace. The faint light caught his features, the same dark hair, the same mouth I had dreamed of far too many nights.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “I missed you.”
I blinked. The words didn’t sound quite right. Too forced. Too eager.
He sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the covers like a man handling something sacred. His touch found my cheek, tracing the curve of my jaw.
“What took you so long?” I breathed, the words sticky on my tongue.
He smiled, crooked and secretive. “Desperate for my touch, my little Duchess?”
Something deep inside of me sang with alarm, but I couldn’t figure out why.
Little Duchess…
My mouth opened, but words snagged at the back of my throat.
He bent close until his breath stirred the loose curls near my ear. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted you like this?” The scent of him was different. It was sharper somehow, touched with dampness and something metallic beneath.
Still, when his lips brushed my throat, my body responded as though it knew him. Heat unfurled in my veins. I wanted to believe. I wanted to forget the unease curling at the edges of my thoughts.
He kissed my collarbone, his voice dark and reverent. “Soft and quiet, and warm… you were made for me.”
My breath caught. “Why are you saying these things?”
He lifted his head, eyes glinting black in the half-light. “Because I can’t hold back anymore, Lucy. Not now that you’re mine.”
Something inside me stilled.
He kissed me again, slow, claiming, and desperate. And for a heartbeat, I gave in. I had waited so long for this, for him. But when his hand slid beneath the edge of my robe, I noticed the faintest tremor. It did not feel like gentleness, but rather restraint.
My body screamed recognition, but my heart faltered.
His voice changed. “Your heart is so lovely, Lucy… I think I should like to keep it in a jar.”
I blinked through the fog glazing my mind, confused, unsure if I heard him correctly.
He stilled above me, a slow smile unfurling that seemed wrong and wicked. “It is unfortunate that I won’t be able to keep you.”
The words fell like ice against my skin.
The illusion cracked. His eyes weren’t Sylum’s warm brown but something darker. They were almost obsidian and burning with a hunger that didn’t belong to my husband.
“Wait,” I gasped, struggling weakly against the weight of his body. “What—”
He hushed me, brushing a finger against my mouth before his lips found mine.
Soft, gentle at first, then hungry with a maddening need that was so unlike Sylum.
Despite the way my mind fought to wrap around his words and the unease slipping down my spine, my body betrayed me.
My lips parted on their own accord, seeking more of him.
He broke the kiss almost forcefully, a groan escaping him as he raked a shaking hand through his hair.
“Soon,” he whispered, leaning close until his breath burned against my ear.
The warmth in my blood turned fever-hot. My thoughts unraveled. My body grew heavy and unresponsive. The room began to spin and everything blurred together.
“I don’t… feel right,” I slurred.
He laid me back gently, almost lovingly, smoothing my hair from my forehead. “Let it take you.”
The sound of feathers rustling and Poe’s agitated voice was the last thing I heard. And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
And then the dark swallowed everything.
When I surfaced again, the night had not changed. It hung thick and colorless around me, a velvet weight pressing softly upon the room. For a fleeting moment I could not tell what had woken me—the faint brush of wings perhaps, or the scrape of talons tracing the grain of wood.
Then I saw him.
Poe perched neatly upon the bedside table, a small sentinel wrought of shadow and midnight sheen. The embers in the hearth cast a dim glow and it caught along the curve of his feathers, turning them briefly blue, then silver. His black eyes, unnervingly human in their stillness, were fixed upon me.
“Poe?” My voice was rough, uncertain. My head still swam faintly, my mouth dry with the aftertaste of honey and something oddly metallic.
The raven cocked his head, his small body puffing slightly as he regarded me. Then, with a curious tenderness, he leaned forward and brushed his beak against my outstretched fingers.
“A dream within a dream,” he crooned dramatically, voice low and mournful. “Oh, my Lenore…”
A tremor threaded through my breath. Shadows clung to the edges of my thoughts. A latch turning, footsteps measured and deliberate, a familiar voice curling close to my ear. Heat on my skin. A hunger that had not been Sylum’s.
A nightmare.
It must have been.
My pulse steadied as I reached out, my fingers grazing the sleek curve of his neck. His feathers were soft and cool, like silk left out under the moon.
“It was only a dream,” I said, more to myself than to him. “Just a dream.”
The bird tilted his head again, eyes gleaming with strange intelligence. “Oh, my Lenore.”
“Lucy,” I corrected weakly, though even to my own ears the protest sounded thin. “My name is Lucy.”
Poe clicked his beak, a strange little sound that was either amusement or refusal. I could not tell. Then he ruffled his feathers and settled more comfortably, as though my bedside were exactly where he intended to be.
“My Lenore,” he lamented again, the words drawn out like a sigh.
I smiled in spite of myself, exhaustion softening my resistance. “Alright then,” I breathed. “I’m your Lenore.”
The bird gave a low, satisfied croak, closing his eyes. His head tucked beneath one wing as if lulled by the rhythm of my voice.
I lay back against the pillows, my hand still resting on Poe. Outside, the first pale light of dawn had not yet touched the horizon. The manor was quiet, suspended in that strange hour between dream and waking.
But as sleep crept close once more, a quiver of unease stirred in my chest.
If it had only been a dream, why did my skin still burn where he had touched me?
Why did the sheets still smell faintly of him?
Poe stirred, half-sleeping, and murmured something soft and sorrowful.
I turned away from the questions, closing my eyes. In visions of the dark night, I dreamed of joy departed.
And the house, as if appeased, fell silent.