Chapter Twenty-Two
Cordon slammed the door to his room and stomped to his bed.
The night had been going perfectly until they had knocked over that infernal lantern.
The Kitty who had shuddered in his arms and laughed as she’d pulled bloomers from a wardrobe was the Kitty he wanted by his side.
Not the Kitty who had coldly rebuked him.
One mistake and she’d snapped back to being a prim and proper dressmaker.
The woman was so stubborn and so determined to bury herself in her work.
He wouldn’t have been surprised to find cast-off threads in her hair.
Blaylock’s involvement with the Wild Hunt was an unexpected complication, but he had yet to meet a human man who could not be bought. If that didn’t work, Cordon would kill him to ensure Kitty’s safety, then return to her shop and convince her to let him help her.
“My lord?”
Adams stood in the doorway.
“You are home earlier than expected,” Adams said. “Did you enjoy your ride?”
Cordon snorted. Enjoying the ride hadn’t been the problem.
“Allow me to help you disrobe, at least,” Adams said. He entered the room and closed the door behind him.
Cordon struggled to his feet. Adams was right. As annoyed as he was, there were other matters to attend to first.
“My lord, what were you doing, rolling in the dirt?” Adams asked as he removed Cordon’s jacket. “I hope Miss Carter did not end up in a similar state.”
It took all of Cordon’s strength not to laugh as he remembered how he had nearly taken Kitty in the stables. The scent of her blood had been so strong, he hadn’t considered the damage he’d been doing to his suit.
He closed his eyes as Adams removed his clothing and recalled how it had felt to have Kitty spasming around his cock.
He would go to sleep remembering the look of ecstasy on her face as she’d worked herself.
That image he would keep for the rest of his unnatural life.
When he recovered, he’d deal with Mr. Blaylock, then beg Kitty’s forgiveness.
Adams gasped, startling Cordon out of his thoughts.
“What is it?” He craned his neck, but Adams was behind him. “Has the rash spread?”
Fingers touched the middle of his back. “This is no rash, but a bruise, my lord. A wicked, large one.”
Cordon stiffened. “What does it look like?”
“I’ll get a mirror,” Adams said. He made it several steps before stopping. “Ah…right. I sometimes forget.”
“Describe it to me,” Cordon demanded.
Adams returned to stand behind him. “It’s yellowed at the edges and reddish brown at the center.”
Cordon reached around and touched the spot. When his fingers probed the flesh, he winced at the pain.
“I must have backed into something,” he said. “That’ll be all tonight, Adams.”
Adams bowed and exited, to Cordon’s relief. He felt like he might put his fist through the wall at any moment. The mate atrophy was accelerating. How much longer did he have before he slipped into fever?
“No!” He threw a pillow across the room. It hit the wall and thumped to the ground. He swallowed a sob and fell onto his bed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting.
It wasn’t fair. He’d done everything his maker had claimed would slow the progression.
He was on his own now.
The edge of the journal dug into his hand.
He grasped it and rolled onto his back. But when he flipped it open, he noticed the spine was peeling.
He ran his fingers over the ragged edge then angrily grasped the book in both hands and ripped it in half.
Bits of paper fluttered to his bed, along with a folded square of parchment that had been shoved into the spine.
He picked it up with trembling fingers and knew immediately what it was.
The missing page of the journal.
The bruises are getting worse. They spring up like weeds and spread with fearsome speed, such that even fresh human blood and opium no longer keep the pain at bay.
I sent the nest away so I would have time to clean and bind the newest of the sores, but hiding them will soon be impossible.
The smell alone is enough to turn my stomach.
What is worse is knowing the others might follow my path.
I have accepted my death, but still I lie awake on this Earth, tormented by visions of my sweet children suffering.
I would free them from the burden of that pain, were it within my power.
Alas, all I can do is arrange for their futures as best I can and impress upon them the importance of never giving up searching for their fated mates.
I am haunted by the memory of watching my maker reach for me with skeletal hands, calling my name with his last breath. My nest might not understand, but I hope one day they realize that my leaving was a mercy rather than a cruel and selfish act.
Even if they hate me, I have no choice.
I must leave.
Cordon set the journal on the table beside his bed and stared at the ceiling. He felt as if the temperature in the room had plummeted and was surprised when his breath did not form a cloud.
It was not a surprise that Marguerite hadn’t wanted them to see her die, but reading how she had feared for herself made his heart ache. He reached for the bottle next to his bed, his nightly draft. Instead of drinking it, he rolled it around in his hands to warm the contents.
He was done fearing what the future held.
After carefully gathering the pieces of the journal and setting them aside, he retrieved his list from his desk, folded it, and placed it in his pocket. A physical copy was not necessary as he had memorized the items, but having it on his person would serve as a reminder.
There would be no more physicians. No more awful-tasting concoctions. No more uncomfortable inspections of his unclothed body. Starting tomorrow, his only focus would be getting the most enjoyment and excitement out of every day, starting with making amends with Kitty.