Chapter 27 #3
He stopped me, his hands finding my shoulders, not pushing, but holding me at bay. When our gazes locked again, I saw the shock in his still-dilated pupils, a raw, terrifying self-disgust. He dragged a hand over his mouth, almost as if he were trying to wipe away a contamination.
He pushed back from me, hard, and turned on his heel. He left as abruptly as he’d arrived, the heavy door to the sunroom slamming shut, rattling the grimy glass.
I was still lost in thought, my skin still burning from the wax and his mouth, when Friedrik’s voice boomed down from the high archway.
“If it isn’t my favourite little Aenite! What happened to you Ophie dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I looked up at the gargoyle, desperately needing a reprieve from Cain’s consuming presence. “First, I am the only Aenite you know, and second, I need a minute to catch my breath, Friddi,” I answered him honestly, my voice low and weary. “I need some time to be free of his... noise.”
“I am glad to inform that you shall get what you wish for, dear. He will be thoroughly occupied,” Friedrik supplied, but his voice lacked its usual theatrical mockery. It was heavy, scraping against the stone.
“Oh, that is wonderful. What kinds of torture will he be engaging in this lovely afternoon?” I asked, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.
Friedrik shifted on his perch, his stone wings grinding. “Not torture, Ophelia. Maintenance. The Master is summoning the usual distraction.”
I stopped, freezing on the first step. The pain of watching Caspian’s agony momentarily gave way to a cold, unfamiliar spike of annoyance. I looked up at him. “Distraction?”
"Lady Rosette," Friedrik supplied, his yellow eyes flashing with a sombre, ancient pity. "You surely remember her? She was Consul Malathor’s decorative little arm candy at the soirée."
I felt a hot, unexpected burn of humiliation and anger.
Rosette.
The name hit me like a physical slap. I remembered her perfectly—the female with the violet hair and the cloying, sickly-sweet aura who had clung to Malathor like a decorative parasite when it was obvious to everyone that she would rather be on Cain’s.
That Cenite bitch.
A wave of nausea rolled through me, followed instantly by a sharp, jagged edge of fury.
How could he? How could he drag me into the Conservatory and dump me among the lilies, almost lose control of his own hunger, then hunt me down in the sunroom to tease me with the candle, unravel me with his words of obsession, and then—minutes later—summon her to finish what we started?
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, forcing my face into a mask of cold indifference. I would not let the stone beast see me bleed.
"A mistress?" I asked, my voice steady, though my nails bit into my palms.
“Do not make the mistake of trying to make sense of it,” Friedrik warned, his voice low and rumbling, vibrating through the walls.
“She is not a mistress. She is a biological necessity. He does not touch her for affection, or even for pleasure in the way you understand it. He touches her because if he does not expend the energy he is holding back—the energy you just stirred up—he will level this estate.”
He looked down at me, his face grave.
“He summons her so that he does not break you, Ophelia. It is a tragic, ugly function of his existence. He takes the female and uses her body to drain the heat until his blood runs cold again and then sends her away. It is the only mercy he knows how to show.”
The words hit me harder than the wax.
He was sleeping with her to protect me. It was a twisted, monstrous logic that made my chest ache with a confusion so profound I couldn't breathe.
Friedrik lowered his voice conspiratorially, changing the subject as if sensing I was about to shatter.
"Now, about that library you are so desperate to see and keep failing.
The door is ward-locked to his blood, obviously.
But the frame... ah, the frame is old craftsmanship.
" He winked, a grinding sound of stone on stone.
"That hideous portrait of the First Alistair to the left of the door? The artist was a lover of secrets. Slide the bottom right corner of the moulding aside, and you will find a raw iron keyhole. It’s a manual override.
His grandfather never trusted magic enough to rely solely on it.
Pick that lock, and you bypass the blood-ward entirely.
Go find your answers, little Ophie. I'm rooting for you. "
I stared. Little Ophie. The simple kindness of the pet name, delivered amidst the shocking logistical clue and the brutal truth of Cain's mistress, momentarily paralysed me. I had the key to the library. I had the knowledge of his dark relief.
I need the knowledge, my mind snapped back to function. And I need to figure out why the thought of Rosette touching him makes me want to smash every obsidian statue in this hollow house and then find the source of my perpetual torment and drive my delicate fists through his idiotic face.