Forty-Eight #2
I wrinkle my nose and frown. I assumed the bloody meat was a rare, thick steak of some sort, but my mind starts processing where I am and what that could mean.
The carnoraxis feed on human flesh and blood.
Torbin has been ingesting carnoraxis potion, giving him their strength and rage.
He has fangs that resemble their teeth. Who’s to say the transformation doesn’t also give him their hunger? Does he crave what they do?
My breath is trapped in my throat as repulsion churns my stomach. I inch back in my seat, trying to pull oxygen in past the bile rising in my throat. He wouldn’t serve me human flesh, would he? My tongue turns dry. My stomach coils, and I brace myself against the rising nausea.
“Celeste.”
I shoot my gaze at him, my nails clawing into my palms while I attempt to control my heartbeat.
His voice softens. “If I make you uncomfortable, that’s not my intension.”
“Liar.”
“It’s beef, Celeste.”
“But you do feed humans to your creatures. You kill them for food or for sport or to get ahead in some political plot.” My face grows hot with anger. “How can you do that to innocent people?”
He sets down his silverware and folds his hands under his chin. “You say that as if it should matter to me.”
“What?” I shake my head. “It should matter. Torbin, I know you. The real you. You have a heart. I’ve seen it in you.”
His jaw tightens and he drops his hands, fingers splayed on the table. “I’m no longer that na?ve child you befriended long ago, Celeste. I know now what gives a man power in this world. And it’s not compassion.”
“I disagree,” I say, my voice steady, though the fire beneath my skin is threatening to break loose.
He sighs, his gaze traveling over my features. “Celeste, there is only one person I’m compassionate about. Only one person I want by my side as I rise to power. Only one person I want to share it all with.”
“I don’t care what you want.”
He tilts his head. “You know, the tsar is convinced that your power is the key to ultimate control. Even if you are unwilling to give it to him, he will take it. But you don’t have to be cast aside, Celeste.
I will take care of you. I will shelter you, protect you.
You could live a long life at my side, as my wife. ”
I retreat into my chair, prickles stabbing my skin. “That’s not going to happen, Torbin.”
“The tsar thinks differently, Your Highness.” He takes a sip of his wine. “It was always your father’s wish. After all, it was his idea. It was Axel who suggested the match to Silas. Wouldn’t you want to carry through with your father’s wishes?”
I inhale deeply, a sour feeling in my gut telling me Torbin is trying to reveal the truth to me.
I stand abruptly, the chair’s legs scraping against stone.
Torbin’s dark brows lift in faint amusement, but his grip on his goblet remains lax, unconcerned. The candlelight casts sharp lines across his face, accentuating the shadows beneath his eyes.
“I’m tired of this,” I say. “You’ve alluded to the fact that the tsar is my father, but I want to see him face to face.”
Torbin exhales through his nose, swirling the dark liquid in his cup. The deep red stains the sides like something thicker than wine.
“Why?” he muses. “You don’t trust my word?”
“No,” I say bluntly. “You’ve sworn your loyalty to this man, but the man you describe doesn’t sound like my father. I need proof.”
The words are bold, but my stomach churns. I cannot believe my own father would want to use my power for his own greed.
Torbin taps a slow rhythm against the rim of his goblet, watching me. His eyes gleam in the dim light—calculating, searching for something in me.
Then, with a sigh, he pushes back his chair and rises. “If proof is what you require, then so be it.”
The tension in the room coils tighter.
Torbin strides toward the balcony doors, his dark cloak sweeping behind him. He doesn’t wait for me to follow.
I glance around once—at the untouched food, at the flickering candlelight, at the snowy land beyond the walls. Then I go.
The halls of Dulcamar’s fortress breathe ice.
Whatever magic I may have manifested to keep me warm has vanished.
Each breath I take is a puff of frost in the air, my lungs burning with the cold.
The stone corridors stretch endlessly ahead, silent and stifling.
Two of his guards follow closely behind, ensuring I don’t flee.
The deeper we go, the more warmth is swallowed whole, devoured by the ancient rock around us. The walls are rough-hewn, damp to the touch, veins of frost crawling across their surface like silver roots. Torches flicker dimly in iron sconces, their flames too weak to chase the chill.
My boots strike the stone floor with a hollow rhythm, each step echoing through the narrow halls, a metronome of dread.
Torbin walks ahead of me, his pace unhurried, his back straight, hands clasped behind him.
He doesn’t speak—he doesn’t need to. His confidence tells me this path is one he knows intimately.
My nerves feel grated. I need to get out of this trap. I try calling out again with my mind.
“Dante, please find me.” The words pulse from my mind like a whisper sent on the wind. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
No answering warmth. No flicker of connection.
Only silence.
“Please. Hear me. I’m still trying. I’m still fighting.”
We round a final bend, and the corridor narrows. I stop when Torbin does, facing a tall, iron-banded door. Its surface is pitted with rust and age, frost masking its hinges.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until I’m forced to draw in a sharp gasp.
This is it.
My fingers twitch at my sides. My body wants to turn around, to flee. But my mind won’t let me.
My father could be alive.
He could be something worse.
The chamber beyond is wide but feels close, as if the walls themselves lean in to listen.
Heavy drapes of deep-wine and moss-green velvet spill from the high windows, their fringes brushing warped floorboards the color of old blood.
The air is thick—humid and sweet—with the scent of decaying roses and beeswax clogging to the back of my throat.
Candles crowd every surface, balanced in iron candelabras, cradled in glass hurricane lamps, clustered on warped tables, each flame swaying in the sluggish draft, painting the room in swaths of molten gold and deep shadow.
The walls disappear into darkness above, where the glimmer of a chandelier’s crystal teardrops hangs like captured rain.
Somewhere, faint and almost hidden, the slow drip of water marks the silence.
And in the center, a cloaked figure stands, facing away from me. As the figure turns, my breath hitches.