Chapter 8
EIGHT
I stirred awake, my hands exploring the luxurious fabric of the bedding. Blinking away sleep, I turned toward the large window where a silhouette loomed in the moon’s silver light. It glided closer, and I recognized him—the stranger who rescued me from the river.
I opened my mouth to speak, and he reached out and traced his fingers along my lips. The sensation sent a shiver down my spine.
“It is all right,” he whispered, lowering himself, his breath caressing my neck.
Then a scream tore from my mouth at the sudden pain erupting as his teeth pierced my skin.
My anguished cry shattered the dream, propelling me into wakefulness. Heart pounding, sweat clinging to my skin, I lay there, the echoes of the nightmare fading into the recesses of my memory.
Bathed in the gentle morning light, I turned to the window—the same one that had haunted my dream. Its airy curtains billowed in the morning breeze, allowing the sun’s rays to dance across the space. I reached out to touch one of them, glancing around the room.
It was vast and opulent. The bed I found myself in was adorned with dark pillows and plush blankets.
Across from me, an intricately carved wooden wardrobe stood, its door draped with a deep crimson gown.
My gaze shifted to the nightstand, where my father’s journal lay, its edges curled, damaged from the river’s waters.
Atop it, my dagger. The other must have slipped from my boot.
Memories of the previous night played out like a haunting reel in my mind.
I tried to push away the visions of my mother’s body and the sound of the earth as I dug her grave.
My hands started trembling, and I reached for the necklace around my neck and played with the pendant as I tried to calm my breath.
My thoughts gravitated toward Henry. Was he frantically searching for me, his heart heavy with worry? The mere idea of him arriving at the house, the open door, and freshly turned earth, sent a surge of dread coursing through me.
My body was stiff and sore as I pushed myself out of bed. I stretched out my legs, my knees responding with a series of cracks. Wincing, I noticed a dark bruise beginning to swell on my left knee—the one I landed on. I poked it, and it was tender to the touch.
I padded across the cool wooden floor toward a mirror beside the wardrobe.
I studied my reflection, noting the delicate chemise I wore, and paused.
Someone must have undressed me and tucked me into bed.
I rubbed at the dark circles beneath my eyes and the once-rosy glow of my complexion, now pale and drained of life.
My eyes dropped to my neck, where I detected two faint, almost indiscernible marks.
I traced them with my fingers, my mind drifting back to the dream I’d had the night before.
Shaking my head, I tried to dismiss it, telling myself I was still half-asleep, that my eyes were playing tricks on me.
The marks, I reasoned, were surely just remnants of the struggle in the river.
I touched the dark red dress. The fabric felt luxurious and smooth, far more opulent than anything I’d ever touched before.
I pulled the dress over my head and secured the ribbons at the back the best I could.
My hands traced down the front; the fabric was smooth, and the bodice was fitted.
The high neckline was adorned with delicate ruffled lace.
The skirt of the dress was voluminous with layer upon layer of fabric rustling gently as I moved.
I pinned my hair into a chignon, and some pieces of hair fell out, framing my face.
The finishing touch was my well-kept leather boots, now dry.
As I stood before the mirror, the reflection staring back at me was almost unrecognizable.
Gone was the disarray of the nightmare that had plagued me, replaced by a poised lady, though my eyes were still dark with shadows.
I grabbed my dagger and tucked it into my boot, and pushed open the door of my room, revealing a long hallway. The walls were decorated with rich and intricate wallpaper, its patterns reflecting the warm glow of candlelight. My footsteps echoed softly against the polished wooden floor as I walked.
To my left hung large oil paintings in gilded frames, each an idyllic landscape.
On the right, long and dusty curtains concealed tall windows.
I trailed my fingers along the thick fabric as I continued to walk, each step bringing me closer to a sweeping staircase that led to the lower level, revealing more grandeur.
I continued past the stairs, nearing the end of the hallway, to a door beckoning my attention. A sense of curiosity compelled me as I reached for the doorknob.
“That would not be wise for you to do,” a voice interjected.
Startled, I turned swiftly to find the stranger who had rescued me from the river standing before me.
My heart quickened in response to seeing him.
This was the first time I had the chance to properly look at him.
He was well over six feet tall, dressed in an all-black ensemble, his long black hair framing his chiseled features and strong nose.
His eyes held me; they were intense, unsettling.
Their icy pale blue, like the stillest winter sky, pierced right through me, as though they could peer into the very depths of my soul.
His beauty was undeniable, though there was a weariness about his gaze, a quiet burden I couldn’t quite place.
He appeared older than me, but his age was difficult to discern.
Something stirred within me, an unspoken pull I couldn’t explain, but could not ignore.
“I apologize,” I began, feeling embarrassed and turning my gaze away from him.
“No need,” he replied, his voice smooth. “Curiosity is a trait I find rather appealing.”
I froze as he put his hand under my chin and lifted it to meet his gaze.
I found myself breathless under his intense stare.
Just as I gathered the courage to speak, he released my chin and reached for my hand.
I didn’t even realize my hands were trembling until he steadied them, his touch sending a jolt throughout my body.
“Come with me, I will show you around.” He placed my hand on his arm, taking the lead.
“I hope you slept well. You were asleep for two days, and I started to worry,” he remarked as we descended the long, curving staircase. My stomach grumbled audibly; my hunger was now impossible to ignore.
“This is the foyer,” he motioned to the vast space in front of us.
Similar to the hallway, it was dark, lit only by the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
Many crystal prisms refracted the candlelight, creating a dazzling display of rainbows dancing across the walls and floors.
Large oak doors filled with intricately carved details stood at the front of the house.
Before I could figure out what stories the carvings told, the stranger whisked me away down another hallway.
This one was darker, illuminated only by a small candelabra on a side table.
“Is it just you who resides here?” I asked, noticing how quiet the house was. I almost held my breath to make my question less audible.
“Yes, though I have servants who reside in the area adjacent to the kitchen,” he explained. “You probably will not encounter them frequently. They are rather quiet and discreet, and I value my privacy.”
Servants. His casual mention of them stung, a reminder of a world I had never known, one of comfort and so far removed from my own reality. Despite the dress I wore, I suddenly felt very out of place.
As we entered the grand dining room, the sight of a single chair at the head of the long table greeted us. A small plate adorned with eggs, bread, and fresh fruit awaited me.
“I had breakfast prepared for you.” He motioned toward the table. “I must leave for work; feel free to explore my house. I will return in the evening, and we can talk. I would be delighted if you would join me for dinner.”
I found myself momentarily speechless, unsure how to respond to his charity.
“Please have a seat,” he invited, gently pulling out the chair for me.
I took a seat and looked up at him. He felt impossibly tall from this angle.
“Thank you … Sir,” I managed to say.
“My pleasure. It seems we missed a formal introduction.
My name is Draven Blackwell, and this is Thornwood Manor,” he said, his tone tinged with formality.
“My name is Rosalia Bertrand,” I replied.
“Have a pleasant day, Miss Bertrand. I will see you tonight.” With that, he left the dining room, leaving me alone.
I took in my surroundings, glancing at the food before me and then at the window, which was covered by dark curtains.
I rose from my seat and swept them open, momentarily blinded by the sunlight flooding the room.
In its gentle glow, specks of dust danced in the air.
I returned to my seat, touching my pendant as I thought about my situation.
Draven’s kind gestures touched me, though as I sat there, a sense of unease gnawed at me. I did not know where I was nor who Draven was. Why had he been at the river that night? I had more questions than answers, and my curiosity grew by the minute.
I finished my breakfast, and a short woman appeared. She barely met my gaze as she began gathering my dishes.
“I can do that if you wish,” I suggested.
The woman shook her head, her lips drawing into a tight line. “Nay, Miss. It is no trouble at all. I have also drawn a bath for you in your chambers, as per Mister Blackwell’s instructions.” Before I could answer, she left as quickly as she appeared.
Leaving the dining room, I ventured down the dimly lit hallways.
Portraits of what I assumed were Draven’s ancestors adorned the walls in this part of the house.
Their eyes followed my every step, and I couldn’t help but feel I was being watched.
I had to remind myself it was the nature of such portraits to appear lifelike.
Amidst the framed faces, I discerned an uncanny resemblance to Draven.
The similarity seized my attention. My gaze locked onto the painted eyes of one particular portrait, and a subtle twist coiled in the pit of my stomach.
Tearing my gaze away, I continued down the hall.
Having found my way back to my chambers, I eased myself into the hot, soothing water of the bath, scents of lavender enveloping me.
As I settled into the warmth and aroma, my eyes closed.
But before I could fully relax, my heart stirred with the pang of remembrance of Draven’s words.
I had been asleep for two days. Only two days had passed since the haunting events.
Visions of my mother’s lifeless form flooded my mind, and my eyes snapped open.
I looked down at my hands, noticing remnants of dirt beneath my nails.
A cold urgency washed over me, and I grabbed a brush, scrubbing my nails furiously.
I didn’t stop until part of my nail began to lift, and a bead of red blood formed underneath.
Grief surged through me, and the dam holding back my emotions finally broke.
Quiet sobs escaped as I wept in the water, mourning the loss of my mother.
Along with the sorrow, there was an odd, heavy relief, a silent acknowledgment that the Blood Hunter who had taken her from me would never find me here.
Taking a deep breath, I forced myself out of the water. My eyes felt puffy, and I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my body. I returned to the bedroom, my gaze landing upon my father’s weathered journal on the nightstand.
I opened the book—the pages were still wet from the river.
The ink was smudged, and the once meticulous notes and drawings were now a swirling dance of black on parchment.
Certain notes were still legible amongst the chaos, and key words stood out to me: blood, thirst, sunlight.
I closed the book and lifted the mattress, gently tucking the journal beneath it.
I couldn’t shake the weight settling heavily on my chest. The grief over my mother’s death and the questions surrounding Draven overwhelmed me. I longed for the comforting familiarity of my home and the warm presence of my mother.
Feeling emotionally drained, I climbed into bed feeling the need to retreat beneath the covers, shutting out the world for a little while longer.
I pulled the blankets up and over my head, cocooning myself in the warmth and darkness. Slowly, my racing thoughts began to calm. The world beyond was a world without my mother. Cold and uninviting, and I did not wish to return to it. I closed my eyes, letting sleep overtake me.