Chapter 28 The Call of Crimson
THE CALL OF CRIMSON
VANESSA
For a moment, the room was nothing but chaos and silence colliding.
Vas’s mother lay crumpled against the wall, her eyes wild and unfocused, her breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.
The sight of her was something torn between madness and fragility, her hands still twitching as if the echo of violence refused to leave her body.
Vas was no longer the man I had known only moments ago.
His entire being seemed to shift, the darkness around him coiling tighter, trembling under the weight of fury barely contained.
I stood frozen, clutching my bleeding shoulder, watching as his hand closed around his mother’s wrist. Not cruelly, but with a force that said there would be no argument.
“Enough,” he growled, voice low and trembling with restraint.
Her head lolled to the side, and for the first time, I saw the resemblance.
The sharp lines of her cheekbones, the dark hair streaked with silver, the same piercing blue eyes that looked like midnight frozen over.
His mother. The woman I had thought dead.
My chest tightened. I could barely find my breath as he lifted her easily into his arms. For a second, her gaze flicked to me. The madness in it made my stomach twist, her lips twitching into something between a smile and a snarl.
“Stay here,” Vas said, his voice softer now but leaving no room for disobedience.
“Put something on those wounds. I will come back for you.” And then he was gone, disappearing into the corridor.
The sound of his footsteps faded until I was left with nothing but my ragged breathing and the faint rustle of feathers still settling around the room, evidence of the attack all around me.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, the pain in my arm flaring as I pressed a trembling hand over the cut.
My other hand shook as I reached up, brushing my fingers through my hair, only to flinch when the roots ached from where she had yanked me down.
My top was torn, the neckline ripped and gaping.
I stared down at the mess of it all, at the faint streaks of blood already drying on my skin, and it hit me.
His mother.
The woman he said was gone.
But she wasn’t gone at all. She was here, alive, a nightmare wrapped in silk and madness.
My thoughts tangled, each one more frantic than the last. Why had he lied?
Had he lied to protect me or to protect her?
And what had she become? What had happened to twist her into that thing I had just fought off?
I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth to stop the sob that threatened to escape. My entire body trembled, and not just from the pain. I had trusted him. I had given myself to him. And now I was bleeding in a room full of feathers, wondering how much of what I knew had ever been real.
The storm outside had quieted, but inside the manor, something else had begun to stir. The air felt thicker, heavier. The shadows along the walls seemed to move, whispering secrets that were no longer content to stay buried.
It wasn’t long before I heard the heavy sound of footsteps returning.
The door opened slowly, and Vas stepped inside.
His long black jacket was gone, leaving him in a dark T-shirt that clung to his chest and arms like a second skin.
The fabric was stretched across broad shoulders, tracing the hard lines of muscle beneath it, still damp from rain or sweat…
I couldn’t tell which. He looked less like the monster he claimed to be and more like something dangerously human.
He paused when he saw me, sitting on the edge of the bed, the torn fabric of my top hanging from one shoulder, streaks of blood marking my arm. For a heartbeat, something unreadable flashed across his face. Fury, regret, and guilt all tangled into one expression that made my chest tighten.
Then he was moving. In two long strides, he was in front of me, sinking to one knee. His hands hovered over me, steady yet trembling slightly, his eyes tracking every bruise, every mark left behind.
“Why didn’t you stay in your room?” he asked quietly. The question sounded more like a plea than an accusation.
“I did,” I whispered.
“I told you not to leave,” he interrupted as if he hadn’t even listened to me, the words rough, cracking at the edges. His jaw flexed as he tried to control himself.
“Gods, Nessa… she could have killed you.”
“How Vas… how could she be your mother?” My voice trembled, my pulse pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
“You told me she was dead.”
He exhaled sharply, his shoulders lifting with the weight of the breath as he reached for me.
His fingers brushed against the torn edge of my sleeve, so carefully that it made me shiver.
His touch carried a kind of reverence, as if I were made of glass and he feared the slightest pressure might break me.
“Please, just let me get you somewhere safe first, so that I can tend to your wounds,” he said, his voice low, controlled only by sheer force of will.
I wanted to argue, to demand the truth he was hiding, but the way his hands shook stopped me cold.
So, I nodded instead, giving him cause to release a heavy sigh.
“I never should have left you alone.” He admitted, clearly knowing the threat in the house and believing it was contained. I knew this for certain when he added,
“She wasn’t supposed to come near you,” he said.
“I thought… I thought I had her under control.” Her… The word chilled me. He lifted his hand again, brushing a stray strand of hair away from my face. His thumb lingered at my temple, his touch featherlight.
“I promise, I will explain,” he said softly, and I caught his wrist before he could pull away, my fingers curling around his skin.
“You didn’t intend for this to happen, I know that.” His gaze snapped to mine. In that moment, something broke through the tension. Raw, honest emotion flickered across his face before he tried to hide it. He leaned closer, his scent wrapping around me, dark and warm and heartbreakingly familiar.
“I swear that if anything had…” He couldn’t finish the thought. His voice was rough as gravel.
“Nessa.” He purred my name this time, his hand rising again, cupping my jaw so that his thumb could brush softly against my lip.
The air between us seemed to still, heavy with everything we hadn’t said.
His touch was careful, trembling at the edges, as if even this moment was too fragile to survive his strength.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched between us, thick and fragile, broken only by the faint tremor of his breath. His thumb traced my jaw once more before he pulled away, the loss of his touch cold against my skin.
“She’s not what you think,” he said quietly, not meeting my eyes this time. His voice had softened, but there was a current beneath it, a quiet grief that made my stomach twist.
I frowned.
“Then what is she, Vas?”
“Soon, I will explain everything. But we shouldn’t stay here,” he murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from my face.
“It isn’t safe.”
“Vas…” He cut me off with a kiss, framing my face and drawing me in, keeping me captive as I breathed him in. It was as if he couldn’t contain himself anymore before pulling back just enough to meet my gaze. The tenderness in his eyes warred with something else, unease, protectiveness, fear.
I nearly begged him to explain what was going on, but he was already moving, taking my hand in his. His grip was firm, grounding, and without another word, he drew me toward the door.
“Come,” he said quietly.
“You’ll stay in my room tonight.” The tone of his voice left no room for argument.
Still, the thought of going anywhere near the east wing, the place he had told me to avoid, made my pulse quicken.
But instead of turning that way, he guided me in the opposite direction.
His long strides were purposeful, as if wanting to put distance between his mother and me.
The corridor was dim, lit only by the flickering sconces that lined the stone walls. Our footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor, the silence between us filled with everything left unsaid. My arm still stung where her blade had grazed me, but the ache in my chest was far deeper.
I wanted to ask him what he had done with her, his mother. The woman who wasn’t alive but wasn’t dead either. The one who had attacked me with that crazed look in her eyes, muttering about fated love and betrayal. But before I could form the question, something ahead caught my attention.
A portrait.
It hung at the bend in the hall, large and framed in ornate gold.
A woman’s face gazed out from it. One beautiful, regal, and hauntingly familiar.
Her dark hair was pulled back, her skin pale as porcelain, her eyes the same impossible green and gold that had stared at me through the madness earlier that night.
My breath caught.
“Is that…?” My question trailed off in sight of it. He stopped beside me, his eyes following my line of sight. For a moment, he said nothing, only stared up at the painted image. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, weary.
“My mother. As she once was.”
The woman in the painting was elegance incarnate, her beauty almost ethereal. But what stole my breath wasn’t her face, it was the crimson pendant that hung from her throat.
The same one.
The necklace gleamed even through the age-dulled varnish of the oil paint, its deep red stone glowing like a drop of blood frozen in crystal. I felt my stomach twist. I knew that necklace. I had snatched it from her neck during the fight and now…
Now it was under my bed.
My lips parted, ready to tell him, to explain how, in the chaos of the fight, she no longer had it. However, the words never made it past my tongue.
Because I felt it.
A strange pulse at the edge of my consciousness, soft but insistent.
It was like a whisper, too faint to be words, yet too clear to ignore.
A pull, dark and rhythmic, tugging at something inside me I didn’t understand.
I blinked, swallowing hard as the air thickened.
My heart pounded, not from fear but from something else.
It was like an invisible thread that seemed to hum between me and that memory of red light.
“Nessa?” His voice broke through the haze, gentle but concerned.
“What is it?” I blinked up at him, forcing a smile that felt far too tight.
“Nothing, just… tired.” I lied. He studied me for a long moment, his gaze sharp, as though he could sense that something wasn’t right. But then he nodded, taking my hand once more and leading me down the last stretch of corridor.
Still, even as we walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the necklace, that cursed red stone that had once hung around his mother’s neck… was calling to me.
And worse than that…
Part of me wanted to answer it.