28. The Scent that Betrayed #2
Shirt undone at the collar, the prince stands there barefoot, sleeves rolled to the elbows and ink staining his long fingers.
His glasses— the fucking glasses from the article —are on his face, like he’s just finished submitting a dissertation or something.
If he ditched me to do work , it’ll be the cherry on top of a very bad night.
The chiffon fluttering at my throat, the bag slipping from my shoulder, the flushed cheeks, and the dishevelled hair are all absorbed by his eyes.
They pause at the invisible bruise of Charlie’s fingers around my arm.
For a beat, he fidgets with his signet ring, and only then does he offer the other man his attention.
“Your Highness,” Charlie beats him to a greeting. The slight crack in his voice reminds me this is probably the first time he’s meeting royalty. “Didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
Eric lifts a brow. “Never said you did.”
Charlie straight up malfunctions, so I toss him a lifeboat. “Charles here was just leaving.”
“Hm, I imagine he was,” Eric adds, casually analysing everything from Charlie’s posture to the expression of utter perplexion slapped onto his features. With a quick bow and an awkward wave to me, he returns to the other end of the corridor and enters Edmund’s room without knocking.
My sigh of relief doesn’t ask for consent; it just leaves me alongside a dramatic sound of frustration. Dramatic and a little bit pathetic. “Thanks for kinda scaring him off. Usually only Pascoe manages to do that.”
“Funny, and here I thought I was being polite.”
“Don’t even lie to yourself,” I snort, unconcerned that it aggravates the ache in my head, especially since it manages to bring a smile from Eric.
Still, his eyes don’t rise to meet mine, attention dropping to my dress for a second time.
Given that I was meant to be Gran’s perfect heir tonight, scandal was the last thing on her mind when she chose my outfit.
But standing here, practically boiling beneath his gaze, the black fabric is indecent.
The silk lining is too tight against my nipples, and he lingers on it long enough for stormy irises to feel like palms touching me through cloth.
Breathe in and the fabric tightens. Breathe out and it drags over sensitive peaks.
There’s no fucking winning. His tongue peeks out to wet his lower lip; I convince myself I’m hallucinating.
Stop looking at his mouth, Chess. I want to yank my scarf loose, but my brain warns me that I’ll just look like a present untying its own bow. I don’t breathe.
Can’t.
How humiliating for my composure.
“You look—” The words catch in his throat, wrapped up in a sigh as he glances away. “—Never mind; I’m sure you know how you look. I wouldn’t be surprised if people refused to make eye contact with you tonight.”
“Does that include you? Because you’ve yet to manage it.”
“Maybe because if I did, you wouldn’t be getting any rest.” Heat crawls up the back of my neck, and I go completely still. He adjusts his glasses as though to see me better, slowly dragging his eyes to mine. “Bed,” he murmurs. “Go get some sleep.”
“And you?” I can’t help but ask.
He grins, and my knees do a little wobble. “I’ll still be here in the morning, duchess. Promise.”
That’s all the confirmation I need.
My head is pounding by the time I make it to my room, but thankfully, Lydia (my angel) has replaced the candle I recently finished.
I operate without even realising what I’m doing, my arms already reaching to light it.
Once it’s burning, I lean over the dresser and try and waft some of it into my face.
A migraine before my birthday is honestly just my luck.
In record time, I’ve washed my face, changed my underwear and slipped into my pyjamas.
I blow an annoyed raspberry before plopping down before the dresser.
The air smells like clove and vanilla with something herbal buried beneath.
Almost medicinal. Hell, Lydia will be getting a year’s supply of mebos from me if this actually cures my headache.
The robe slips off my shoulder, and I toss it onto the ottoman.
The nightdress beneath it is minimal, all soft ivory and silk, and it slides against my skin as I shift and reach for a hairbrush.
Slowly, tiredly, I brush through my hair.
One stroke. Then another, until I’ve fallen into the familiar rhythm.
With one hand, I dig my knuckles into my scalp, desperate to alleviate the pain in any way.
But nothing works.
I pause. Swallow. There’s a scratch at the back of my throat, faint at first and barely noticeable.
I try to clear it, but nothing happens. Sand clings to the back of my mouth, the sensation sickening, yet there’s nothing there when I cough.
Oh, I just had the worst bloody luck, didn’t I?
Perhaps the headache should’ve been my first hint, but if I’m on the verge of being sick, Gran will skin me alive.
I set down the brush, replacing it with the glass of water beside the decanter.
Yet the water only exacerbates the situation, as though it thickens the dust, which multiplies minute by minute.
Again, I try to cough, but the sound comes out wrong, like the dust grows needle-like legs and digs into me.
My chest is tight, and something burns beneath my breastbone.
This isn’t a regular cold. I lift my hands to my throat and poke around for swelling. My reflection shows nothing out of the ordinary, not even red patches or bumps. Yet there’s a blockage somewhere.
“Hello—” I whisper aloud to test, but my voice doesn’t come out right. It sounds compressed, more like a strained puff of air than a true sound.
My chest is heaving, my throat tightening, and I can’t speak.
Can’t make more than a low groan. The scent of the candle thickens in the room, crawling its way through my nose and to my lungs, where it steals something vital.
I can laugh at myself at a later time if I’m being paranoid, but I snuff the flame instantly.
My first thought is allergies, some herb to which I had no idea I was allergic, but my suspicions vanish as soon as I turn around.
There’s no time to move, no time to think as a blur of black fabric slams into me.
The floor disappears, and I’m tumbling back; my spine slams into the dresser, and the back of my head strikes wood.
Pain blooms behind my eyes, white-hot and sickening.
The mirror rattles, and something clatters to the floor alongside me.
What air was left in my lungs is pilfered, and I put all effort into a scream that amounts to nothing. There’s so much fabric. A mask.
The eyes, remember the eyes —but I can’t see the eyes.
Gloved hands grab my throat, and I paw futilely at the rough cloth.
My nightdress rides up as I twist, but the intruder is too heavy.
I can’t breathe. Fuck, fuck—can’t die half naked.
The edge of my vision pulses, and I kick violently.
Humiliation boils in my gut as more skin is bared, and I’m reduced to a mess of uncoordinated limbs.
From the corner of my eye, I see something rolling towards me.
The decanter. It hit the carpet, leaving a massive stain around it.
A voice is whispering into my ear, and it takes me a second to clock it as my own. These are Sheffolk walls. Sheffolk blood in your veins. The title, the land, every stone is yours. If you die here, it should be under your damn terms.
“Adelina, scutum mihi esto,” I say in my head, desperate.
The protective spell can do no more than slacken my attacker’s grip for the briefest of moments, and my fingers abandon their clawing and reach frantically to the side, grabbing onto the glass.
I swing upward blindly. It connects horribly and shatters in a loud burst. The attacker reels back as glass rains down on me, but I feel nothing, angling my body away.
I scramble out from under them and watch through hazy eyes as they stagger back, barely able to push themselves to their feet.
My throat is raw. I’m still trying to scream. Something warm drips down the back of my neck, and my knees are trembling, but I crawl anyway. Across the room, towards the bookcases.
Towards safety.
Towards Eric.
I fumble with the latch as I try to stand. My fingers are shaking too badly, and tears blur everything. Footsteps ring loud behind me, and I sob.
They’re coming. They’re coming for me. In desperation, I call on ghosts that have never claimed these walls. I cry for Luciana and for my parents.
Papa, please , I think. Guide my hand.
I look back; the attacker took one step forward. A concealed latch slides under my palm as my hand moves. The bookshelves shift, and the corridor yawns open. I trip over the threshold and land with a bang . My knees ache, and yet still I scramble towards the other end.
Unable to stop myself, I cast another glance back. But the figure doesn’t follow. They stand motionless, watching me fall onto my bottom and scoot backwards. We stare, and though I can’t see their eyes, I can feel the satisfaction.
Without warning, they turn their back on me and swiftly approach the window. A gloved hand rips the heavy drapes aside. The window is already ajar— how did I not notice? —and with just a single leap, they’re gone from the third floor.
No hesitation.
Nothing.
Just gone like smoke. I can’t even bring myself to check whether there’s a rope or anything. Sobbing, I drag myself down the rest of the corridor. I can feel how wet and raw my knees are. One side of my nightdress is ripped, exposing pale and glass-lacerated legs. And still I can’t scream.
I try.
I do.