11. The Dance Beneath Watching Eyes #4
Painted brides. Painted wolves. Painted matchmakers. Painted dead. Every painting in the building.
Blood begins to spill from the frames in thin red lines, running down the air where walls should be. It drips onto the stage. Threads coil around my ankles, darkening as they climb.
Dorian kisses my throat.
The audience sighs.
Someone whispers, Weaver.
Black, knotted threads intertwine like vines, covering the stage and extending into the audience.
I can feel the pull. The sensation. The knots drawing the love out of us and every other couple in the playhouse.
Desire twists into terror so violently I cannot breathe.
I tear out of the vision with a gasp, bent over the chair, one hand pressed to my mouth, tapping the floor beneath me to make sure it is still there.
The room is normal again.
Rain. Lamp. Dress on the floor. My pulse trying to escape.
And there it is. The black, knotted thread mystery.
Solved.
The curse uses the red thread as a trigger when it sees it, not because it sees love as weak.
It fears love because love has power—and at the moment of death, the curse is claiming that power for itself.
I stare at my reflection, but the woman in the mirror no longer looks flushed with wanting.
She looks afraid.
Then, from downstairs, Dorian calls my name.
Not calmly. Not controlled. Not even impatiently.
“Fate.”
The sound of his strangled plea turns my blood cold.
I run.
I nearly trip over the merlot dress on my way out.
Not dignified. Not graceful. Definitely not sexy.
Not the moment for fashion-related self-reflection, so I kick the silk aside, throw on my robe and sprint barefoot into the hallway.
“Dorian?” My voice cracks around his name. “Dorian!”
Downstairs, something crashes.
Glass. My heart stops being a heart and becomes a fist.
I hit the stairs fast enough that my hand slips on the banister. Mina appears at the bottom, eyes wide, one hand already glowing with defensive magic.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
Which is worse than almost every possible answer.
Dorian’s voice comes from the kitchen.
“Stay back.”
Of course.
Of course the man sounds like death has him by the throat and still thinks issuing commands is a useful hobby.
I skid into the kitchen.
Dorian is braced against the sink, one hand gripping the counter hard enough to crack the wood. His other hand is pressed to his abdomen. His face has gone gray beneath the warm kitchen light, jaw clenched, sweat standing at his temples.
Tin foil sits next to an uncovered plate of broccoli and half-eaten mackerel on the counter. A shattered glass lies on the floor near his feet. Water spreads across the tile.
Not wine.
Water.
My panic does not care.
I reach Dorian’s side. “Look at me.”
He does not.
That terrifies me more.
“Dorian.”
His head turns by force, not choice. His eyes are too bright, wolf-gray with a black rim of pain. Power crawls over his skin in uneven pulses, warlock magic flickering under the surface like lightning trapped behind glass.
“What did you drink?” I demand.
“Water.”
“From where?”
“Your tap.”
“Did you eat anything?”
I point at the plate on the counter.
“Touch anything else?”
His mouth twists. “You.”
My entire body goes cold.
The kiss. The dance floor. The thread flaring between us. The paintings applauding. The dark edge curling closer.
No. No. Absolutely not.
I put both hands on his chest, as if I can hold him in this world by pressure alone. His heart pounds beneath my palms, too fast, then too slow, then too fast again.
Dorian tries to straighten.
He fails.
This man does not fail at standing. He does not sway. He does not show weakness. He would probably argue with gravity if it approached him without a warrant.
Now his knees buckle.
I catch him badly, guiding him into the kitchen chair.
He is too big, too solid, too determined to pretend he is fine while actively not being fine. His weight drives me back a step.
My fear sharpens into anger because anger gives my hands somewhere to go.
He tries to speak.
“Stop talking,” I order.
He looks at me through the pain. “You first.”
“Not the time to flirt.”
“I wasn’t.”
“That is not a good comeback with a lady.”
“I’m sorry.”
Dorian’s breath catches. He presses a fist to his mouth and turns away from me just before a violent shudder rips through him. Dark magic snaps once beneath his skin, there and gone, like a shadow trying to find a door.
My fox surges under my skin, frantic. My witch rises after it, all instinct and terror. “No,” I whisper. “No, you do not get to take him too.”
The kitchen lights flicker.
I clamp my mouth shut. Words matter. Even desperate ones.
Especially desperate ones.
Dorian’s eyes lock on mine. Despite the pain, despite the pallor, despite the fact that he is one stubborn breath away from hitting my kitchen floor, he understands.
“Not your fault,” he says.
It comes out rough. Barely more than sound.
I hate him for trying to comfort me while poisoned, cursed, hexed, or whatever horrifying category this is.
“I will decide later whether to accept that,” I say, voice shaking. “Right now, you’re going to the hospital.”
“No.”
It is a reflex. A stupid, masculine, authority-poisoned reflex.
I grab my keys from the counter with one hand and keep the other pressed to Dorian’s back. His shirt is damp with sweat beneath my palm. His magic shivers against my skin, recognizing me, reaching for me.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
“Yes.”
He takes one step and nearly goes down.
“Wonderful,” I say. “A liar with excellent bone structure.”
I grab his phone and scroll until I find the Supernatural Medics.