Chapter 24 #3
Footsteps retreated as Nic reached for the door handle, not sorry for the excuse to step away and loosen the grief tightening his chest. “I had better go so he doesn’t get suspicious.”
“Wait.”
Half a dozen long strides brought Dashiell to stand before him.
Leaning in, he brushed his nose against Nic’s, and when Nic returned the gesture with more instinct than sense, Dashiell kissed him.
It was a soft kiss, almost tentative, fearing a spark that could set them both alight.
Yet still Dashiell stepped closer, threading his hands into Nic’s hair with a gentleness that cracked Nic’s heart open.
Dashiell kissed him like he was the most precious thing in the world, like nothing else mattered, like the moment never had to end. Like they never had to end.
When Dashiell slowly drew away, their lips seemed almost to stick, pulling Nic briefly with him. Before he rocked back into cold reality.
“I love you, Nic,” Dashiell said. “I just… wanted to tell you that.”
Nic was quite sure his heart stopped. That his mind froze. That he ceased to exist in any way beyond the body that stood there staring. The truth was that he knew. Knew Dashiell loved him as he loved Dashiell, but had needed it to remain unspoken to save himself from breaking.
Words stuck on Nic’s tongue. More than anything he wanted to tell Dashiell he felt the same, that he loved him with every tiny piece of his heart, but if he spoke, there would be no more hiding, no shield, just a bare truth he wasn’t sure he could hold.
And so he just stared, lips gummed together while his heart lurched and tore, the door behind him the only escape.
He parted his lips to say something, to at least explain his silence, but nothing came out.
And unable to face Dashiell’s troubled expression a moment longer, Nic fled.
He wrenched the door open and stepped out into the hallway, before pulling it closed as rapidly behind him. But closing the door and hurrying away along the passage didn’t change anything. Dashiell had still stood there, had still spoken, and Nic still wanted to scream.
“Shit,” he hissed, hardly seeing where he was going.
“Shit! I can’t do this. I can’t. I—” He gripped a handful of his own hair, fighting back tears that would change nothing.
He ought to have avoided Dashiell completely.
Have refused his company and his conversation.
Yet had he been able to go back and start the lock-in again, Nic knew he wouldn’t.
Because even if pain would soon be all he had left, that pain held the truth that he had been loved, and no one could take that from him.
He wiped his eyes. He couldn’t go to see his father in such a state, and the need for self-possession in the duke’s presence calmed some of the turmoil roiling through him.
Belatedly, Nic realised he’d missed the stairs to his father’s rooms and scuffed to a halt. Only the locked doors of the old ducal suite stood ahead, their delicate brass and enamel inlay shining in the last of the evening light.
A shadow flickered in the corner of Nic’s vision.
Thoughts leaping to ghosts, he made to turn, only for a sharp pain to bite into his side.
A blade flashed as it spun away, red with blood, hitting the floor with a heavy thunk.
But before Nic could move or shout or even think, darkness closed over his head.
Fabric fluttered against his face and tightened around his throat, and a kick to the back of one knee dropped him to the floor, leaving him spluttering musty velvet.
Shock was all he had time to register before he couldn’t breathe.
Weight on his chest. Fingers tightening around his throat.
Realisation of what had happened rushed in upon rising panic, but he couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. Could only feel death creeping close as he tried to buck his assailant off, tried to pull their hands away, scratching at skin in a desperate attempt not to die.
Death was the only way to escape being a Monterris, and a small part of him yearned for the peace beyond the hated name and its pointless responsibilities, but Nic could still smell Dashiell. Still taste him. Still see him standing there bearing his heart.
Nic clawed and bucked and tried to roll, yet still death closed its determined fingers tighter.
Darkness sparked at the edges of his vision.
He was going to die. He was going to die without having told Dashiell he loved him too.
If only he could have one last moment to scream the truth, but with no breath and no voice, he had only his hands—hands that, as a conjuror, he was used to working with in silence.
The idea was less an idea than a flash of desperation. No time to think. No time to practice. Time only to let go of his assailant’s hands and shape final, desperate sigils with shaking fingers.
A strangled stutter of sound rent the air, followed by a sustained wail so loud Nic felt his assailant flinch. Their grip loosened a touch, but not enough.
Darkness crowded in.