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With that boy.
Me.
What the fuck—
A shiver runs down my spine. I turn and find Elijah leaning against a damp stone column, his eyes, almost transparent, plant themselves in mine. The line of his lips curves as if the boredom that has always oppressed him has been interrupted by my disaster.
“Dorian!”
The call pulls my gaze away, Lucien appears, cheerful and nonchalant; his cheeks red from the alcohol, hair messy, collar adjusted with a mechanical gesture, a glass raised as if in a toast.
“Finished already? Come, there are—”
I walk right through him without a nod, descending the steps of the portico at a rapid pace.
Every step is a blow against my stomach, nausea wedges itself in my throat.
I must wash.
I must rid myself of this skin that still burns upon me.
And above all... I must remove that face from my mind.
16
Ignition
Evander
Ibring a morsel of guinea fowl to my mouth, the heat slightly sears my lips while the spices prick my tongue. My mother’s gaze remains fixed on Duchess Maurielle.
I follow it with my eyes, noting how the mass of her honey-colored hair is piled atop her head in an opulent crown of tight ringlets. The perfection of her hair stands in stark contrast to my mother’s simple black chignon. The Duchess’s plate lies almost untouched before her, the dishes barely grazed by her fork.
I will have to summon Dr. Norton again.
She is losing herself once more, just as happened four years ago.
A fragment of conversation drifts from the left: dense words, whispers intertwining with the clinking of glasses. The Duchess flexes her neck slightly toward my mother.
“Mircella, dear, are you unwell? You have barely touched your meal.”
My mother raises her napkin to pat her mouth, without looking at her.
“No trouble at all.”
I take my glass of red wine and lift it to my lips. The dark color stains my mouth slightly, and the full-bodied flavor hits my palate.
The duke, seated at the head of the table, turns to me with a curious look. “What do you think, Viscount?”
“Delicious, Duke.”
He then addresses Count Nádasdy. “Count?”
His amber eyes ignite for an instant. “Not bad.”
The duke raises an eyebrow, visibly unsatisfied with the response. His wife laughs softly, resting a hand on his.
“Count Nádasdy has more exotic tastes, as you know, husband.”
