“Yeah, she’s fine. Just eccentric, you know?”
“I’ll see you soon, hopefully?” Connor said.
“If you’re lucky,” I told him, smiling.
THIRTY-TWO
October 16, 1891
With my father’s dagger concealed behind my back, I adjusted my shirt to ensure it remained hidden. A wave of determination surged through me, overpowering the fear and uncertainty that had plagued me hours before. I had to confront Draven. I could not hide from him or run away, not anymore. I was going to kill my husband. A day ago, that thought would have never crossed my mind, but my initial fear and panic had transformed into an overwhelming feeling of rage and fury.
With measured steps, I left my bed chamber and made my way down the hall. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Draven since the events that occurred the day prior. My heart beat loudly as I approached his bedroom door. Could I truly go through with this?
I took a deep breath, trying to settle my shaky breath, and I straightened my posture, squaring my shoulders. I turned the knob, expecting it to be locked, but I was surprised to find it was slightly ajar. A rush of cold air came from inside the room as I pushed open the door.
For many months, I only imagined what mysteries lay behind this door. My gaze swept over the room before me, noticing the disarray that permeated every corner. Windoweddoors to a large balcony identical to mine were open, and the cold night breeze blew the dark curtains into the room. Tapestries hung on the walls, their faded colours barely visible in the dim light. Mounds of dried wax had built up on the floor from years of burning candles. The furniture was dark and old, with intricate designs carved into it the wood, resembling the front door of the mansion. Layers of books and parchments were scattered around the room, and it looked like a layer of dust covered all the furniture. I suppose the maids were not allowed to enter this room any more than I was. The most surprising factor to me was the large bed in the middle of the room. It had four posts and fabric curtains drawn back to the sides.
A dark shadow was draped on the bed, and as I moved closer, I realized it was Draven. He was sitting on the edge, his head down in his hands. His hair fell around his face like a shroud, and even though it was dark, I could see that he was covered in blood.
I let out a small gasp. Draven turned toward me; his eyes seemed darker than I remembered. I felt like I used to know those eyes so well, and now they were windows into a stranger’s soul.
For a moment, I hesitated, the weight of my intentions bearing down on me. But then, with a steely resolve, I stepped forward, my grip tightening on the dagger hidden beneath my shirt. There was no turning back now.
“Hello, my wife,” Draven’s voice rang out, cool and detached as he lifted his eyes to meet mine.
“Wife.” The word felt like a cruel joke at this point.
With no intention of playing coy or submissive any longer, I retorted, “No coffin for sleeping then?” I gestured toward the plush bed.
“There is not much room for a wife in a coffin, is there?” he replied sarcastically. “You probably despise me now. I amgenuinely surprised that you have not fled, taking all your things with you and leaving me to be alone once more,” he remarked, a hint of bitterness lacing his words. “I certainly would have.”
“I have not left because I am not afraid,” I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil raging within me.
Draven was suddenly there, his movement so unnervingly fast that my mind barely registered it. I stumbled back, my back hitting the cold wall. I was pinned beneath his unwavering gaze as he leaned in, placing his hands on either side of my head.
“Are you not afraid, Rosalia?” Draven asked in a low voice. I could smell the lingering scent of blood on his breath. “I can hear your heart racing.”
He moved closer to me, his mouth mere inches from mine. My hand, slick with sweat, held the dagger tucked into my skirt. Before I could have a second thought, I thrust it into his side.
Draven looked at me, a mixture of surprise and something else I could not quite decipher contorted his face.
He laughed as dark blood ran down his shirt. He removed the dagger and wiped the blood off on his trousers before handing it back to me, hilt first. Then, as if noticing the blood on his hands for the first time, he wiped them on his dark trousers as well.
“A dagger?” Draven’s face fell as he walked back to his bed and perched on the edge. “Did you truly believe you could kill me by stabbing me in the kidney?” His voice dripped with sorrow. “Next time, aim for the heart and use a wooden stake.”
As I stood there, my breath coming in ragged gasps, I struggled to comprehend what had just transpired. Draven’s reaction was not what I had imagined—not the scream ofpain or the collapse to the floor. Instead, he was completely unaffected by my feeble attempt on his life.
I returned the dagger to my waistband, my hands quivering slightly. I could not believe I had done that. I almost felt relieved that he did not die. The second I planted the blade into him, I regretted it.
Draven began unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his perfectly sculpted torso, his blood a stark contrast against his ivory skin. The spot where I plunged the dagger was unmarred. No puncture wound wore on his skin; it was as if I had never stabbed him. I knew Blood Hunters healed quickly, but this was nothing short of impressive.
“Whose blood is on you?” I asked him. “Is it Dr. Montgomery’s?”
“I wish it was, but no, it is not. It is an animal,” he looked at me for a moment. “What do we do now, Rosalia?” Draven asked as he shielded his eyes from the weight of the moment.
I stood my ground, my resolve masking the tremble in my voice. “Since I am your wife, I have every right to remain in this manor, and I will not be leaving,” I declared, my words echoing.
Draven’s response was swift and unequivocal. “Nor will I, obviously.”
