“In Britannia.”
My pulse roared in my ears.
Malik’s gaze locked onto Olivia, his expression soft, filled with something unfathomable.
“You were known as Isabelle.”
He turned to me, his jaw tightening as if the memories burned as much as mine.
“You were Armand Farcourt.”
Then, his voice dropped to a whisper, edged with a sadness that ran centuries deep.
“You were among the only two women I have ever loved.”
Chapter 23
Marcellious
Idon’t know how, but I somehow begged off the masquerade, telling Balthazar I was unwell.
He barely spared me a glance.
“Stay then,” he said, his voice dripping with indifference. “See if I care.”
Then, right before me, he shed his clothes with fluid ease, standing bare, unashamed.
I forced myself not to look, but ignoring his body’s chiseled, brutal perfection was impossible—the impossibly sculpted muscles, the sheer power he exuded, a body carved for war, dominance, and destruction.
Then, he donned his masquerade attire, fastening each piece into place, the mask the final touch.
The moment it settled over his face, his presence darkened.
A malevolent force radiated from behind that mask, thick and choking, making my stomach lurch.
I wanted to fall to my knees and retch, to scrape the very feeling of him off my skin—but I held firm, forcing my disgust to feed the lie of my supposed illness.
Now, alone in his silent, looming house, I combed through his possessions, meticulously replacing each item I disturbed—rearranging books, shifting trinkets, lifting artifacts with care.
But with every passing minute, my frustration grew.
Balthazar had been gone for hours, and I still hadn’t found his dagger.
This was perhaps my only chance, and I was coming up empty.
Eventually, defeated and drained, I slumped onto the bed in one of his cold, unwelcoming guest rooms.
The walls were clad in black and silver-striped wallpaper, stark and lifeless. The ebony granite flooring gleamed beneath the dim candlelight, its polished surface as cold as a tombstone. Even the bed coverings—a dark, uninviting gray—felt more suited for a crypt than a place of rest.
It was telling—this wasn’t a room for welcoming guests.
Because Balthazar had no friends.
Only supplicants.
The demon had no use for company, no need for warmth.
He probably hadn’t set foot in this room in centuries, if ever.
