Page 36 of His Eternal Claim

He holds me tight, burying his face in my hair, but as he does, his eyes lock onto Mama over my shoulder. The warmth is completely gone from his gaze. It’s cold, dead, and flashing with a terrifying, triumphant malice.

“You’re the only one in this house who truly loves me,” he whispers into my hair. “We don’t need anyone else, do we? Just you and me, princess.”

I want to go to Mama, but Papa’s arms are too tight, and I am too afraid to let go of the only man who can protect me from himself.

This house is lifeless. It will never find life again.

***

It is huge and airless. It does not breathe like a living place; these cold artificial lights splattering through the corridors offer no warmth whatsoever. The entire environment feels entombed, less a home than a mausoleum.

Low voices carry from below. It’s a civilized sound, yet it makes the hair on my arms stand up. I wonder who inhabits this purgatory with her. Was that the voice I heard earlier waiting down there? Is Corvin here?

I follow the sound, my hand trailing on the banister. The wood is cold.

Everything is cold.

Unlike the blood rushing through my veins.

It’s thrumming.

I reach the threshold of the dining hall. The room is cavernous, dominated by a long table. My Mother isn’t there yet. But the others are.

I stop and count them.

Eight.

Eight silhouettes against the candlelight. The lights are dim.

There’s a faint scent of lemon and butter in the air.

Along with the tangy scent of alcohol.

Everything in me tells me to stop, turn back, and run. Until I reach the cliff and jump from there.

My skin prickles.

As if they knew me, but I have no name for any of them.

It’s a physical pressure.

Like a localized gravity that makes it hard to draw breath. I am my Mother’s greatest achievement, as she has said many times, and they’ve been waiting to inspect me.

One woman, seated near the head of the table, looks up. She wears a fur coat over a sharp charcoal suit. She looks older than my Mother, with wrinkles on her face and grey hair, yet her red lips put her at no more than fifty.

Her eyes are not kind as they hold mine.

They are analytical, measuring the dilation of my pupils and the steadiness of my gait.

I swallow and look to her right. Cold runs down my spine.

Corvin.

He sits to her right, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He doesn’t look like the man who dragged me through the woods. He looks tired.

He looks like a man who sold his soul and realized the currency was counterfeit.

When our eyes meet, he looks away.