Page 78 of Her Vampire, His Ruin

“I can guess where this is going,” Edie says.

I nod, masking my truth behind the story of a supposed ancestor. “He chased other women, leaving her alone for days. Sometimes he even brought them back to their home.”

“That’s just cruel.”

“Yes, it is,” I reply, as an odd, sickly feeling churns my stomach. I’ve done many terrible things. Treating Basilia with such contempt was one of the worst.

“It was bad enough I knew about Robert’s infidelity, but to witness it? Honestly, I think I would’ve committed murder if Robert had done that to me. ”

“It would’ve been warranted.”

“Is that what they meant about her being emotionally unstable?”

“I assume so.” It’s not something I ever passed onto the gallery and I wonder who had, given no one but me, truly knew Basilia. A thread of unease spreads through me, but I push it aside for the moment.

“So her husband gets off scot-free, and she’s left being remembered as emotionally unstable. That’s utter bullshit.” Edie shakes her head, anger billowing off her. “Why didn’t she just leave him?”

“Divorce wasn’t an option for Basilia. Not in those days. The shame would’ve been too much to bear.”

“That was why all her paintings were a view through that window, that’s why they all seem so sad, because she couldn’t leave him, because she was trapped.”

“Yes.”

“And her death?”

Reaching for Edie, I brush my fingers against her temple, the same way I did when I found Basilia’s body in her bedroom that day, the floor slick with her blood. “Suicide.”

“That’s so tragic,” she whispers.

“It is,” I acknowledge, realising why my stomach is so unsettled. I feel guilty.

Over the years, I’ve smothered any guilt I might’ve felt with hate towards my wife for what she did to me. Every now and then, like today, that guilt rises to the surface like oil in water, and I’m forced to face the part I played in her unhappiness and subsequent death.

“What happened to Dorian?”

Flicking my gaze away, I exhale a shaky breath. I still remember the vines appearing on my skin and the sharp, sudden sting as the thorny barbs impaled my flesh. I remember the searing, white-hot pain as every single cell inside my body reformed into something else, something barbaric, monstrous. I remember how my skin melted, the sun’s rays burning every inch of me. I remember the first sharp sting of my fangs extending in my gums, and the utter bloodlust raging in my veins. I remember Sybil’s screams of fear that continued as I dragged her into the house, seeking shade from the sun. I remember the uncontrollable bloodlust and the moment I buried my fangs in Sybil’s neck. I remember the moment she died in my arms, and the strange urge to feed her my blood, bringing her back to life moments later, condemning her too.

“Dorian?” Edie questions, her fingers feathering across my arm.

“Eventually, he died too.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat, burying the guilt and the pain of those memories deep inside, back where they belong.

“You’re upset,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I had no idea that talking about this would cause such a reaction. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“That’s all in the past now. Some things are better left there,” I say, meeting her eyes as I gently guide her onto her back.

I lower my mouth to her neck, lips grazing her pulse, drawing in her scent as I try to lose myself in her embrace and forget the weight of my sins, if only for a moment. The truth is, I haven’t thought about Basilia for a long time. I’ve locked those memories away, refusing to confront them, but somehow, with Edie, confessing feels like a strange kind of relief.

Edie’s arms encircle me, her heartbeat steady against my chest as her hands trace gentle patterns across my back. The comfort is unfamiliar, undeserved, yet I allow myself to sink into it.

“Sometimes I think familial trauma can be passed on,” she whispers, caught up in the moment just as I am. “Like a disease infecting our veins, informing every decision we make.”

She pauses as I nuzzle closer, not willing to admit how close to the truth she is. “How so?” I ask.

“My father left when I was a teenager. He ran off with another woman. It left us all devastated. It almost broke my mum and had a lasting effect on my sister and me. My mother told us after he left that his father did the same to him as a child, repeating the same pattern of behaviour.”

“Your father isn’t in your life now?” I ask.

“No. We’ve not seen him for years. Looking back, I think I married Robert because he was the first person outside of my sister and mother who promised to love me forever. I forgave him over and over again because I didn’t want to give up on us. I didn’t want to be the one to leave as my father had, and his father before him. I stupidly believed my love would be enough, that if I could be the right person for him, he’d stop having affairs, he’d stay. I was wrong, of course.”