Page 88 of Goldflame
“It was worse than I could have imagined,” Adrian continues. “What they did to her—what they’ve done to so many women over the years—” He stops, swallowing hard. “It’s hard to even think about. And the fact that my mother participated and has now hurt you…” His voice hardens. “She will pay for what she’s done. To your mother. To you. I swear it.”
The cold vengeance in his voice startles me. This isn’t the level-headed Adrian I’ve known for years. This is someone else entirely—someone with depths of emotion I’ve never been allowed to see.
“But she’s your mother,” I whisper, studying his face.
Something darkens in his eyes. “Not anymore. I don’t know who she is. Maybe she was always like that, maybe Lucian made her that way, but either way, there’s no saving her.” He shifts, releasing me long enough to lift the edge of his shirt. There, on his abdomen, is an angryknot of puckered flesh, the unmistakable mark of a bullet wound. “Here’s the proof.”
My fingers reach out and trace the raised scar. It’s proof of his mother’s betrayal and of how close I came to losing him forever. The reality of it hits me, and my voice catches.
“I thought you were dead. For weeks, I thought…” The memory of his body on the floor flashes through my mind. “I thought I’d lost you. And I couldn’t bear it. I know things were… difficult between us, but remembering the good times… that’s what kept me going.”
His eyes soften, and something shifts in his expression—a vulnerability that seems to physically pain him. He looks as if he’s balancing on the edge of a confession.
What does he want to say?
But whatever it is stays unspoken. Instead, he glances at the razor still sitting on the counter, then back at me. “Were you grooming?”
I nod, feeling a little embarrassed at my hairy legs that he can see.
Without a word, he helps me to my feet and guides me to sit on the edge of the tub.
“May I?” he asks, picking up the razor and a bottle of shaving cream.
The question—so simple, so respectful of my autonomy after weeks of having none—brings fresh tears to my eyes. I nod.
He sits on the closed toilet and moves my right leg so it rests across his lap.
With movements that are both clinical and tender, he applies cream to my legs, then begins the careful workof shaving. His hands are steady as they guide the blade over my skin, but he’s making a mess of his expensive slacks. Cream is dripping all over them.
He doesn’t seem to notice or care as he continues, and I can’t stop the tears from slipping out.
This simple act of care undoes me more completely than any grand gesture could have. It’s intimate without being sexual, affectionate without being demanding. It’s the first time in weeks someone has touched me without taking, without hurting.
When he reaches my thighs, where the worst of the burns are, he pauses. Gently, reverently, he bends forward and presses his lips to one of the ugly marks. Then another. And another.
“Battle scars,” he murmurs against my skin. “Not signs of weakness. Signs that you survived. That you endured.” His eyes lift to mine, blue fire burning in their depths. “That you’ll get revenge.”
Something ignites within me at his words—a rekindling of purpose that I’d nearly forgotten in the chaos of recent weeks. The ember of vengeance that has fueled me for so long, nearly extinguished by Julian’s cruelty, flares back to life.
My lips curve in a way that feels both foreign and familiar. “We’llget revenge,” I say.
His smile is slow, dangerous, and beautiful.
CHAPTER THIRTY
AURELIA
The mask hugs my face like a second skin, the edges digging slightly into my temples. The outfit Adrian chose for me—a deep burgundy gown that catches the light like spilled wine—flows around my legs as we enter the crowded ballroom. I feel his hand at the small of my back, steady and warm, grounding me in this sea of nameless, faceless predators.
We’re two bloodthirsty, banished wolves walking among their complacent wolf pack, but they don’t know it yet.
And how ironic this is? I’m returning voluntarily to the world that nearly destroyed me. But tonight is different. Tonight, I’m no one’s prisoner and no one’s plaything. Tonight, I’m the hunter.
And I’m not alone.
“Are you ready?” Adrian asks, his voice low in my ear.
His breath stirs the strands of the platinum blonde wig I’m wearing. Even Eleanora wouldn’t recognize me with this color—a jarring shift from my natural red. Themakeup artist Adrian hired worked miracles, altering the shape of my cheekbones and nose—his too—with small prosthetics. Combined with the intricately decorated masks we’re both wearing, we’re unrecognizable, slipping into this party under aliases.
