“I stumbled upon this wretched chamber…”
Her breath hitched, her fingers twisting into the fabric of her ruined dress.“Lord Winston… that malevolent monster… stood over a man.His twisted form contorted in sadistic pleasure, his blade gleaming—slicing—mercilessly.The sight—” her voice cracked “—it was a nightmare made flesh.A symphony of agony and despair, one that seared itself into my soul, never to be undone.”
The tremor in her voice vibrated through the space between us, and I could feel it—like the bite of something cold just before it pierced the skin.
The grandfather clock in the corner beat a slow, ponderous rhythm, a reminder of time slipping between our fingers.A cruel echo of truth—that while she sat here, unraveling, the world outside remained unchanged.Wicked men still roamed.Horrors still unfolded in dim-lit rooms.
“Keep talking, Elizabeth,” I urged, my voice barely more than breath.Encouraging her.Coaxing her to unburden herself.To give voice to the nightmare that had stolen the light from her gaze.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
She tried—gods, she tried.But the words refused to form, choking her from the inside.
“They had…”
Her hands clenched against her lap, fingers digging into the fabric, nails pressing into her skin as though the pain might tether her to the present.
“He, um… the man was?—”
Her head shook, frantic, desperate.As if she could shake it loose, dislodge the horror from her mind.But it clung to her.
Her eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.A dam, barely holding back the flood.
I exhaled slowly, carefully, measuring my next words.
“Did Lord Winston have…?”I hesitated.Even with all the wickedness I had seen in this world, knowing the depths of depravity men were capable of, I struggled to form the question.“Did Lord Winston have carnal relations with the man?”
The words hung between us, a grotesque wound cleaved into the silence.But I needed to know.
Her breath hitched, a choked noise catching in her throat before she buried her mouth against her palm.
And then— “Yes!”
It was more than an answer.It was a sob, a confession ripped from something too dark to name.
“He did it when the man was dying.”
The tremor in her voice shattered whatever restraint I had left.
“He stripped himself naked and?—”
She couldn’t finish—the words dissolved, lost in the space between us.But I didn’t need to hear the rest.The picture was already painted in blood and suffering.
My pulse pounded, a murderous drumbeat.
She shuddered, her fingers trembling against her lips.“Then this woman came in—she was dressed like a maid.They… they had intercourse with each other while the man was still bleeding, still gasping.”
The words tumbled from her in broken fragments as though speaking them out loud might lessen their weight.But nothing could lighten something so vile.
Something so unforgivable.
The cold fury that settled over me was absolute.A quiet, suffocating rage that coiled around my ribs and sank its claws into my bones.
My hands itched—ached—to wrap around Lord Winston’s throat, to crush the life from him slowly, to make him feel the horror he had inflicted upon another soul.
But first…
First, I had to shield the fragile creature beside me.
