Bride Of Gravesend

Two Night Visits

Sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford.

I lay in bed, staring at the canopy above, my mind refusing to quiet. The note burned in my thoughts even though I'd burned the paper itself, watching the edges curl and blacken in the fireplace until nothing remained but ash.

You're not the first Violet.

My grandmother. Here. In this very house, fifty years ago. And she'd run.

I turned onto my side, pulling the blankets higher, but the chill had nothing to do with temperature. The pattern replayed in my mind like a death sentence written in genealogical ink—eldest sons, all dead before thirty. Hunting accidents. Falls. Sudden illness.

Valentino was twenty-seven.

Three years. He had three years left if the pattern held true. Three years before whatever curse—or conspiracy—that plagued this family claimed him too.

Unless it already had.

I sat up abruptly, my heart racing. The scars. The burns covering half his body, half his face. Everyone said they came from the war, from enemy soldiers who'd captured and tortured him.

But what if they hadn't?

What if someone closer had tried to kill him, and the war had simply provided a convenient explanation?

Nicholas.

The name whispered through my thoughts like poison. Nicholas, who stood to inherit everything. Nicholas, who watched me with those calculating eyes. Nicholas, who'd been in Valentino's room that night, standing in the shadows while his brother writhed in pain.

And that final line in the book, the one Valentino had shown me:

"The Mark chooses. The blood demands. And love is the final curse."

Every eldest son who died had been married. Or engaged. Or about to be.

Don't fall in love with him, I told myself firmly. Don't let your heart become tangled in whatever darkness lives in this house.

But even as I thought it, I knew it was already too late to be completely indifferent.

I threw off the blankets, unable to lie still any longer. The room felt suffocating, the walls pressing in with secrets and warnings and that single blinking eye I'd seen watching from the library wall.

The corridor outside was dark, silent. I moved through it like a ghost, my bare feet soundless against the cold stone. The east wing was empty—just Valentino and me, alone in this isolated section of the manor.

Mostly alone.

Nicholas could be anywhere. Watching from hidden passages, listening through walls, orchestrating whatever twisted game he was playing.

I walked without destination, letting my feet carry me where they would. When I realized I'd stopped outside Valentino's door, I told myself it was coincidence.

Liar.

I pressed closer, listening. No sound came from within—no groans of pain, no movement, nothing. Just silence, thick and complete.

My hand lifted to knock, then hesitated.

What would I even say? I think your brother is trying to kill you? I found a note from my dead grandmother? I can't stop thinking about the way your fingers felt against my jaw?

Instead of knocking, I leaned closer, pressing my ear against the dark wood.

Still nothing.

The door shifted slightly under my weight, and I realized with a start that it wasn't fully closed. It hung open just a crack, an invitation or a trap—I couldn't tell which.

Walk away. Go back to your room. This is madness.

But I was already pushing the door open wider, already peering through the gap into the darkness beyond.

The room was larger than mine, sparsely furnished but elegant in its simplicity. Moonlight filtered through tall windows, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. And there, in the massive four-poster bed, lay Valentino.

I should have left. Should have closed the door and pretended I'd never been there.

Instead, I stepped inside.

He lay on his back, one arm thrown above his head, the other resting across his bare chest. The silver mask sat on the bedside table, and without it, I could see the full extent of the damage. Burns covered the left side of his face, twisting down his neck and across his shoulder. The skin was ridged, scarred, a testament to unimaginable pain.

But the visible half of his face—the half untouched by fire—was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache. Strong features, a sensual mouth, dark lashes resting against his cheek.

He's just a man, I thought. Scarred and dangerous and drowning in family curses, but still just a man.

I moved closer, drawn by something I couldn't name. The burns extended down his torso, covering his left side in patterns that looked almost deliberate. Not the random destruction of battle, but something more precise.

More intentional.

My hand lifted before I could stop it, my fingers hovering just above his scarred skin. I shouldn't touch him. Shouldn't invade his privacy like this.

But I needed to know. Needed to feel if the scars were real, if the story everyone told was truth or carefully constructed lie.

My fingertips made contact, tracing the ridged skin with feather-light pressure.

His chest expanded with a deep exhale, and I froze, my heart leaping into my throat.

But he didn't wake. His breathing remained steady, even, lost in whatever dreams tormented him.

I should have pulled away. Should have fled back to my room before he opened his eyes and found me standing over him like some voyeuristic wraith.

Instead, I let my fingers trace higher, following the path of destruction across his chest, his shoulder, the side of his neck.

What happened to you?

"If you're going to touch me," his voice rumbled through the darkness, rough with sleep, "you should at least have the courage to look me in the eye while you do it."

I jerked back, but his hand shot out, catching my wrist with unerring accuracy. His eyes opened—dark and burning with an intensity that stole my breath.

"Valentino, I—"

"You what?" He pulled me closer, his grip firm but not painful. "Came to satisfy your curiosity? To see if the monster looks worse without his mask?" He sat up in one fluid motion, and suddenly we were face to face, his scarred features inches from mine. "Well? Are you satisfied?"

"You're not a monster." The words escaped before I could stop them.

"No?" His free hand lifted, tracing the ruined side of his face with bitter intimacy. "Then what am I, Miss Dravenne? What do you see when you look at me?"

A man in pain. A man surrounded by enemies. A man who might not survive the week.

"Someone worth saving," I whispered.

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe, or disbelief. His grip on my wrist loosened slightly, his thumb finding my pulse point.

"You can't save me." His voice dropped lower, almost gentle. "The moment you try, the moment you care—that's when the curse claims another victim."

"I don't believe in curses."

"You should." He leaned closer, and I could feel his breath against my lips, warm and steady. "Because I do. And I've seen what happens to people who get too close to me. What happens to people I—"

He stopped abruptly, his jaw clenching.

"People you what?" I prompted, barely breathing.

"People I want to protect." His eyes burned into mine. "And God help me, Violet, I want to protect you. Which means you need to stay as far away from me as possible."

But even as he said it, his hand slid from my wrist to my waist, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. The contradiction between his words and his actions sent heat racing through my veins.

"Then why are you holding me?" I challenged.

"Because I'm a selfish bastard." His other hand cupped my face, his scarred fingers gentle against my skin. "Because you're standing in my room in the middle of the night, touching me like I'm something precious instead of something broken. And because—"

A floorboard creaked in the corridor outside.

We both froze.

Valentino's eyes went cold, hard, and he released me instantly, his hand moving to the knife I hadn't noticed on his bedside table.

"Get in the wardrobe," he ordered quietly. "Now."

"What—"

"Now."

The command in his voice brooked no argument. I moved quickly, slipping into the massive wardrobe and pulling the door nearly closed, leaving just enough gap to see through.

Valentino was already on his feet, knife in hand, moving toward his bedroom door with predatory silence.

The handle turned slowly.

The door opened.

And Nicholas stepped inside, a candle in one hand and something that gleamed silver in the other.

Something that looked exactly like a syringe.