Groan From The Dark
1161 Words
I should have known he'd be waiting.
Nicholas stood just around the corner, leaning against the wall with practiced casualness, as if he'd simply paused there by chance. But the way his eyes locked onto mine the instant I appeared told a different story—one that made my stomach clench with unease.
"Miss Dravenne." His smile was perfect, charming, empty. "Fancy meeting you here."
You never left.
The realization crawled across my skin like ice. He'd followed me. Or perhaps he'd known exactly where I'd go, what I'd do. Either possibility made my pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.
"Lord Nicholas." I kept my voice neutral, taking a small step back. "I thought you'd returned to breakfast."
"Did you?" He pushed off the wall, closing the distance I'd just created. "How strange. I could have sworn I mentioned escorting you back to the dining hall. It would be terribly rude of me to abandon that offer, don't you think?"
There was something in his tone—something that didn't match the lightness of his words. Something darker swimming beneath that polished surface.
"That's very kind, but unnecessary." I moved to step around him. "I'm actually quite tired. I think I'll return to my chambers."
His hand caught my elbow.
Not roughly. Not threateningly. Just firmly enough to stop me, his fingers warm through the fabric of my sleeve.
"Allow me to escort you, then." His thumb traced a small circle against my arm, and every instinct I had screamed at me to pull away. "The east wing can be... confusing for newcomers. Easy to get lost in all those identical corridors."
Let go.
But I didn't say it. I should have backed off. But that low timbre in his voice penetrated my veins like a dark curiosity. Something about the way he looked at me—with that strange intensity lurking behind his pleasant expression—warned me that resistance would only intrigue him more.
"I'm sure I can manage," I said carefully.
"I'm sure you can." He didn't release me. "But humor me, Miss Dravenne. After all, we're to be family soon. I'd like us to be... close."
The way he said close made my skin crawl.
I gently but firmly pulled my arm free. "Of course. How thoughtful."
We walked in silence, his presence beside me like a weight I couldn't shake. Every few steps, I felt his gaze slide toward me, assessing, calculating. When we passed a servant in the hallway, Nicholas's demeanor shifted instantly—all warmth and propriety, the perfect gentleman attending to his future sister-in-law.
But the moment we were alone again, that mask slipped just slightly.
"Tell me," he said conversationally, "what did you and my brother discuss? He's not usually so... talkative."
"We barely spoke at all."
"Really?" Nicholas's tone suggested he didn't believe me. "How disappointing. Though I suppose Valentino has lost the art of conversation along with everything else."
I stopped walking, turning to face him. "Why do you speak about him that way?"
"What way?"
"Like he's already dead."
Something flickered in Nicholas's eyes—surprise, perhaps, or anger quickly suppressed. Then that smile returned, sharper now, more genuine.
"Perceptive," he murmured. "My father was right about you. You do have more substance than most women of your station." He leaned closer, and I caught the scent of that too-sweet cologne again. "But you're wrong, Miss Dravenne. I don't think Valentino is dead. I think he's something far more interesting than that."
"And what would that be?"
"Broken." The word fell between us like a stone. "And broken things can be... reshaped. Reformed into something new." His hand lifted, and for one heart-stopping moment I thought he might touch my face. Instead, he brushed an invisible speck from my shoulder. "Don't you agree?"
Stay away from my brother.
Valentino's warning echoed in my mind, and suddenly I understood. This wasn't about politeness or family courtesy. This was about power. Control.
And I was caught directly in the middle.
"I should go," I said, stepping back. "Thank you for the escort."
"Of course." He bowed, all grace and charm once more. "Until dinner, Miss Dravenne. I look forward to continuing our conversation."
I fled—there was no other word for it—practically running the last few steps to my chamber and closing the door behind me with shaking hands.
Everything in this house is dangerous.
Valentino had been right.
Night fell like a curtain, thick and suffocating.
I lay in bed, staring at the canopy above, my mind racing through the day's events. Nicholas's strange intensity. Valentino's cold warning. The way they'd looked at each other—like enemies circling before a battle.
Then I heard it.
A sound, low and raw, drifting through the walls.
I sat up, my heart already pounding. The east wing was supposed to be empty except for Valentino and me. The servants never came here after dark. The Duke and Nicholas resided in the opposite end of the manor.
We were alone.
The sound came again—a groan, deep and pained, unmistakably human.
Valentino.
I rose before I could think better of it, pulling a robe around my shoulders and moving to the door. The corridor beyond was dark, lit only by a single candle burning in a wall sconce. The sound grew louder as I moved closer to where I knew his chambers must be.
Outside his door, I hesitated, my hand raised to knock.
Another groan, this one more anguished, more desperate.
He's in pain.
I reached for the handle—
The door flew open.
Valentino stood there, breathing hard, his shirt unlaced and hanging open. The silver mask was gone.
And I saw.
I saw everything the mask had hidden—the terrible scars that twisted across half his face, pulling at his features in ways that should have been horrifying. Burns that extended down his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt. Skin that had been melted and reformed into something brutal and raw.
But it was his eyes that held me frozen.
They burned with something primal and dangerous, something that wasn't quite pain and wasn't quite fury but somewhere violently between.
"Get out." His voice was barely human, rough and strained.
His breath smelled bitter, a mixture of burnt flesh and iron. The growl in his voice was not the echo of a person, but of something steeped in pain.
I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
His hand shot out, gripping the doorframe hard enough that his knuckles went white. "I said get—"
He doubled over suddenly, a sound ripping from his throat that made my blood run cold.
And in that moment, as he struggled against whatever demons tormented him, I saw movement in the shadows behind him.
A figure.
Standing in the darkness of his room.
Watching.
My scream died in my throat as recognition slammed into me.
Nicholas.
- Writer
