Page 106 of Tainted Souls
No one moves, not yet anyway. But gradually, the murmurs return, soft and unsure, as if the room is cautiously giving me my dignity back.
Saul and I stare at each other across the space between us, two people carved out by survival, shaped by loss. The silence feels like a second reckoning.
I search for the brother I once knew beneath this stranger who speaks of patience and strategy. “What happened to you, Saul? How could you work with the person who took Dad’s life?”
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I glimpse something vulnerable beneath his carefully constructed armor. “Father’s death wasn’t planned. It was…” He trails off, looking away. “Collateral damage.”
I can’t believe he just said that.
My mouth flops open, then closes. The words I want to throw at him burn on my tongue, but none of them feel sharp enough. None of them feel true enough for what I’m feeling.
“Collateral damage?” I repeat, voice barely above a whisper. “He was yourfather, Saul. He raised us. He taught us how to hold a blade. He used to carry us when the nightmares got too loud.” My voice cracks at the end, and I hate how broken it sounds.
Saul flinches like the memory stung more than he expected. Still, he doesn’t look at me. Just stares down at his hands like they might explain the guilt away.
My hand slaps his cheek, loud enough to echo through the room. His head snaps to the side, hair brushing against his temple. In the past, he would’ve slapped me back without a second thought, but now he just sits there, wrinkling his nose like a scolded kid.
“Not everyone has the desire to burn the whole world down for revenge, Sister.”
As if on cue, a shadow falls across the table. The silhouette of the person that could make me want to tear the sky open just to let the fire in. I don’t have to look up to know it’s Revenant—Ace.
Without sparing him a single glance, I stand and walk away, each step deliberately heavy, carrying the weight of everything I cannot say.
CHAPTER 22
MY DRESS SWISHES ANGRILYaround my ankles as I storm through empty corridors in search of an exit. My fingers trace the walls as I walk, on the lookout for weak points, hidden passages, anything that might lead to freedom. I try every door I pass. Some open to empty bedrooms, others to studies filled with ancient books. None offer escape.
The windows I find are all barred. After turning another corner, I find myself in an unfamiliar wing. The architecture here seems to be of older stonework, its passages narrower. Hope flickers as I spot a small door partially hidden behind a tapestry.
I push it open to reveal a cramped stairwell spiraling downward.
Descending quickly, I hold my skirts to keep from tripping. The air grows cooler, damper.
At the bottom, another door awaits. It swings open with surprising ease to reveal a wine cellar. Bottles upon bottles arearranged in neat rows, collecting dust in the dim light of a single lantern.
I check every wall, tap every stone, but there’s no secret passage, no hidden exit. Just another dead end.
I try two more corridors, three more staircases, and six more doors. Each leads nowhere or circles back to where I’ve already been. It’s as if the mansion itself is conspiring against me, shifting its layout to keep me trapped within its walls.
I don’t even know where I’m going anymore. I just need to be away.
Away from this twisted place where my father’s murder is reduced to collateral damage.
Finally, in a hallway lined with faded portraits, something inside me breaks. My legs give way beneath me, and I slide down against the wall until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor, the dress pooling around me like spilled ink. I press my palms against my eyes, but the tears come anyway, shoulders shaking as tears flow freely.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I allow myself to feel the full extent of my helplessness, years of carefully maintained control crumbling.
I’m trapped, fully surrounded by enemies, with no way to contact the people who might actually care if I live or die.
“Oh, my dear.”
I look up, hastily wiping my tears.
Irene stands a few feet away, concern etched across her features. She approaches slowly, as if I’m a wounded animal that might lash out.
“Are you alright?”
I laugh bitterly. “What do you think?”
