Page 101 of Ashen Torment

I lock eyes with him.

“You are reckless.”

“You are violent.”

I press harder on the cloth, the blood tries to seep through the folds.

“You hardly seem a saint.”

“And what are you supposed to be, a martyr?”

I am about to retort, but before my eyes appears the painting seen at Count Nádasdy’s exhibition: the martyr in ecstasy, skin burning with pleasure and pain combined.

A shiver courses through my body.

My gaze drops; he, too, seems to remember something. The tension in his eyes and jaw speaks for itself.

“Why can Richard touch you and I cannot?” he asks, his fingers reaching slightly toward me.

“Why do you want to touch me?”

“Answer me.”

I take a step back, removing the handkerchief.

“You are fixated on Richard.”

Before I can add more, he seizes my wrist with force. The hot, unexpected pressure stops my breath for an instant.

I move backward, but he rises, following my movement. Despite my height, I must lift my head slightly to meet his eyes, he towers over me naturally, as if born to look down on everyone.

I try to break free from the grip on my wrist, my fingers sliding over the fabric of his waistcoat.

“Stay still, if you don’t want me to wound you again.”

His eyes burn into mine.

“Answer my question, Viscount.”

“It is unseemly.”

“And why is that?”

I take a step back, he follows me, keeping my wrist held tight between his hands.

“Perhaps you harbor unseemly thoughts when I touch you?”

“What nonsense you speak!” I raise my voice.

“Then what is your problem, Evander?”

He advances, imperious, his face close to mine.

“S-stop calling me like that!”

He moves close to my ear, his warm breath brushing my skin.

“And in what way, then?”