Page 75 of Ashen Torment

“Cannibalism represents the ultimate metaphor for what man is willing to do to obtain what he desires. Even swallowing his own kind.”

My eyes settle on the realistic details of soft tissue and viscera. My breath grows heavy as I feel nausea rising in my throat.

Lord Dorian points to the black serpent moving between the legs of the diners, its thin scales glossy.

“You say greed, but I see temptation here.”

He turns.

“Is the man greedy, or is it temptation that guides him?”

I look away and fix my gaze on the one who spoke: a man with a burgundy mask, the patches of skin that should have remained exposed covered in what I assume is black soot mixed with paint.

“Or perhaps the artist is nothing more than a lecher who takes pleasure in painting obscenities,” the man declares with a Parisian accent so sharp it sounds like an insult.

My jaw tightens. Lord Dorian notices, as I perceive the slight change in his breathing behind the mask.

The man moves away, his soft soles sliding toward the next painting with the air of someone who has already said more than necessary.

I lean slightly toward him.

“Do you not speak French?”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“I understand it.”

“But you do not speak it.”

He takes a step toward the third painting, the candlelight igniting the ivory reflection in his hair.

“Do you speak Russian, Viscount?”

I remain silent, staring at the canvas veiled in shadow.

“I imagine not,” he insists. “Do you at least understand it?”

His tone pricks my skin.

“I know other languages.”

“But not Russian.”

That smug smile curling his lips is as irritating as he is.

“L’Apothéose du Péché,” I say, pointing to the third painting.

He follows my finger.

I am about to let him observe alone, yet instead, without thinking, I move to his side.

“It means the apotheosis of sin.”

This time, it is he who does not move. The smile he wore moments ago vanishes, swallowed by the image before us.

“I know perfectly well what it means,” he mutters, his tone dropping, almost cracking.

I look at the painting. I understand instantly why, this time, it is he who cannot look away. The canvas seems to breathe. It is... profoundly, inevitably erotic.