Series: The Sacrifice Series by Natasha Knight
Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
That’s the plan, but something else occurs to me as soon as my feet hit the floor. I’m alone in Azrael’s room. So, naturally, I do what any woman would do in my circumstances. I snoop.
Starting in his closet, I rifle through his clothes, amused that the amount of darkness rivals my collection. While my wardrobe consists of black and red, his is mostly black. Many of the pieces seem to be vintage, but they are well-made, and there’s very little in the way of casual clothing. Out of curiosity, I reach for a long black trench coat, noting that it seems to be a favorite of his, judging by the worn leather and cologne still lingering on the material. Something about this piece feels special, and I’m not sure why. It’s just a feeling I get. I don’t know what possesses me to try it on and glance in the dressing mirror, but when I do, I can’t help being amused at how it dwarfs my frame.
The man is a fucking giant.
I keep it on while rifling through the rest of the belongings in his closet, turning up nothing of significance. Typically, a closet doubles as a hiding space for other things. Safes. Lockboxes. Dirty secrets. But if Azrael has any of those, they aren’t in here.
I return his coat to a hanger and move on to the rest of the room. I pick up every object to examine it, getting a feel for the space. Everything he owns serves a purpose. The furnishings and decorations all seem to be antiques or possibly family heirlooms.
I peek under the bed, not finding a single speck of dust. But inside the nightstand drawer, I notice the heavy gold ring he wore yesterday.
When I pick it up to look more closely at it, a wave of nausea overcomes me, and I have the strangest urge to hurl it out the window. Far… far away from me. I rotate the piece in my fingers, wondering what it is that’s making my gut churn. It isn’t until I notice the tiny lip and open it to reveal a hidden compartment that I begin to understand.
A lock of hair, the same shade of auburn as mine, rests inside. A cold chill creeps up the nape of my neck as a vision of Elizabeth swinging from a tree infiltrates my thoughts. It’s a vision I’ve had many times, but never as vivid as this. I can feel her agony coursing through me, the bite of wind against her skin as she takes her final breaths… the dark, piercing gaze of Isaiah Delacroix as he watches the life slip from her.
The ring falls from my fingers, tumbling back into the drawer as another wave of sickness seizes me. I clutch my stomach, holding back the urge to retch, and meet Fiona’s gaze. She’s watching me with worried eyes, her hair standing on end as if she feels it too, the hatred that lives in this house, even now. It’s something dark and sinister, something I don’t know how to protect myself against.
“Come on.” I grab Fiona and haul her into the adjoining room, shutting the door behind us. I need to gather my thoughts. I need space.
An hour and one entirely too hot shower later, I still don’t feel clean. Last night, I was so wrapped up in the moment I wasn’t thinking about how twisted it is. But now I can’t wash it away. Knowing that I not only allowed a Delacroix inside my body but that I enjoyed it makes me feel nothing but shame.
He’s fucking demented. That’s the only explanation there is. The fact that he not only keeps a lock of my ancestor’s hair—the ancestor his family murdered—but that he wears it disgusts me.
How could I let him touch me? How could I allow myself to enjoy it, knowing who he is? Knowing what he thinks of my family?
The evidence of my betrayal is still imprinted on my skin. The feeling of his fingerprints still lingers where he smacked me. The ache between my thighs reminds me that I welcomed him into my body.
Worst of all is the tattoo etched into my skin, his permanent mark on me. It’s a claim of ownership, a reminder that there is no escape. Even in death, his mark will remain.
Tears prick my eyes as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I always swore I’d never let him make me cry. But how can I not after what I just saw? It feels like my heart has been wrenched from my chest, and I can’t help but wonder if he’ll keep a lock of my hair like some twisted trophy when I'm dead.
A faint knock sounds at the door, startling me from my thoughts, and I wipe my eyes quickly before it creaks open. I’m sure it will be Azrael, so I’m surprised when I see a young girl peeking through the crack. She offers me a shy smile, her gaunt face and shadowed eyes catching me off guard.