SONG RECOMMENDATIONS: "MAKE THE ANGELS CRY" by Chris Grey.
"What should we do?" an assistant asked, her expression grim.
A physician was seated next to Lucinda, tending to her wounds. They had extracted the knife, used a thick cloth to stop the bleeding, and disinfected the area.
He was now carefully stitching it.
"For him to have called us… I don't know if I should call it a good sign or our demise," the other doctor in the room said, handing an injection to the first doctor.
"What poison even is this?" the second assistant asked, spinning the blade in her grasp.
The doctor sighed, tucking the bandage in place and lowering the nightgown Lucinda had been changed into.
"It wouldn't matter if we can't—"
"She's bleeding!" one of the older doctors called.
There were three doctors in the room with five assistants.
The first doctor turned to Lucinda, only to be met with the horrifying sight of crimson trails running down her cheeks. Her eyes were still shut, but now a pained expression was etched on her face.
The assistants scrambled, bringing out various pieces of equipment and vials to assess her.
"T-The master would—" the third doctor stammered, but his voice was cut off when the door behind them banged open.
The master of the mansion stalked into the room and went straight to Lucinda.
Their worried gazes darted toward one another in silent communication. Silas's garments were drenched in blood, his shoes leaving a trail of bloodied footprints. An assistant fought the urge to gag. Though surrounded by blood daily, seeing a man so soaked in it—and so unnervingly comfortable in his own skin—brought a sickening twist to not only her stomach but to everyone else's.
Silas halted a few feet from the lady they were attending to, taking in her state.
She seemed even paler, almost blending into the white sheets. Scissors, gauze, thread, and a pool of black purple blood lined the bed. Her purple veins were stark against her ashen skin.
But no—that wasn't what made him stop short.
It was the blood, continuously running down her eyes and lips like crimson tears.
He spun and grabbed the nearest doctor by his collar, hauling him close—barely a hair's breadth from his face.
"What's happening to her?!" he snarled, his teeth bared.
The doctor trembled, staring at the blood-soaked master and fearing his own fate would end just as brutally.
"We're trying everything we can, my lord, but the affliction keeps worsening. We've never seen anything like this. Please, if you could give us time, we would come up—"
There was no time.
"Wrong answer," Silas growled at the middle-aged doctor, tossing him aside. The man collided with the others, knocking two assistants to the ground.
"Imbeciles! None of you are capable of anything!"
Silas raged, pacing up and down the room, his hands in his hair, tugging, grasping for a solution.
Papa… please save Mama.
The memory hit him like a tidal wave. The promise. He had given his word to Theodore.
Silas strode to the station where the doctors had set up their equipment. All useless. Nothing here was helping his fiancée. Nothing worked on her.
As he extracted a syringe from the box, an uproar of raised voices sent his head snapping up and darting to lucinda. perspiration was beginning to bead on her brows and temple; She was now violently shaking on the bed.
He cursed under his breath and climbed onto the bed beside her.
"Lucinda. Lucinda! Stay with me!"
Her eyes were half-open, but her irises were nowhere to be seen. She continued to jerk violently. The last of Silas's composure threatened to crumble. He grabbed her by the arms and shook her, all reasoning gone. His mind clung desperately to the last fragile threads of hope, chanting for her to stay with him.
"Here, my lord!" A doctor fearfully handed a small vial to Silas.
His eyes scanned the contents. An anesthetic.
"I-I believe it's best to numb her pain before anything else."
Silas stared daggers at the vial. If he ignored this, he'd leave her in unbearable pain. Theodore would surely hate him for it. Sweat dripped down Lucinda's face and neck, her dark hair sticking to her skin.
This would be best—for now.
He popped the vial open and pushed it against her lips, but to no avail. Her lips remained pressed shut.
With a grunt, he tried to pry her jaw open, but it only made her lips mash together tighter.
Frustration boiled over as his gaze darted between the vial and her lips. Back and forth, back and forth, until—
"Maybe—" a doctor began to suggest.
In a strangled growl of surrender, Silas tipped his head back and downed the liquid. The next moment, his lips crashed urgently against hers.
The nurses gasped softly, while the doctors instinctively averted their gazes.
Lucinda's soft, trembling lips were cool to the touch. Silas's large hand trailed to the nape of her neck, holding her against him. His other hand tilted her head, pressing her into him and slightly pushing against her lips with gentle pressure.
Facing resistance, he grunted before his tongue push and plunged into her mouth, prying it open and pouring the liquid into her mouth and down her throat.
Few droplets of the liquid fell from the gap between their joined lips and Silas slowly pried himself away from her lips. His breathing came faster, into a pant as he gazed at her waiting and within a few seconds her tremor began to reduce. Silas didn't know when he released a relieved sigh. Till he caught himself and straightened his shoulders.
He didn't met the eyes of any of the people in the room, though he could feel their gazes on him as he carefully lowered Lucinda back on the sheets.
Grabbing a needle from the bedside table, he inserted it into her arm and drew blood. His gaze flickered to her face, watching for any reaction. None came.
Placing the needle aside, he turned to the team of physicians.
"Leave."
The single, low warning sent them scattering. They packed up their equipment in haste, casting worried glances between the couple—both disheveled in their own ways.
The devil had let them leave unharmed.
As they hurried out of the estate, one thought consumed their minds: If all the viscounts former women had mysteriously died; that too by the lord's hands from what rumors had told. Why did he work so hard to save this one? Was it possible…the viscount could possibly care for someone.
And what would happen if his efforts proved fruitless?
The thought chilled them. They dared not imagine harm upon her. It felt unthinkable, like they couldn't afford to think of harm upon her. As if such a thought could cost them their lives.
…
Frederick closed the door to Silas's study. The master wasn't there.
He started down the vast hallway when he heard someone behind him.
"…Excuse me."
The tension in the room was dark and suffocating. Silas was hunched over a table covered with vials, scrolls, and instruments.
In the shadowy confines of the dusty, dark room, antiquated tools lay dormant, their eerie presence hinting at dark arts once practiced within. A massive iron cauldron, partly covered by a dusty cloth, loomed in one corner. Its surface was marred by rust and neglect. Nearby, an array of glassware—retorts and alembics—gathered cobwebs, long unused.
Rows of ornate jars with sealed lids lined the shelves, hiding the secrets of deadly powders and tinctures. The faded labels spoke of forgotten danger. A weathered tome rested upon a rickety wooden lectern, its leather-bound pages filled with cryptic symbols and scribbles. Its contents hinted at forbidden knowledge.
Silas sat hunched over the oak desk. A glass tube containing Lucinda's dark blood was clutched tightly in his hand. Dusty books on poisonous herbs, dangerous plants, and ancient remedies were scattered around him, many flipped open to various pages. Some had fallen to the floor in his frantic search for answers.
The once-orderly shelves were in disarray, reflecting the storm brewing within him.
His hard gaze bored into the small tube of dark blood, as if it held the answers none of the books could provide.
The blood on his clothes and face had dried. His tousled hair showed the countless times his hands had run through it in frustration.
A knock sounded at the door, breaking the silence.
The door creaked open, and Frederick stepped in, stopping a few feet from Silas.
He didn't look out of place, nor did he ask questions. Why would he? He was used to this. This was their rhythm—Silas consumed by his work while Frederick stood unwavering at his side, even as his master concocted substances no one dared name.
Only when Silas straightened did Frederick dare to speak. Interrupting his master in this state was dangerous unless one had something of value to say.
"According to the reports, the substance that slowed those assassins—until Morena handled them—was just handed to me… by a maid."
Silas grunted, about to dismiss him, his hands back to tugging his strands.
"Apparently…" Frederick hesitated, "it was found in Theodore's pocket."
Silas's hands froze.