The heavy door clicked shut, leaving Julia in a silence thicker than the dust motes dancing in the dim light. The scent of Alistair's cologne, sharp with the lingering tang of broken porcelain, felt suffocating. Her legs trembled, her head throbbed, and the metallic taste of blood from her nose was a harsh reminder of her own recent fury. What is happening to me? she wondered, a chill creeping into her bones.
But a deeper terror gnawed at her. Silas. Alistair's chilling promise, "I will find him myself," now hung in the air. Silas, alone, vulnerable in the East Wing. Julia imagined Alistair, a force unleashed, stalking the shadowed halls.
Panic, cold and sharp, cut through her fading anger. She had to know. Had to warn Silas, or at least see what happened. She wouldn't cower. Not when someone else's life might be in danger because of her.
She took a shaky breath, pressing the back of her hand to her nose. A fresh wave of dizziness washed over her. She stumbled from the room, leaving the shattered fragments like bones on the floor. The hallway stretched empty, its darkness swallowing the last echoes of Alistair's rage.
Julia moved as quickly as her trembling legs would allow, her ears straining for any sound. Footsteps. Voices. A tell-tale crash. Nothing. Only the hollow beat of her own frantic heart. The silence was more terrifying than any storm; it hinted at a silent, determined search.
She crept down the grand staircase, her eyes fixed on the East Wing archway. That passage was draped in even deeper shadow than usual. No lights. No sounds of struggle. Had Alistair not gone there yet? Or had he found Silas already, and this silence was merely the quiet aftermath?
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, her gaze fell on the dining room. A thin sliver of light escaped from beneath the heavy mahogany door. It seemed a strange place for Alistair to be, given his recent rampage. Curiosity, mixed with dread, pulled her towards it.
Hesitantly, Julia pushed the door open.
Alistair stood alone by the roaring fireplace, swirling a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. The firelight danced across his handsome face, illuminating the sharp angles of his jaw. He wasn't raging. He wasn't searching. He was simply waiting. His gaze was fixed on the dancing flames, a study in brooding stillness.
Just as Julia stepped fully into the room, her vision blurred. The adrenaline from the confrontation, the exhaustion, the fear for Silas—it all hit her. Her knees buckled.
Alistair turned. His eyes, those piercing, sapphire eyes, locked onto hers. The glass in his hand froze. He saw her sway, saw the fresh blood on her face, and his carefully built composure cracked. Genuine concern, raw and sudden, flashed across his features, before swiftly being hidden.
He dropped the tumbler with a clatter, the liquid splashing onto the polished floor. In three swift strides, he was there. His strong arms wrapped around her, catching her just as she began to fall. The world spun, then steadied as she was lifted, cradled against his chest. The smell of his expensive cologne, now mixed with the faint, sharper scent of brandy, filled her senses.
"Julia!" His voice was a low, guttural sound, rough with worry. He held her tightly, then gently lowered her into a high-backed armchair by the fire, kneeling before her, his hands still gripping her arms. His eyes, wide and searching, swept over her face. He saw the nosebleed, now worse, and his brow furrowed deeply. "My God, Julia. The blood… it's worse."
He pulled out a crisp white handkerchief. With surprising tenderness, he pressed it to her bleeding nose. "You mentioned Lady Henswick's fever draft once, that it helped you. I'm sorry, Julia. I haven't been able to locate it." He shook his head, a shadow of genuine guilt crossing his handsome face. Julia felt a pang of guilt herself; she knew such a tonic didn't exist.
His words, his touch, his clear distress, were a confusing balm. The fierce anger Julia had felt battled with a strange, undeniable pull. He was commanding, controlling, but in this moment, he seemed truly concerned. The dangerous allure was more potent now for its unexpected softness.
"You need a doctor, Julia." His voice was a clear command, though soft.
"No!" Julia cried, her voice muffled by the handkerchief, pushing weakly at his hand. "No doctor!"
Alistair's gaze snapped to hers. "No doctor? Julia, you're bleeding. You almost fainted. You've had these spells before. You need to be seen." His voice held a clear demand, though softer than before.
Julia pulled the handkerchief away slightly. "I don't need a doctor," she repeated, trembling but firm. "My head aches, and I'm tired, that's all. These spells… they happen when I'm under stress. A doctor would just tell me what I already know." And perhaps, that I'm losing my mind. Just like Marian. Her stomach clenched with cold dread.
Alistair's eyes narrowed, studying her. "What is it, Julia? Why do you refuse? Are you afraid of what they might say?" He paused, his voice softening, becoming a persuasive whisper. "Whatever it is, we can face it. Together. I will protect you. No one will hurt you. No one will say anything you do not wish to hear."
His words were a seductive net, designed to draw her in, to make her confess. He wanted her to tell him who was with her. He wants to know everything. He wants to control everything. But a part of her, a confusing, vulnerable part, wanted to believe his promise.
"You speak of protection, Lord Blackwood," Julia retorted, her voice regaining a hint of its earlier fire, "but moments ago, you threatened someone. You roared at me. You dismissed my questions. How can I trust a man who speaks of protecting me, yet fills this house with such fear and unanswered questions?" She tried to push him away, but his hands remained firm on her arms.
He sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed genuine. "My anger was born of frustration, Julia. And fear. Yes, fear. You are reckless. You stumble into dangerous corners of this house, stir up old wounds. I spoke harshly, I admit. I apologize." His thumb, still on her cheek, traced a feather-light path. "But tell me," his voice dropped, persuasive, almost hurt, "how do you expect me to protect you when you refuse to confide in me? When you hide things from me?"
Julia met his gaze, her jaw set. He's twisting it. Making me feel guilty. "Perhaps if you were more forthcoming about Marian, Lord Blackwood," she challenged, her voice cool, "I wouldn't feel the need to seek answers elsewhere. And as for who was with me, that is my private affair. My loyalty is to those who genuinely help me, not those who merely offer words of protection while hiding the truth."
"It becomes my affair when it concerns your safety, Julia," he countered, his voice firm but patient. "This house is full of secrets, yes. But it is also full of dangers. You cannot navigate them alone. And when you bring others into those dangers, you endanger them too. I see the toll this place takes on you, Julia. These fainting spells, these nosebleeds… they are symptoms of a deeper distress caused by your insistence on digging where you shouldn't. Marian… she suffered similarly. And I could not save her from herself, from her own mind."
Julia flinched, pulling back slightly. Her eyes, wide with a terrible dawning realization, fixed on his. "Are you saying… are you saying I'm like her?" The question was a terrified whisper, a deep-seated fear finally voiced. Am I unraveling, just like Marian did? Is that what he truly thinks?
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, his blue eyes intense. "You are not like Marian. I will not let you become like her. But for me to help you, truly help you, you must trust me. You must tell me what happened in that wing. Who was with you? Tell me everything, Julia, and let me protect you from the consequences of your curiosity. Let me protect your sanity."
Julia swallowed hard, her gaze darting to the East Wing passage, then back to his intense blue eyes. "You say you won't let me become like her," she challenged, her voice trembling but holding firm. "Yet you trap me here. You keep me from the truth. You try to convince me my own mind is failing. How can I trust a protector who acts like a captor? A protector who dismisses the very things that terrify me?"
His gaze searched hers, relentless. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Because, Julia, there are some truths you are not ready for. And some dangers you cannot possibly comprehend. You cannot hide someone here forever. Sooner or later, they will be found. It is better, safer, if I know. If they are truly your friend, truly here to help you, I would ensure their safety. I promise you. But this is my house. And I will know who is within its walls."
Julia looked into his eyes, seeing the glint of shrewdness, the desire for control beneath the charming facade. She knew he wanted to extract the truth. But she wouldn't give him the name. She couldn't.
Just then, Finch burst into the dining room, his face flushed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He didn't even notice Julia, his gaze fixed on Alistair.
"My Lord!" Finch gasped, bowing, his voice strained with effort. "We found him! In the East Wing, hiding in the old servant's quarters. He put up quite a fight, but he's apprehended." He paused, catching his breath, then delivered the final blow. "It's Silas Corwin, my Lord."
Alistair's head snapped up. His charming facade, the mask of concern, shattered into a thousand pieces. His eyes, fixed on Finch, widened in genuine shock, then blazed with a terrifying, primal fury Julia had never witnessed.