Page 37 of Sweet Venom Of Time

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And deeper still?—

Something altogether forbidden.

Desire.

It was a sickness festering beneath my skin, growing stronger with each stolen glance, each unspoken moment between us.

Lady Elizabeth had awakened an avalanche within me—one of lust, of longing, of something far more dangerous than my mission itself.

I could not afford distractions.

I was a weapon, an instrument of vengeance, honed and sharpened for a singular purpose.

My resolve, once impenetrable, splintered beneath her weight.

Her anguish was an ache I wanted to soothe.

Her beauty—an opium I wanted to devour.

And my desires were savage.

A primal hunger coiled in my gut, clawing at my insides.

I yearned?—

To ravage her.

To consume every inch of her, to unearth the fire hidden under her delicate frame, to leave her trembling and breathless beneath me.

To ruin her in the most exquisite way imaginable.

But I was a man who existed in the shadows.

And she was a woman drowning in chains.

As the dinner continued around me—a theater of hollow civilities—I made an inward vow.

A silent oath that transcended orders, duty, and the carefully constructed walls of my mission.

I would protect Elizabeth.

Regardless of the cost.

Regardless of the chaos it would invite.

I could not stand idly by while she suffered, while men like her father and that creature she was promised to continued to tighten the noose around her.

With every clink of silverware against fine china, I reminded myself of the dangerous game I was now playing.

I was The Black Wraith, bound by shadows and secrecy.

But perhaps, in the darkness I inhabited, there existed a sliver of light—one that could, in some small way, illuminate the path for a soul as undeserving of cruelty as Lady Elizabeth Alexander.

I surveyed the room from my vantage point, noting each man’s carefully arranged mask of civility.

At the head of the table, Thomas Alexander sat with an air of cold calculation, the strings of power wrapped around his fingers like a master puppeteer.

In contrast, Lord Winston’s facade of nobility barely concealed the rot festering beneath.