Page 43 of The Tyranny of our Longing

“I don’t know,” she said, her words snagging on a shudder. She folded her arms around herself, trying to subdue the tremors threatening to overtake her body. Then before she could decide against it, she asked, “They are accurate, then?”

Surprise shot through his expression, its force breaking the storm raging in his eyes, and she carried on before he could fall back into its torrent. “Show me.”

His brows pulled together. “What?”

“Read me the rest.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before he said, his teeth grinding on the words, “Very well.” Then he turned, and left the room, the echo of his steps resounding long after he was gone.

Phaedra let out a breath, then looked up at the paintings once more, her thoughts awhirl with possibilities both real and fantastic.

Pieces of fabric were affixed to each panel, the dresses looming out of the frames as if of their own desperate will to join the living, their color diffusing even into the gathering darkness. There was a pull to them, drawing not only on her eyes, but her very being, and she could almost feel how they stripped her of every other choice but to stare, and the growing, near-rabid urge to touch.

She straightened, a spark igniting in her mind, its force seeming to halt the powers working against her. Not knowing where she had found the strength, she turned away and looked back toward the other wall, the one that had housed the opposite of the icy exchange of a few moments ago, and the last piece of fabric crumpled at its base.

Her fingers twitched as her eyes moved over the glimmering surface, and she knew with sudden certainty that if she were to go and pick it up, to drape it over her prickling skin, she could go after Nathaniel and finally finish what they had started. Yet, for the first time, the thought did not weave through her with the raging fire of unbridled need. Instead, it left her rooted to the spot, a chill dread blooming over her spine in latticed frostwork.

CHAPTER 34

Phaedra pushed into her bedroom before realizing her mistake. She had not been thinking, her feet moving as if of their own accord to bring her where she knew her belongings to be. Only they were no longer here. Her dress, her shoes, even her undergarments were still in Nathaniel’s room, where Matilda had changed her after her bout of illness.

In any other circumstance, the notion would have sent a wave of heat rushing through her skin. But as her eyes fell on her bed, on the pile of neatly folded clothes that should not have been there, there was nothing but silent apprehension creeping through her veins.

It seemed her choice to come here—if the choice had even been hers—had not been a mistake after all.

She dressed quickly, her gaze catching on the image of her reflection, on the woman with wild eyes and even wilder movements. The woman who thought she had glimpsed the truth. The woman who was far more than afraid.

She smoothed her hands over the ruffled tangle of her hair, the image of Nathaniel raking his fingers through those very locks shooting like lightning across her mind. The way his hot breath mingled with hers, his lips a fiery trail of⁠—

“No!” she exclaimed. She took a deep breath, then, as if her words were aimed at someone—or something—she said in a low, forbidding voice, “No.”

She pulled her hair into a braid, then pinned it into a chignon at the back of her head, out of sight. As if she would erase all reminders of what had happened. Because what had happened had not been real. Even if he had truly stood there, caged between her thighs, his body straining against her with obvious want, it had not been real. And there was no time to explore the hurt or heartbreak or whatever cruel feelings this twisted rejection would inevitably stir in her, because they needed to end this now. She needed the certainty, despite knowing what would come next. Needed to hear the dreaded truth she knew the last entries would reveal so she could finally leave. And yet…

An uncomfortable feeling of uncertainty invaded her, dampening her resolve. Because what if everything she imagined to be true was merely that? Her imagination. The figment of her overtired mind.

What if all of this was simply her body’s final attempt to make her stop—to make her flee—before she could work it into a state of absolute exhaustion?

She could not deny the toll this contract had taken on her. The madness it was pushing her toward. Losing sleep. Losing time. Forgetting to eat, to rest. And all of this on top of everything else gnawing at the back of her mind. The danger of her creditors looming just beyond the horizon, the loss of her only chance at true freedom should she not stay to finish this assignment. The darkness she had escaped, first from her home, then the man who had claimed to save her, their joint shadow forever a stain on her past. The struggle of the life she had to build from nothing, the wars she’d had to wage day in and out to finally get to where she was today. After the days—the years—she’d had, no one could remain sane.

Yes, the thought forced its way into her mind. That is exactly it.

She swept her gaze across the walls. It felt strange, the things she saw now that she knew where to look, and she finally understood why she’d been led here instead of Nathaniel’s bedroom.

The green shimmer of the wallpaper seemed to pulse even in the descending darkness, as if it would mimic her heartbeat, to slow it into a calm she should not be feeling. Her eyes unfocused, the color seeping in behind her lids hanging heavy with the sudden need to rest. But before they could close and damn her to a will other than her own, Phaedra pulled her gaze away, and walked out of the room.

She hurried through the hallway, chillingly aware of the presence around her. Yet, despite her expectation of another offense—some desperate attempt to change her mind or halt her steps—it somehow felt silent. Withdrawn. As if it had no intention of stopping her.

Because she would already be doing what it wanted.

Prickles brushed across her skin, and she turned into the stairwell, her steps faltering at the sight.

She had a distinct memory of it being darker here, the walls draped in a rich umber instead of the deep emerald that dropped like a maze over the steps winding below, and she grasped for the railing, the swell of vertigo turning the floor beneath her.

She clamped her eyes shut, aware of her pulse beating through her skin, and she pulled in a breath that seemingly had nowhere to go. Then she opened her eyes and gathered her dress, her jaw clenching as she took quick, cautious steps, careful not to stumble. And when she finally made it to the bottom of the stairs, she ran.

Her chest heaved as she finally burst through the study door, slamming it behind her.

Nathaniel shot up from his seat. “What happened?”