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Scarlett turned on her heel and wove back through the tavern, followed by whispers, while black color wept from the ribbons of her dress, spreading like stains all over her white gown. Tears sprang to her eyes. Hot, angry, embarrassed.
This is what she got for pretending as if she didn’t have a real fiancé. And what had she been thinking—touching him like that? Calling him “sweetheart”? She’d believed Dante was Julian, but did that make it any better?
Stupid Julian.
She should never have agreed to her arrangement with him. She wanted to be angry with Dante, but it was Julian who had created this mess. She braced herself as she opened the door to her room, half expecting to find him lounging in the great white bed, dark head propped up on a pillow, feet resting on one as well. The room had the feeling of him. Cold wind, wicked smiles, and blatant lies. Scarlett felt the shadow of those things as she stepped inside. But there was no young man to go with it.
The fire quietly roared. The bed lay there, covered in layers of untouched fluff. The sailor had kept his promise about trading days in the room.
Or he’d never left Castillo Maldito.
17
Scarlett did not dream of Legend. She did not dream at all, no matter how hard she chased sleep. Each time she shut her eyes, the snaking corridors beneath Castillo Maldito stretched out, filled with flickering torches and screams.
When she opened her eyes, lurking shadows moved where they did not belong. Then she closed her eyes again and the dreadful cycle repeated.
She told herself it was only in her head, the shadows and the sounds. Wails and footsteps and crackling noises.
Until something cracked that was definitely in her room.
Scarlett sat up carefully. The dying fire buzzed as it tossed bits of light here and there. But the noise she heard was louder than that.
It came again. Another crack, right before the hidden door to her room flew open and Julian stumbled in. “Hello, Crimson.”
“What are—” Scarlett couldn’t finish her question. Even in the grainy light she could tell something was not right. His uneven steps. The tilt of his head. Quickly, she escaped her bed, covering herself with a blanket. “What happened to you?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Julian swayed as if drunk, but all Scarlett could smell was the metallic tang of blood.
“Who did this to you?”
“Remember, it’s only a game.” Julian smiled, twisted in the firelight, right before collapsing on the lounge.
“Julian!” Scarlett rushed to his side. His entire body was cold, as if he’d been outdoors all this time. She wanted to shake him, to wake him back up, but she wasn’t sure that was a brilliant idea given all the blood. So much blood. Very real blood. It matted his dark hair and stained her hands as she tried to put him in a better position. “I’ll be right back—I’m going to leave and get you help.”
“No—” Julian grabbed her arm. His fingers were frosty, like the rest of him. “Don’t go. It’s only a head wound; they look much worse than they are. Just grab the towel and the basin. Please.” His fingers tightened as he said the word please. “It will raise too many questions if you bring anyone else up here. The ‘vultures,’ as you called them, they’ll think it’s part of the game.”
“But it’s not?”
Julian wobbled his head as his chilly hand fell away from Scarlett’s arm.
Scarlett didn’t believe that the vultures were the only reason he wanted to avoid attention, but she hurriedly fetched two towels and the basin. Within a minute the water was red and brown. After a few minutes Julian gained a bit of warmth. He was right about the head wound; it didn’t seem to be as bad as it looked. The gash was shallow, though he tilted to the side as he tried to sit upright.
“I think you should stay lying down.” Scarlett placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you injured anywhere else?”
“You might wan
t to check here.” Julian lifted his shirt, revealing perfect rows of golden-brown muscle, so much she might have blushed, if not for all of the blood that stretched across his abdomen.
Using the cleaner of the towels, Scarlett cautiously pressed down against his skin, moving the cloth with slow, circular motions. She’d never touched a young man—or any man—like this. She was careful to touch him only with the cloth, though her fingers were tempted to travel elsewhere. To see if his skin felt as soft as it looked. Would the count have such a flat, lined stomach?
“Julian, you need to keep your eyes open!” Scarlett scolded as she attempted to push thoughts of his body away. She needed to focus on her task.
“I think this cut might need stiches,” Scarlett said, yet as her cloth wiped away the blood it revealed a smooth line of unmarked, unbroken flesh. “Wait, I don’t see a wound.”
“There’s not one. But that feels really good.” Julian moaned and arched his back.
“You scoundrel!” Scarlett pulled her hands away, resisting the urge to smack him only because he was already injured. “What really happened? And tell me the truth or I will throw you out of this room right now.”
