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THIRTY-EIGHT
BE MINE
GRANDMAMA’S ESTATE
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
14 FEBRUARY 1889
I was in such a miserable state after our encounter with the general inspector that I hardly noticed the food on my plate. I stabbed at my vegetables, lost in my darkening mood. Thomas and I sat alone in the large dining room while Uncle sequestered himself away in his new makeshift basement laboratory, setting up his tools in a manner that pleased him.
We’d offered our assistance, but the feral look in his eyes had us back up the stairs in an instant. It was best to leave him to his work, lest he start tossing scalpels and bone saws about, disturbed by the intrusion.
I brought the fork to my mouth, still no closer to paying attention to my meal. I grabbed for my wineglass instead, taking a small sip and hoping my expression didn’t turn as sour as the drink. Thomas sighed from across the table. I flicked my attention to him, not quite understanding the look on his face.
“Are you well?” I asked, unable to discern if he was sad or ill. Perhaps he was both. I looked at him, really looked, and saw smudges of darkness under his eyes. A haggardness that edged his beautiful features. I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been sleeping well. “What is it?”
He set his cutlery down, then folded his hands together as if in prayer. Perhaps he was requesting assistance from our Heavenly Father. “I hate when you’re upset, Wadsworth. It makes me…” He wrinkled his nose. “It makes me feel quite foul, too. It’s abominable.”
I raised my brows—I could tell there was more. His eyes didn’t hold that usual glimmer of excitement when he teased me.
“I hate feeling out of control,” I said, hoping by admitting my fears it might encourage him to do the same. I sipped from my wine, no longer bothered by its tartness. “The general inspector believes we’re overreacting or fame-mongers chasing headlines. We haven’t been able to assist Noah in his endeavors. Then”—I stumbled over our personal drama, unable to think or speak of the failed marriage more than I already did—“there’s Nathaniel’s confession and his journals. Which only add to my confusion and feeling of spinning helplessly, wildly out of control.”
I inhaled a sharp breath. There was more to my growing anxiety. Things I hadn’t wanted to share with him or admit to myself. I stared at the delicate lace on the table runner. It was so beautiful it made me want to slash it with my knife.
“Then there are my nightmares,” I whispered, not meeting his gaze. “At night, I see a man with curved horns. Always in silhouette. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He stands there in the shadows, as if he’s… waiting for me.” A chill ran along each of my vertebrae. I finally worked up the nerve to look at Thomas. His face was a study of worry—worse than it had been moments ago. He nodded for me to continue. “He comes for me every night, stealing into my most private moments. I-I know it’s not real, but it’s hard to not think—”
I snapped my mouth shut, suddenly unsure I wanted to be quite so vulnerable. I
knew Thomas wouldn’t accuse me of madness, but I did not want to add to his growing worries by admitting the full truth. I wondered if the devil in my dreams wasn’t haunting me, but waiting for me to willingly come to him. To accept my role as his mistress of darkness. The silent command emanating from him was simple: Surrender, he seemed to say without speaking. Part of me feared I’d set this inevitable path into motion the moment I decided to follow my own desires.
Thomas might be Dracula’s heir, but I was the one who craved blood. I was the one who enjoyed sinking my blades into dead flesh more than I had any right to. Sometimes, if I gave in to my secret fears, I worried there was something gnarled and twisted in me. Perhaps our wedding had fallen apart because my true companion was Satan and I was destined for treacherous things.
Thomas moved swiftly around the table and sat beside me, taking me into his arms. He cradled me there, against his pounding heart, as if he could keep my demons at bay through the sheer force of his will. “How long have the nightmares been happening?”
I hesitated. Not because I couldn’t recall, but because I wasn’t sure I should admit they’d begun the same night we’d spent our first evening together. Right before our failed wedding. I didn’t want him internalizing anything, thinking my subconscious was damning me for our desires of the flesh. I feared he’d stay far from my bedchamber forever, blaming himself no matter how wrong that was. And while I shouldn’t miss his presence in my bed since he was promised to another, I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to him yet.
“A few weeks.”
He sucked in a breath. I could practically hear the gears of his mind cranking over the information. “How can I make them go away?” he asked, his mouth against my hair. “Tell me how to help you, Audrey Rose.”
My first reaction was to pretend I could handle it on my own, but my mind was churning with negativity. I could not take the constant bombardment without a bit of respite. I wrapped my arms around him, uncaring that it wasn’t the most comfortable position, sitting crookedly in our stiff dining room chairs.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you.” Recalling something he’d said during one of our former adventures when things had gotten a little too serious for his taste, I added, “Make it scandalous, too.”
He grinned against my neck before planting a chaste kiss there. No doubt he was recalling when he’d said that to me—we were tucked behind the fern fronds in his family’s estate in Bucharest. He ran his hand along my spine, soothing and gentle.
“Before I met you, I was convinced love was both a weakness and a hazard. Only a fool would allow himself to be swept up in someone’s eyes, pen sonnets dedicated to them, and dream of the floral fragrance of their hair.” He paused, but only briefly. “The night we met I’d gotten into a fight with my father. He was livid with me for ruining another potential match.”
His tone was bitter now, and I remembered him telling me earlier their argument had been over Miss Whitehall. He instinctually held me tighter.
“My father called me a monster,” he admitted. “The worst part was I believed him, that I was less than human, unable to feel things as others do. I accepted his appraisal of me, which made me harbor all the more animosity toward love. Why long for something that would never be mine? If I didn’t believe in it, I could avoid the crushing disappointment that would inevitably follow if I ever did fall. Surely no one would truly want me, the monster. More obsessed with death than living.”
I wanted to twist in my seat, to see his face, but realized because I couldn’t study him it was easier for him to confess. I sat very still, hoping to not break the spell of the moment.
“You’re not a monster, Thomas. You’re one of the most incredible people I know. If anything, you care too much for those around you. Even strangers.”
He drew in a shaky breath and waited a minute before responding. “Thank you, my love. It’s one thing for someone else to tell you you’re good, but when you don’t believe it yourself…” He shrugged. “For a long while I thought I was a monster. I’d heard the whispers around London. The way people mocked my behavior and accused me of being Jack the Ripper. Sometimes I wondered if they were right, if one day I might wake up and find blood on my hands with no recollection of how it got there.”
