Page 11 of The Curse of Blood and Silenc

Dimitri struggled against me, his body in torment, but he was no match for my strength. His eyes, wide with shock and pain, locked onto mine, silently pleading for mercy.

I leaned in close, my face inches from his. The acrid smell of his burning flesh mixed with the metallic scent of blood in my nostrils, but I didn’t flinch. My voice was a deadly whisper, each word dripping with lethal intent.

“Tell me everything, Dimitri. Every word Petar said.” I twisted the blade slightly, eliciting another agonized howl. “Your life depends on it. And trust me, this pain is nothing compared to what I’ll do if you hold anything back.”

Dimitri’s labored breathing filled the silence as he struggled to form words through the haze of pain. Finally, panting and trembling, he managed to rasp out, “Petar... he didn’t tell me much. Just that it was... the only way... to save Valentin and Gianna.”

I arched an eyebrow. “So you decided to play hero, steal from me and endanger my mate? How wonderfully noble of you.” I slow-clapped, the sound echoing ominously in the chamber. “I’m touched. Truly. Maybe we should alert the Nobel Peace Prize committee.”

I leaned in again, my smirk fading into a dangerous glare. “Did it never occur to your brilliant mind that perhaps coming to me might have been a better option? Instead of, you know, stealing my things?”

Dimitri leaned his head against the wall, a mirthless chuckle escaping his bloodied lips. "For some reason, I didn't think you would take it well if I asked," he rasped. "And I thought you'd believe Petar over me."

"Poor choices, Dimitri. Now, you're the guest in my special room." I narrowed my eyes. "Perhaps next time you'll remember that stealing from me has... consequences."

He clicked his tongue. "Well, well. Look who's got trust issues. I'm hurt, Angelo. Truly." Dimitri pressed a hand dramatically over his heart. "And here I thought we were besties. Sharing blood bags, braiding each other's hair..."

Dimitri let out a choked laugh, wincing as the movement jarred his injuries, a ghost of his usual smirk flitting across his battered face.

The copper scent of blood hung thick in the air between us, mixing with the cloying humidity that seeped through the old mansion's walls. Outside, a thunderstorm rolled in from the Gulf, each rumble vibrating through the shuttered windows ofthe converted attic. The ancient floorboards had witnessed a century of secrets, and now they'd keep ours too.

I circled him slowly, my shoes creaking against worn wood. "You know what I find interesting?" I ran my finger along the edge of the metal table beside him, centuries of practiced control in every movement. "You're still trying to joke your way out of this. Old habits die hard, don't they?"

"What can I say?" Dimitri's eyes tracked my movement, tension betraying his casual tone. "Comedy's my coping mechanism. Though I have to admit—" he gestured to the array of implements on the table, their steel surfaces gleaming dully in the gas lamp's light "—your decorating choices aren't exactly inspiring my best material."

"Then perhaps—" I selected a slender blade, watching his reflection fragment in its surface "—we should focus on inspiring your honesty instead. Tell me where my mirror is."

A muscle twitched in Dimitri's jaw, the first crack in his facade. "Angelo..." His voice dropped its playful edge. "I don't have it anymore."

"No?" The blade caught the lamplight as I turned it. "Then who does?"

Dimitri's eyes dropped to the floor, something like shame crossing his features. "My father. He said... he said someone wanted it. Wouldn't tell me who." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Guess betrayal runs in the family, huh?"

"Your father." My voice went flat. “Petar has my mirror." The blade stilled in my hand. "And you gave it to him without asking who wanted it?"

"I didn't think?—"

"No," I cut him off, cold fury seeping into my voice. "You didn't think. I gave your father a chance. That was my mistake. Yours was handing over something that doesn't belong to you,to a man who's spent years perfecting the art of betrayal. Like father, like son."

Dimitri’s eyes flashed with fear and desperation. “You don’t understand,” he rasped. “I’ve never trusted my father. I thought… I thought he was setting me up, and now I know I was right.” He swallowed hard, wincing at the effort. “That dagger you found? He must have planted it in my drawer. He’s always three steps ahead. I’m just another pawn in his games.”

I paused, studying Dimitri’s face, trying to figure out if he was telling the truth. He was so bloodied and in so much of pain, I didn’t think he would lie to me, but then again… He was Dimitri Dragan.

And he always had tricks up his sleeve.

After a moment, I twirled the blade between my fingers, the threat still clear. “Interesting theory. But even if your Daddy Dearest is playing chess while we’re playing checkers, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re in a mess. Here's a wild idea. How about you start trusting me? Because believe me, the alternative..." I gestured around the torture chamber. "Well, let's just say I'm just getting warmed up."

Dimitri’s lips twitched into a pained smirk. “Funny you should say that,” he breathed, each word an effort. “I’m starting to think Petar’s idea of a family reunion might be less painful than your idea of a party.”

I couldn’t help but let out a dark chuckle. “Oh, Dimitri. Always with the jokes. Let’s be real—you’ve seen what Petar’s capable of. You really want to test that theory?”

Grabbing his chin, I forced him to meet my gaze. “We’re going to try this again. Start talking. Every detail about Petar’s plan. What he said, what he didn’t. Hell, you’re going to tell me what color underwear he was wearing. And if you don’t...” I let the blade hover near his other shoulder. “Let’s just say I have alot more creative ideas that make this sunlight blade look like a moonlit stroll on the beach.Comprende?”

As I hovered the blade near Dimitri’s shoulder, a sudden jolt of energy surged through me, the world around me blurred, and the torture chamber faded away.

I need you, Angelo. Find me.

Serenity’s voice, clear and desperate, penetrated my mind. It was followed by a series of images: dark rippling water, moonlight, the smell of swamp and decay. Serenity’s face came into focus, pale and drawn. It was bad enough that her eyes were wide with fear. But what really made my blood run cold were the dark, ugly bruises marring her delicate neck, standing out against her pale skin.

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