Page 18 of The Curse of Blood and Silenc

Suddenly, someone lifted me into their strong arms. The moment skin touched skin, a jolt of energy surged through me and an unmistakable aura enveloped me, setting every nerve on fire. My blood recoiled yet at the same time was oddly drawn to the conflicting energy.

I struggled against the bare chest, fingers brushing against smooth, unnaturally warm skin. “Put me down.”

“If I do,” Balthazar said, his voice a low rumble against my side, “you’ll sink into a marsh. Do you really want to tramp through mud and water that would go up to your thighs?”

The heat radiating from his body was suffocating, intensifying the humidity in the air around us. I could smell his unique scent—a mixture of brimstone, exotic spices, and something indefinable and otherworldly. It made my head spin.

“N-no,” I said miserably. Why on earth were we walking through the swamp?

The sounds of water sloshing and reeds rustling filled the air. Frogs croaked in an endless chorus, punctuated by the splash of something large sliding into the water. Insects buzzed around us, a constant, irritating whine, while cicadas screamed in the trees. With the bag over my head, every sound seemed amplified, making it impossible to tell direction or distance. The pungent odor of decay and stagnant water assaulting my nostrilswas made worse by my proximity to Balthazar's overwhelming presence.

With each step Balthazar took, I felt his muscles shift. My body alternated between wanting to melt closer to him to escape the swamp’s perils and recoiling from the strange energy that simultaneously repulsed and attracted me.

A cool breeze ghosted over my exposed skin, a brief respite from the swamp’s oppressive heat, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers, a jarringly beautiful note in this treacherous environment.

“Watch your head,” Balthazar warned, ducking slightly. I felt something brush against the sack over my head—low-hanging moss or branches.

As we moved deeper into the swamp, I clung to every detail my senses could grasp—the squelch of footsteps through mud, the tang of cypress and stagnant water, the way our path curved left and then right. Remembering each sound and smell might be the difference between escape and captivity.

Heavy footsteps squished through the marsh. “Gage,” an unfamiliar voice said, gruff and low. “The king is gone, off visiting his favorite whore. He won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

“Good, that makes it easier.” Gage’s voice was like a sleazy pimp’s. “She’ll keep him busy.”

I stiffened in Balthazar’s arms. A whore? That was their grand plan to overthrow the wolf king—thinking he’d be distracted by a woman? Everything I’d ever heard about Trystan painted a picture of cunning and power. Gage’s certainty made my stomach turn. He was either a fool or knew something I didn’t.

“The Luparion Crystal is locked in his office, but I have a key.” The unfamiliar voice paused, and I felt the weight of unseen eyes on me. “Is that the Nephilim?”

“Yes,” Gage replied, his tone clipped and cold.

“Do you think she can really heal the Crystal?”

“She’d better hope so,” Gage said, malice dripping from every word. “If she doesn’t, she’s dead.”

The marshy scent around me intensified, mirroring my rising panic. I tasted acrid fear in my mouth. Balthazar’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around me, whether in reassurance or warning, I couldn’t tell.

Balthazar finally set me down, and my legs wobbled under me like a newborn colt’s. The ground felt solid enough—a pebbled path, judging by the crunch under my feet—but after being carried blindfolded, my sense of balance was way off. And without my sight, every sound, every sensation felt amplified and yet impossible to place.

“I’ve got Trystan’s key and sent the other guards to the east side of the compound so they won’t see you enter Trystan’s office,” said the unknown voice. “Just make it quick. If she fails and we’re caught, we’re going to become a bonfire.”

“Getting cold feet, Ivan?” Gage taunted.

“Just make sure she does it,” the other voice growled.

A chill ran down my spine. Bonfire? God, I hoped they didn’t roast their enemies alive. The casual way he mentioned such a gruesome fate made my stomach churn.

I tried to look down, but all I could see through the small gap in the tie around the neck of the bag were my sandaled feet trying not to stumble on the pebbled path. The stones crunched beneath us, each step a reminder of my helplessness. I wanted to run, but Balthazar’s grip on my arm was relentless. Escape was impossible.

Someone opened a door, its hinges squeaking ominously. I was led up some stairs, the wood creaking under our weight. The scent of wolves grew stronger, musky and wild. I had to be inthe compound now. But there were other scents too, creating an unsettling tapestry.

Roasting meat, making my mouth water despite my fear.

The clean, sharp smell of waxed hardwood floors.

And a sweet floral scent—jasmine or maybe bougainvillea—floating on the air. Mom used to have those planted in her garden and I would know them anywhere.

The mix of scents was jarring—the homey smells of cooking and flowers so at odds with the underlying threat of violence. It was as if someone had built a pleasant home over a slaughterhouse.

As we moved further into the building, the temperature dropped slightly. Air conditioning, I realized. Such a strange comfort in this den of wolves and conspirators. The sack over my head rustled with each breath, a constant reminder of my vulnerability.

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