Page 26 of A Return of the Wicked Earl (The Shadows 1)

He sat up and massaged the tense muscles of his neck. He was fooling himself. He wasn’t going to sleep in this bed tonight either.

Blake picked up the candle and sauntered out of the room. He entered the study, lit more candles, and grated the hearth. The brighter it was, the better he would feel.

When the night came, his mind always drifted to the darker memories. He tried pushing them aside and thinking of Annalise, but the darkness, the loneliness, had an unwanted effect on him.

Well, if his mind insisted on remembering the horrid events, perhaps he could make use of them. He took a sketchbook and a pencil, settling on the settee in front of the hearth. His mind revolted at the idea of remembering someone who’d inflicted terrible pain on him. It was over a year ago, and he had been under extreme duress at the time, and as good as Blake’s memory usually was, it didn’t cooperate now. But he had to.

If these people knew Blake was back, they would undoubtedly try to get to him again. This time, they would probably just kill him and throw his corpse in the Thames. And this was a best-case scenario.

What if they hurt Annalise instead?

No. He wouldn’t let that happen.

He rotated the pencil in his hand and started sketching. The only thug he remembered clearly was the one who came to him the most. He was burly and tall. He delighted in torturing Blake, and his voice was stuck in Blake’s head. But as he started sketching him, his face eluded him. It was covered in shadows.

It didn’t help that every time Blake tried to recall his captors, he remembered all the things they did to him. His breathing grew shallow, and sweat started appearing on his forehead.

His vision blurred, and the light flickered in the room. Blake fought to keep his eyes open, but it was a struggle. His chin lowered to his chest, and his head grew heavy.

Suddenly, Blake felt the burning sensation on his skin. Then his blood slowly dripped down his chest. Blake opened his eyes and saw as the thug applied more pressure on his flesh with the knife. His shirt was missing, and his chest was shredded to ribbons and covered with blood. Blake’s breathing turned frantic, and he clamped his lips shut so as not to cry.

“He won’t talk,” came the gravelly voice of a thug in front of him. The man bent at the waist and peered into Blake’s face. “Are you awake, mate?” he asked right to his face, a nasty, rotten smell wafting from his mouth.

Blake grimaced in disgust.

“He’s awake, all right,” the thug told someone behind him.

As the bandit moved, Blake saw a silhouette of a man in front of a small window. A few strands of light were peering through, outlining the man, but shadowing his face, so it was impossible to make out what he looked like. The man took a step forward.

Sweat dripped from Blake’s forehead into his eye, and he blinked, his vision blurring in front of him.

“Take his tongue then,” came a familiar cultured voice.

Blake narrowed his eyes, trying hard to make out who the silhouette belonged to. The thug laughed like a madman at the words. He stepped in front of Blake and took his face in his dirty hands. He held Blake’s neck at an uncomfortable angle, prying open his mouth. Blake clenched his teeth together and clamped his mouth shut, trying to twist away.

“Don’t fight it, Blake,” the voice came from behind the thug.

Suddenly, everything changed. The dirty bandit disappeared, and the lights started flickering in the room as if the wind was blowing out the torches.What is going on?

Blake cocked his head to the side as the man by the window stepped into the light, revealing his face.Jarvis.

“If you won’t talk,” he said slowly. “Then we shall have to alter our approach.”

He tipped his head to the side. Blake turned, and his eyes widened in horror. Annalise, dirty and bloodied, was tied up to a chair in front of him.

Blake tried to scream, but his voice wouldn’t come out.

He jerked awake and sat up on the settee.

The sketchbook fell from his lap to the floor with a loud thump. Cold sweat ran down his forehead. His breathing was heavy and irregular.

He was back home. It was just a dream.

He looked around to make certain everything was where it was supposed to be. He was in his study, and Annalise was peacefully sleeping in her bed. His hand instantly went to the locket and he rubbed it between his fingers.

He stood, his neck muscles aching from the uncomfortable position he’d spent the night in. He needed to see Annalise and make certain she was all right. That dream had frightened the devil out of him.

Was it even a dream? Or was it part of his memory resurfacing? Could the man behind his capture really be one of his best friends?

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