𝙰 𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝙴𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 (wlw)

Chapter Eleven

Wiping the bloodied blade into the burgundy handkerchief he pulled out from his pocket, the marquess cast his rapt gaze to the whimpering man who knelt in the middle of the room.

Baron Heath, unable to move due to being poked and stabbed everywhere by the Lord and his henchmen for hours with the silver blade, clenched his eyes tightly shut. His flesh still sizzled in some parts and the smoke of the burning wounds filled the chamber. The smell of burnt skin was fetid, but gratifying to the older vampire for he knew he did it and his reason was justified.

Making his way over to his cronies who sat around the table, the man walked with an extra zest in his step, a surge of pride one might call it for he'd almost butchered a man in his home. Most importantly, he almost butchered him in front of his henchmen, a move he knew demanded nothing but respect from them.

By himself though, Dorin had a distinct walk if one were to pay attention to him, this was because of an injury he'd sustained when he was younger. As a child, he was just as wild and impulsive and prideful, if not more. The incident regarding the injury that left him with that subtle limp happened when he was about ten and was dared to climb Kinisor, a small mountain ridge outside of his father's castle there in the marsh.

On the day of the incident, there was a rainstorm that washed over Obscure but it did not impede Dorin for he was determined in proving to his younger cousins, inclusive of Anastasía that he was valiant enough to do it, however, his prowess was no match for the wet obsidian stones and wind that came with the wet weather and before he knew it he was crawling home with his ankle broken and his foot almost spun completely around.

Beside Ciprian and Nicholas, the man opened a small box on the desk and pulled out a fat cigar. Before he could say the word both men were scrambling to get the cigar lit for him.

Once it was, Dorin took a long, satisfying puff. The smoke curdled from his straight nose, cascading free, making him appear like a smoking serpent.

Sauntering back to Heath, he stood in front of him, casually smoking his cigar with one hand placed into the pocket of his breeches.

"I hope you learned something here today," he spoke and his orotund voice caused the baron to flinch.

Pain sizzled through every part of his body but not the way his mind lay fractured and fragile from the things they did with the blade. Places he never knew people would cut and harm were singled out.

Heath managed to look up at the marquess and when he did, blood trickled from his forehead and the feel of it against him caused goosebumps to come alive on his skin.

"I have, my Lord. I can never apologize enough for deceiving the crown and its family," the man said in a hoarse voice and a tone softer than the petals on a rose.

Dorin shrugged. He kept his meticulous gaze on Heath though for he enjoyed watching the things he break live with being broken by him.

"Apologies are weightless in these times, what I need is for you to show me that you will do what is right so I'll never have to mention a word of this to my cousin, so he won't have to lay his vengeance upon you and yours either."

"I swear it," replied Heath, clasping his still-healing fingers together. His brown eyes twinkled beneath the flames of the candles. A sadness had come over him but so was an unnoticeable animosity.

The conniving man, oblivious to the hatred smiled down at the bloodied baron. "Good boy," he tossed. He was about to walk away but turned around dramatically. This made the man on the floor flinch, thinking he was about to be struck again or worse yet, stabbed with the silver blade.