Chapter 4 The Blood Pact in the Bathroom

# Chapter 4: The Blood Pact in the Bathroom

In the chaos that followed, several things happened at once. Remy lunged at Dr. Frost, Damien shouted an order to his guards, and I—still half-drugged and restrained to the chair—tipped myself sideways, crashing to the floor. The impact sent pain shooting through my shoulder but also splintered the wooden chair, loosening my restraints.

As men grappled around me, I worked my wrists free and scrambled toward the door. I made it to the hallway before a strong arm caught me around the waist.

"Not so fast," Damien growled in my ear. "We're not finished."

Behind us, the sounds of struggle continued. I heard Remy cry out in pain, followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor.

"Your friend will be taken care of," Damien said, dragging me down the corridor. "Dr. Frost has his uses, but sometimes his enthusiasm needs... tempering."

"You're a monster," I spat, struggling against his grip. "Did you really have my father killed?"

His hold tightened. "Your father was a thief and a liar who tried to break a pact sealed in blood. Whatever happened to him was his own doing."

We reached a winding staircase that led upward. Damien pushed me ahead of him, one hand firmly on my back as we climbed. The effects of the truth serum were fading, replaced by adrenaline and fury.

"Where are you taking me?" I demanded.

"Somewhere we can finish our conversation without interruptions."

Three flights up, he directed me through a door into a suite I hadn't seen before. It was clearly his personal quarters—darkly elegant, with bookshelves lining the walls and a massive four-poster bed dominating one side of the room. He steered me past it to another door, which opened into a luxurious bathroom tiled in black marble.

"What—" I began, but he was already turning faucets, filling an enormous claw-foot tub with water.

"The serum Dr. Frost used has side effects," he explained, his tone businesslike. "If not purged from the system, it can cause hallucinations, organ damage... death."

I backed away. "I feel fine."

"You won't in an hour." He tested the water with his hand. "The mercury from the dice accelerated absorption. Your hands are already trembling."

I looked down—he was right. My fingers shook slightly, and now that he mentioned it, I noticed a metallic taste in my mouth that hadn't been there before.

"Strip," he commanded.

"No."

"Valentina." His voice softened slightly. "This isn't a game or a punishment. The toxin needs to be drawn out through cold immersion. Your body temperature must drop enough to slow the poison's progress through your bloodstream."

"Turn around then," I insisted.

To my surprise, he complied, facing the wall. I hesitated, then quickly removed my dress and undergarments, keeping my eyes on him to ensure he didn't peek. The air was cool against my bare skin as I approached the tub.

"It's freezing," I gasped, dipping one toe in the water.

"It needs to be. Get in."

I slid into the tub, the cold water stealing my breath. As soon as I was submerged to my shoulders, Damien turned, kneeling beside the tub. His eyes stayed respectfully on my face.

"You need to fully immerse," he said. "Including your head."

"Why are you helping me?" I asked through chattering teeth. "If I'm meant to kill you, wouldn't it be easier to let the poison do its work?"

A shadow passed over his face. "The curse specifies how I must die—by the hand of the marked Emerson. Any other death would condemn my soul to eternal torment." His mouth twisted in a humorless smile. "Besides, I'm not convinced fate can't be negotiated with."

"You keep talking about this curse as if it's real, but—"

"Submerge," he interrupted. "Now."

I took a deep breath and slid under the water. The cold was shocking, seeming to penetrate to my very bones. I stayed under until my lungs burned, then surfaced with a gasp.

Damien was watching me intently. "Again," he said. "Three more times."

I complied, each immersion more difficult than the last. By the fourth time, my body was shaking uncontrollably, my lips likely blue with cold. Damien reached for a large towel.

"Come out now. Slowly."

He held the towel open, averting his eyes as I stood on trembling legs and stepped out of the tub. The towel enveloped me, warm and soft compared to the icy water. I clutched it tightly around myself as violent shivers wracked my body.

"S-so c-cold," I stammered.

"Your body is fighting the toxin." He guided me to a bench along the wall. "Sit. The worst will pass soon."

I sat, teeth chattering, as he retrieved another towel and began to dry my hair with surprising gentleness. We were silent for several minutes, the only sound my chattering teeth and ragged breathing.

"How do you know so much about poisons?" I finally asked.

His hands paused in my hair. "My family has a long history with them. Both administering and surviving."

"Is that why mercury doesn't harm you?"

"In a way." He resumed drying my hair. "The Blackwood line has been systematically exposed to toxins for generations. Building immunity."

"That's barbaric."

"It's survival." He set the towel aside and moved to face me. "Your father knew about the curse, Valentina. He knew what you were born to be."

"I don't believe you. My father loved me."

"Love and destiny aren't mutually exclusive. He loved you enough to try to cheat fate—by hiding you, by encoding the collection's location in a tattoo only he could fully interpret."

My shivers were subsiding, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. "If what you say is true, then we're both pawns in some sick ancestral game."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps we're the ones meant to end it."

I studied his face, searching for deceit but finding only intensity and something else—a vulnerability he seemed determined to hide.

"Why would you want to end it?" I asked. "Isn't your family the one that benefits from this pact?"

"Benefits?" He laughed bitterly. "Every generation, one of us is marked for sacrifice. We live knowing our death is preordained, that we'll meet our end at the hands of someone we're inexplicably drawn to. Where's the benefit in that?"

"What do you mean, 'drawn to'?"

His eyes met mine, dark and knowing. "Haven't you felt it? The pull between us. It's part of the curse—predator and prey, inexorably connected."

I wanted to deny it, but couldn't. From the moment I'd seen him at the auction, I'd felt something—a magnetic attraction that defied logic and self-preservation.

"It's just Stockholm syndrome," I insisted weakly.

"Is it?" He moved closer, his face inches from mine. "Then why did you feel it the moment our eyes met, before I'd even claimed you?"

I had no answer for that. Instead, I clutched the towel tighter and changed the subject. "What happened to Remy?"

"Your would-be rescuer is being held in a secure room. Unharmed, for now." His expression hardened. "Though I can't promise his continued well-being if he keeps interfering."

"He was only trying to help me."

"Was he? Or was he trying to use you to find the collection, just like everyone else?"

The thought had occurred to me, but I'd pushed it aside. "Not everyone has ulterior motives."

"In our world, Valentina, everyone does." He stood abruptly. "Rest here. I'll get you something to wear."

As he turned to leave, I saw a dark stain spreading on his shirt—blood. "You're bleeding."

He glanced down with mild surprise. "It's nothing. An old wound that reopens occasionally."

Without thinking, I reached out, touching the stain on his chest. "Let me see."

Our eyes locked, a silent battle of wills. Then, slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a jagged scar over his heart, stitched but now seeping blood.

"The mark of sacrifice," he said quietly. "Every Blackwood heir receives it on their twenty-first birthday. A reminder of our fate."

The wound looked painful, the skin around it inflamed. Acting on instinct rather than reason, I pressed my hand over it, feeling his heart beat strong and steady beneath my palm.

"Why would families agree to such a terrible pact?" I whispered.

"Power. Magic. The usual human follies." His hand covered mine, pressing it harder against his wound. "Four hundred years ago, our ancestors performed a ritual to gain immortality. They succeeded—but not as they intended. Instead of eternal life for themselves, they created an eternal cycle of death and rebirth."

I tried to pull my hand away, but he held it firmly against his bleeding chest. "Damien—"

"The cycle can only be broken when predator and prey reject their roles—when an Emerson refuses to kill a Blackwood despite every instinct driving them to do so."

As he spoke, I felt something warm and wet trickling down my chest. Looking down, I saw that my collarbone wound—the small cut from my hairpin—had reopened and was bleeding freely.

"What's happening?" I gasped.

Damien's eyes widened slightly. "Our blood... it recognizes each other."

Before I could respond, he pulled me to my feet, the towel falling away as he pressed my body against his, my bleeding collarbone aligned with his chest wound. Our blood mingled, and a sensation like electric current shot through me—not painful, but overwhelming, as if every nerve ending had come alive at once.

"Do you feel it?" he murmured against my hair. "The bond forming. Blood to blood."

I did feel it—a connection taking root between us, profound and terrifying. I pushed against his chest, suddenly desperate to break contact, but he held me tighter.

"This wasn't supposed to happen yet," he said, his voice strained. "The blood pact is forming too early."

With a final surge of strength, I shoved him away, stumbling backward. We stared at each other, both breathing heavily. My blood was smeared across his chest, his blood on mine—the mingling creating an intricate pattern that seemed to shimmer in the bathroom's dim light.

"What have you done to me?" I demanded.

His eyes were darker than I'd ever seen them, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of color remained. He stepped toward me, one hand reaching out.

"Kill me," he said, his voice rough with an emotion I couldn't identify. "Kill me now, Valentina, or I swear I will keep you locked away forever. There is no escape from this—from us—except through death."

His fingers closed around my throat, not squeezing but holding me in place as he lowered his mouth to mine. The kiss wasn't gentle or romantic—it was desperate, demanding, a clash of wills as much as bodies. I bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and he growled against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me.

When he finally pulled away, we were both bleeding—his lip, my collarbone, his chest—our blood mixing and marking us both.

"Now you understand," he said softly. "The curse isn't just about death. It's about this—the impossible pull between destroyer and destroyed."

I touched my lips, tasting his blood there. "I won't be part of this sick game."

"You already are." His smile was sad. "We both are, and have been since birth."

As the implications of everything he'd told me sank in, a cold realization formed: I was trapped not just by walls and guards, but by blood and history older than either of us.

"I need time," I said. "Time to think."

"Time is the one luxury we don't have." He picked up the fallen towel and wrapped it around me again. "The blood pact has begun. Now that our blood has mingled, the compulsion will only grow stronger. You'll feel the urge to kill me, and I..."

"You'll what?"

His eyes met mine, haunted and hungry. "I'll let you."