Alaric's long fingers clamped around my wrist, his icy touch feeling like a shackle of cold iron. There was no rage in his eyes, only a stillness that made my blood run cold.
"Since you are so curious about the forbidden," he leaned in, his voice a low, haunting whisper, "I shall show you exactly what price the secrets of Blackwood demand."
He didn't drag me back to the safety of the bedroom. Instead, he pulled me toward the end of the hallway, toward the heavy, dark-red door of the attic. With the agonizing screech of a turning lock, the air rushed out—stale, smelling of dust and withered flower petals.
There were no lamps in the room, only hundreds of half-burnt white candles flickering in the gloom.
"Kneel, Evangeline," he commanded coldly.
I sank onto the freezing floor, trembling as I noticed the intricate ritual circles drawn in a dark, brownish-red liquid. He stood behind me, producing a silver cross—no, it wasn't a cross, but a grotesquely shaped ceremonial dagger.
"You disturbed the entity in the mirror, and now it wants your life," Alaric said, stepping into the moonlight. His pale face looked utterly ghastly. "If you do not wish to become a withered corpse before dawn, you must complete the pact."
He sliced his own palm, letting the dark, thick blood drip into the center of the ritual circle.
"Drink," he said, pressing his hand against my lips. The scent of cold sandalwood became intoxicatingly sharp.
I shook my head in terror, but his other hand clamped onto the back of my head, forcing my mouth open. The moment the icy blood slid down my throat, a jolt of electricity surged through my entire body. The bite mark on my nape began to sear with a violent heat, as if an invisible thread was stitching my heart to this man's soul.
"Now," he murmured, watching me collapse into his arms, tear-stained and broken. He gently wiped the smear of blood from the corner of my mouth. "You can never rid yourself of me. Not even Death can take you without asking me first."