Chapter 68: Written In Blood

Have I been poisoned? The horrifying thought pierced through the haze of Linda’s agony.

The food... that maid... It was strange. There was something about her that didn’t sit right with Linda. She had never seen a maid like that before in all her years of working in the palace, and the palace wasn’t known for changing maids easily. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

That maid... The realization struck her too late.

The pain intensified, spreading from her stomach into her chest until every breath felt painfully constricted. She gasped for air, but another violent heave tore through her throat, bringing with it a hot, metallic surge. Linda coughed hard, and dark, thick blood spilled over her lips, splattering across the cold gray floor.

Panic seized her heart.

She couldn’t breathe. Her organs felt as though they were being torn apart from the inside, burning, melting, and twisting beneath her skin.

Desperate for help, she dragged her body across the floor. Every inch was a monumental struggle, her limbs shaking uncontrollably as her strength rapidly drained away. She reached the cell bars and hooked her fingers around the cold iron, shaking them with all the strength she had left.

"H... help..." she choked out, but the sound died in a wet, violent cough that brought up another mouthful of blood, spraying across the floor.

Her vision blurred, and the pounding inside her head grew louder. She reached toward the bars again, but her arm gave out. Linda collapsed onto her side, trembling violently, her chest heaving weakly as darkness encroached on the edges of her vision. She knew she was dying. There was no doubt about it now. She had been poisoned.

And she had an idea who was responsible.

Regret washed over her as she realized she might never get the chance to tell Basil the truth. She regretted keeping it from him for so long, but she had been terrified of what he might discover. She knew that man would only use Basil to get what he wanted, and she had been too afraid to reveal the truth. If only she hadn’t come from such a poor family that could be easily threatened into silence, her daughter might still have been alive, and her grandson would have been living happily with them.

With her vision failing and her breathing slowing to shallow, ragged rasps, Linda forced her trembling right hand down into the puddle of dark blood beside her face. Wetting her index finger with the warm crimson, she dragged it against the floor, her arm shaking with agonizing effort as she began to trace letters into the blood, desperately trying to leave behind a final message before her hand finally went limp.

*****

Basil settled onto the sofa, pulling his jacket tighter around his shoulders as exhaustion finally caught up with him. The steady, rhythmic beep... beep... of Darius’s heart monitor filled the quiet room, acting as a strange, steadying lullaby that gradually pulled him deeper into slumber. But his sleep remained light and restless, plagued by the vivid, terrifying nightmares that had haunted him every single night since the crash.

The seatbelt buckle dug into Basil’s lower back, a sharp point of pressure he had stopped caring about minutes ago. What mattered was the heat of Darius’s mouth on his neck, his chest pressed so close their sweat mingled, and the impossible, glorious stretch of him inside.

The car’s windows had fogged to a milky blur, sealing them in a cocoon of breath and skin.

The leather interior creaked with every movement, a rhythmic counterpoint to the wet sound of their joining. "Faster," Basil gasped, his fingers threading through Darius’s damp hair, tugging. "Fuck me faster, Darius."

Darius grunted, a sound pulled from deep in his chest. He shifted his knees on the leather seat, changing the angle, and Basil’s head fell back against the window. The cool glass was a shock against his flushed skin.

​"Yeah, right there," Basil gasped.

His vision went spotty at the edges as Darius’s hips snapped forward with a ferocity that bordered on desperation, each thrust driving the air from Basil’s lungs in a sharp, punched-out cry. The car rocked on its suspension, a wild, untethered rhythm that matched the frantic beat of Basil’s heart.

​"You like that, my prince?" Darius’s voice was raw, a scrape against Basil’s ear. "You feel how deep I am?"

Basil could only nod, his throat too tight for words. He hooked one leg over Darius’s shoulder, his heel digging into the muscle of his back, pulling him impossibly closer. The cramped space forced their bodies into awkward, intense angles. Basil’s knee was jammed against the steering wheel. Darius’s elbow kept hitting the gear shift. None of it mattered.

​Darius pulled back just enough to look down at Basil’s face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, a lock of hair plastered to his forehead.

"Turn around."

​"What?"

​"Turn around. Against the door."

​Basil whimpered as Darius withdrew, the sudden emptiness a physical ache. But he obeyed, shifting in the narrow space, his body clumsy with need. He ended up on his hands and knees, his chest against the passenger door, the window’s chill seeping through his skin. The leather was slick beneath his knees.

Darius’s hands found his hips, his thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of his spine. Then he was back, sliding in with one long, brutal thrust. Basil cried out, his fingers scrabbling for purchase against the fogged glass.

​"Oh God, oh God, oh God." The new angle was deeper, sharper. Darius leaned over him, his chest a wall of heat against Basil’s back, his breath hot and uneven on his neck. The car seemed to shrink around them, the air thick and heavy, saturated with the scent of heat, sweat, and the faint, lingering ghost of Darius’s cologne.

​Basil could feel every inch of him, every ridge and vector of heat. The sensation was so intense it bordered on pain, a brilliant, blinding pressure that built, coiling low in his gut. He could hear himself making sounds he didn’t recognize, small, broken sobs and wordless pleas.

​"How do you like this position, my prince?" Darius whispered into his ear, never slowing his pace. His voice sending shivers down Basil’s spine. "Tell me how you liked to be fucked."

"I like it so much," Basil choked out, his voice cracking as a shudder ran through his entire body. "I love it, Darius. Please, don’t ever stop."

Darius’s hand slid around Basil’s waist, his palm flattening over his stomach, fingers pressing into the taut muscle. His other hand braced against the dashboard, veins standing out on his forearm. He was pounding into him now, a frantic, driving rhythm that had the car door rattling in its frame. Basil was losing himself. The world outside the fogged windows ceased to exist.

There was only this: the unbearable fullness, the punishing rhythm, the sound of their bodies slapping together, and the taste of salt on his own lips. His release hit him without warning, a sudden, violent crest that ripped through his body. He screamed, the sound muffled against his own arm, his back arching, toes curling. Hot liquid painted his stomach, his chest.

His body clenched around Darius, a series of rhythmic, involuntary contractions. It was too much. Darius’s rhythm stuttered, faltered. He buried himself to the hilt and held there, a guttural roar tearing from his throat. Basil felt the hot pulse of his release, flooding him, a wave of warmth spreading through his core.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the frantic, ragged cadence of their breathing and the slight, rhythmic creak of the settling car. Then Darius collapsed. His full weight came down on Basil’s back, pressing him harder against the unyielding door.

Basil grunted. "Darius. Darius, you’re heavy."

No response. Just the slow, even rise and fall of his chest against Basil’s back.

"Darius, come on, stand up." Basil tried to shift, but Darius was dead weight. A strange, cold prickle started at the base of his skull. He pushed back, wriggling. "Get off me. I can’t breathe."

Still nothing. Panic began to flutter in his chest, a trapped bird beating against his ribs. With a massive effort, Basil twisted his body, sliding out from under him. Darius rolled limply, his back hitting the opposite seat, his head lolling at an unnatural angle. Basil’s heart stopped.

The dashboard lights cast a faint, sickly glow. It was enough to see the dark, spreading stain on the seat beneath Darius. It wasn’t the mess of their lovemaking. It was too dark, too thick. Basil reached out, his fingers trembling, touching the wetness. They came away red.

"Darius?" His voice was a thin, reedy whisper. "Darius, what’s happening?"

No answer. Basil scrambled forward, his own nakedness suddenly feeling obscene. The cramped car, once a haven, now felt like a trap. He grabbed Darius’s shoulders, shaking him.

"Wake up! Darius! Please!" His voice cracking into a desperate plea. There was blood everywhere now, pooling across the leather upholstery and smeared over Basil’s hands and chest. The metallic scent choked out the lingering traces of their intimacy, replacing it with something sharp, terrifying, and unmistakably wrong. A wave of cold horror crashed through him, so intense he thought he might be sick. "Please," he sobbed, his vision blurring with tears. "Why did this happen? Wake up. Please, just wake up. Don’t do this to me."

He shook Darius harder, his own body trembling uncontrollably. This couldn’t be real.

This wasn’t happening.

Suddenly, Darius’s eyes snapped open. Basil froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a single suspended second, he couldn’t breathe.

Darius’s gaze was blank and unfocused, staring straight through him like a corpse looking at nothing at all.

Then his lips parted. His voice emerged as a hollow, rasping croak. "This is all your fault."