Chapter eighteen
Dominic’s name had barely started to form on his lips when Sammy felt himself jerked backward and hurled through darkness.
He recognized the relique’s summons, but it had been urgent, sloppy. Instead of a smooth transition with a subtle swoop in his stomach, it felt like his insides had been scrambled and rearranged.
His heart pounded out a drumbeat against his ribs, and blood roared in his ears. Sickness twisted inside him, making his mouth water as he fought the urge to gag. Every nerve ending felt like a live wire, flayed and raw.
Dizzy and disoriented, he stumbled sideways when he landed, nearly crashing into the glass coffee table. He managed to correct at the last moment and staggered around it, catching himself on the arm of the sofa to stop himself from falling.
A red velvet sofa.
He was right back where he’d fucking started.
“Sammy? Are you okay? Sammy, answer me.”His mate’s voice pounded inside his already throbbing head.
It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.
A hiccupping sob stuck in the back of his throat as relief overwhelmed him. Without the magical block, Dominic rushed in to fill the void, his steady presence a soothing anchor.
Sammy reached for it like a lifeline.
“I’m okay,”he sent back, filtering out the emotion.
No panic. No desperation. Nothing for Dominic to worry about except finding his way to him.
“Thank fuck.”
It was faint, barely distinguishable from his own thoughts. Sammy smothered a smile. Something told him he hadn’t been meant to hear that.
“Where are you,colibrí?”Dominic demanded, his voice louder and more forceful now.
“Inside the mansion.”He tried to remember the path he’d taken to the garden—the spiraling staircase, the twists and turns along the labyrinth of corridors.“Well, technically under it, on the west side.”
“Hold tight,colibrí. I’m coming to get you.”
But the hope those words ignited in him proved to be short-lived.
“Terribly sorry about that little scuffle outside.” The unfamiliar voice rang through the room, bleeding authority and confidence from every syllable. “No need to worry, though. I’m sure the guards will sort it out.”
Sammy followed the sound—deep, cool, and exceedingly French—to the wingback chair in front of a fireplace. The male who sat there looked pale, almost ashen, and even the glow from the flames couldn’t infuse warmth into his complexion.
Yet, he appeared polished and sophisticated in a burgundy tuxedo, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Eyes like icy moonlight cut across the distance, sharp and penetrating, but he wore a strange little smile.
Crooked, subtle, and brimming with secrets.
“Who are you?”
“Henri Delacour.”
Sounded fake. Kind of like his accent.
“I suppose you can consider me your new benefactor.”
Sammy could think of several words more suited to the situation, but he didn’t waste breath correcting him. The guy would be dead long before they finished arguing semantics.
Well, deader.
He swirled a goblet between his fingers, the red liquid clinging to the glass, too viscous to be wine. In his other hand, he held the relique, the leather cord trailing down his arm to his wrist.