Her chest tightened. She felt herself rising from the chair, as if some invisible cord between her and the storm inside Alistair had gone taut. Her gaze flew to the East Wing passage, where Silas must now be.
"Alistair, wait—"
But he was already moving. Fast. A striking, controlled fury in every movement — the kind of rage that didn't scream, but seethed, cold and precise. He didn't even spare her a glance as he passed. His dark coat seemed to absorb the firelight as he strode towards the hall.
She caught his coat sleeve, breathless. The fabric was heavy, fine wool beneath her trembling fingers. "Alistair, listen to me."
He stopped. Just barely. His arm was tense beneath her hand — his entire body locked, like a blade drawn half from its sheath, poised to strike. She could feel the coiled power radiating from him.
"Let. Go," he said, not looking at her. His voice was a low growl, vibrating with suppressed violence.
"Not until you hear me," Julia insisted, tightening her grip, ignoring the tremor in her own hand. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the sudden, terrifying silence of the room.
Finally, he turned. His eyes were fire and ice, a startling, lethal blue that seemed to bore into her very soul. "You knew he was here. You knew." The accusation wasn't loud, but it cut deeper than any shout could have. It was a statement of profound betrayal.
Julia didn't answer. She didn't need to. Her silence was confirmation. The truth, ugly and undeniable, hung between them. She thought of Silas, his gentle touch, the way he'd spoken of Marian. And then of Alistair's possessive grip, his sudden, frightening temper.
"And you lied to me." His voice didn't rise — that was the terrifying part. It dropped. It deepened, becoming a chilling murmur that filled the air. "You let him in. Into this house. Into Marian's wing." Each word was a hammer blow, hitting her with the weight of her deceit, the transgression against his domain.
"He came to me," she said quickly, her voice cracking, defensively. "He wasn't a threat. Not as you imagine. I needed answers, Alistair. Answers about Marian. He has them. Answers I couldn't find in this house, answers you wouldn't give me." The words tumbled out, a desperate plea for understanding amidst his fury.
He stepped closer. Too close. His presence overwhelmed her, the scent of him, the heat radiating from his body. "What you needed was to come to me, Julia. I would've told you everything you needed to know. I would have protected you from secrets that could harm you." His voice was low, persuasive, a dangerous balm.
"Would you?" she snapped, yanking her hand from his coat, the sudden movement surprising them both. "Would you really? Or would you have given me more cryptic warnings and locked doors? More pretty distractions and silences about Marian? Like you always do? I came here for the truth, Alistair, and all I've found are shadows and guarded whispers."
Alistair's jaw tightened. He said nothing, his gaze piercing, scrutinizing her. The silence stretched, charged with unspoken accusations and frustrations.
"I'm not Marian," she breathed, her voice trembling but firm, looking directly into his unblinking eyes. "But you keep treating me like I'm one bad night away from falling apart. As if I'm fragile, susceptible to every dark whisper. I'm not."
He laughed bitterly, a harsh, humorless sound that scraped against her nerves. "No. You're not fragile, Julia. You're simply reckless. Unthinkingly so. You rush into darkness without considering the dangers that lurk there."
"And you're controlling," she retorted, her voice rising slightly, fuelled by her own indignation. "You smother curiosity with fear. You try to dictate every step I take, every question I ask, all in the name of 'protection.' But what is it you're truly protecting, Alistair? Your secrets? Your control?"
"Because this house is full of ghosts, Julia!" he roared, suddenly, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. The crystal chandeliers above them vibrated slightly. "And some of them are alive. More dangerous than any specter. You think Silas Corwin came here for tea and confession? For pleasant conversation about Marian's diary? He came to unmake everything I have built, everything I am. He came to destroy me."
Julia stood her ground, though her knees wanted to give way beneath her. The sheer force of his anger, so abruptly unleashed, was terrifying. "He came because you buried Marian and locked away the truth," she said, breathing hard, her eyes unwavering. "And some of us are done pretending that your version of grief is holy. Or that your control is benevolent."
He grabbed the back of a heavy dining chair and threw it across the room with a violent, terrifying force. The crash echoed like a gunshot in the silent hall, shattering the uneasy peace. Elsie screamed awake in the hall behind them, a high, piercing sound of terror that tore through the charged atmosphere.
Alistair didn't flinch. He turned his burning gaze back to Julia, his voice low again, but laced with a lethal venom. "He was her first love. Her unfinished mistake. He wrote her poetry, gave her daffodils, promised her the moon. And when she married me, when she chose a life of stability and comfort, he vanished. And now, years later, he breaks into my house to whisper in your ear like the devil himself, trying to poison your mind against me?"
"He didn't come for me," Julia said, though even she wasn't sure anymore, the thought chilling her to the bone. Silas's intensity, his knowing glances...had she misjudged his purpose entirely? Had he truly sought to use her?
"Then why did he hide?" Alistair snapped, his voice tight with suspicion. "Why crawl through my servant's corridors like a rat, if not to deceive? To plot against me? If his intentions were pure, why the subterfuge, Julia? Why the clandestine meetings?" His questions were relentless, each one a barb designed to make her doubt.
"Because he knew you'd try to kill him!" Julia shouted, her own fear for Silas overcoming her caution. The words hung in the air, a stark, brutal accusation. She thought of Marian, of the whispers, of the portrait. Had Alistair truly been capable of such darkness?
Alistair's expression darkened, his handsome face twisting into something ugly and dangerous. "I still might. He trespassed. He conspired. He threatened the peace of my home and the stability of my life. He deserves whatever fate awaits him."
And then footsteps pounded down the corridor. Loud, heavy, decisive. Two guards — local estate hands turned temporary enforcers — flanked a lean, ragged figure between them.
Silas Corwin.
He wasn't resisting. If anything, he seemed amused. His dark coat was torn at the sleeve, his lips bloodied but curled in a crooked smile. A few damp curls clung to his brow, and his left eye was beginning to swell — but his stance was graceful, his presence magnetic. He was not a cowering captive.
He looked like a romantic villain out of one of Julia's novels, the kind who held secrets in his eyes and danger in his charm.
The poet in the lion's den.
"Ah," Silas drawled, his voice a low, melodic rumble, eyes gleaming as they met Alistair's. He ignored the guards, ignored Julia, focusing solely on the Lord of Blackwood Hall. "I see some things never change, Alistair. Your hospitality remains… forceful."
Alistair took a step forward, his fists clenching at his sides, his eyes blazing with an almost primal hatred. "I should gut you where you stand, Corwin. For trespassing. For daring to show your face here again. For everything."
"Then you'd prove every line I ever wrote about you right, wouldn't you?" Silas murmured, his crooked smile widening, a hint of defiance in his amber eyes. "All the poems about the beast behind the beauty. Tell me, Alistair — do you still talk in your sleep? Do you still confess your deepest desires when the moonlight falls just so?"
"Enough!" Julia rushed between them, propelled by a desperate urge to prevent further violence, standing squarely in front of Silas, her arms spread wide like a shield. "You will not touch him!" Her voice, though trembling, carried an unexpected authority.
Alistair stared at her, stunned — not by her words, but her position. Protective. Defiant. His furious gaze darted between her resolute stance and Silas's smirking face. The air crackled with a new, dangerous tension.
"You're standing with him?" he said, quietly, dangerously, his voice stripped of all warmth. "With a trespasser? A man who snuck into my home and filled your head with lies? A man who vanished when Marian needed him most?"
"I'm standing with the truth," Julia said, breathing hard, her chest heaving. "And if he has pieces of it, then I stand with him in seeking it. If you hurt him, Alistair, I will never forgive you. Not for this. Not for Marian. Not for anything."
Alistair's face twisted, a raw expression of hurt and fury. "You already haven't," he whispered, the words ragged, as if ripped from his throat. His eyes, fixed on her, were filled with a terrible, possessive anguish. He seemed to crumble, just for a moment.
Silas chuckled behind her, a low, satisfied sound that grated on Julia's frayed nerves. But she didn't turn.
"Don't," Julia hissed over her shoulder to Silas, her voice a warning. She didn't want his interference now. She needed Alistair to see her, to hear her.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and pain.
Alistair looked past Julia, his gaze sharpening, his initial shock giving way to cold, calculated anger. "You were in love with Marian," he said to Silas, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
Silas tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. "Still am, I suspect. Some loves, Alistair, are too deeply etched to simply fade."
"And yet you let her die," Alistair shot back, the words a poisoned arrow, meant to wound.