Initium (Nocte Trilogy (2.5))

I
nitium

L
atin
:

Noun; beginning

T
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C
opyright 
2015 by Courtney Cole

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this novel are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. 

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D
ear Reader
,

I
n life
, things are often not what they seem and most certainly, sometimes storylines are not.

T
he musician
/songwriter Andrew Bird might’ve summed it up the best: “
Words have the capacity for deception. They're all full of subtext, and some of them are cliché and overused and vernacular. They're tricky. All I can say is, words are tricky.”

W
ords
are
tricky
.
Life
is tricky. Perhaps even
I
am tricky.

T
he Nocte series
is almost over, the story is almost finished. But before the finale, before all is revealed, you need more of the story, a glimpse, a slight pull-back of the curtain.

T
hat is what this is
.

A
glimpse
.

A hint.

P
ay attention
.

W
ords are tricky
.

I
never knew
what the consequences would be.

I say that like it’s a defense, an excuse.

It’s not. It’s simply the truth.

I never knew what he would become to me.

Through everything, he’s
become
everything.

My rock, my air, my love.

My everything.

And then….

Things changed.

Because it was wrong.

Because sometimes, our sons must pay for the sins of their fathers.

Or their mothers.

I’m afraid that I’m lost,

that I’m damned.

After you read this, you’ll probably agree.

Really, it doesn’t matter.

All that matters is that I save him.

Because he shouldn’t pay for my sin.

Judge me if you like.

But keep reading.

This is our beginning.

This is where the darkness
truly
starts.

S
ussex
, England

21 Years ago

I
sniff
the clean English air as I leave the café, pausing for a minute to let the rare sunshine drench my face, warming it. As I do, I glance over my shoulder as discreetly as I can.

He smiles at me.

Him.

Phillip DuBray is still seated at our table, waiting a few minutes before he gets up to leave in his slim-fitting black slacks and dark turtleneck. His smile flashes in the sun and warmth pulses through me, rushing into all of my corners, and God, how was I lucky enough to meet him?

I live each day to see his smile, to hear the soft words he murmurs in his exotic accent as his breath tickles my neck, his fingers buried in my hair. I feel as though I can’t breathe unless I’m with him.

But Fate has a terrible sense of humor.

I’m promised to someone else, and my word must be my bond.

A lump forms in my throat as I hurry away from the café, from town, from Phillip, and I rush back to my real life. As I hurry down the street, I can hear the whispers as people glance at me.

Such a Cinderella story.

Rags to riches, you know.

She’s the most fortunate girl alive.

I almost choke on that one.

Fortunate? If they knew the truth, would they really think I’m so lucky?

I tread lightly on the path to Whitley, the enormous estate on the outside of town. Acres of rolling moors surround it with fog wisping from the ground like fingers beckoning me.

Come home
, it seems to say.

Only Whitley isn’t my home. Not really.

It’s my prison.

Desperation breeds obedience, though, and I
obediently
make my way through the gates and along the cobblestone until I reach the massive wooden doors. I only pause for a moment, to take a deep breath of the cool wet air, and then I disappear inside.

I try to hug the outer halls so that I can pass through to my bedroom without being noticed, but of course my efforts fail.

Eleanor Savage herself bumps into me. Dressed in stern black with her hair in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, she is the picture of a tyrannical matron.

The apple never falls far from the tree.

“Olivia,” Eleanor greets me with a single nod of her head.

“Eleanor,” I answer, and I can’t help it that my palms get sweaty. She glances at me, a slight hint of humor in her steely eyes. It must amuse her to intimidate everyone.

“Have you been out?”

The answer is obvious, as my feet are wet, and I nod.

“Yes, I was in town for a bit.”

Her mouth is pinched in disapproval. “Richard has been hunting for you.”

A wave of dread floods me at the mere thought of my betrothed.

Pale, with icy eyes and cold hands. The only thing colder is his heart.

His bitterness pulses through his veins and chills his blood with unhappiness.

“Very well,” I tell Eleanor. “I’ll find him.”

I turn and head toward Richard’s wing, the wing I’ll have to share with him when we marry. I must force my feet to move because they don’t truly want to carry me even one step closer to him. But before I know it, I’m standing in front of his door, and I knock with a cold, cold hand.

He answers with a voice even colder.

“Come in.”

My heart is heavy as I approach him, and when he turns to me, I have to force myself to meet his gaze.

“Olivia,” he says curtly, without sparing me even a simple glance. I think this might be what I hate the most about him. He acts as though I’m so unimportant, as though I don’t matter. He can’t spare a second to look at me.

I wait, and he continues, all the while re-arranging the ties in his closet.

“What do you think of this one?” He holds up a paisley green. I hate it, so I nod.

“It looks perfect.”

“I think so too.” He laces it under his collar and steps to me. “Tie this, please.”

My fingers do his bidding and he examines my handiwork in the mirror.

“A bit crooked, but it will do.”

Of course he would say that. The knot is perfect, but he will never acknowledge something good in someone. That’s not his way, or his mother’s.

He finally glances at me for a scant moment.

“You’re wet. Have you been out?”

I nod, and I feel like a meek mouse, awaiting punishment.

His face clouds over, but he contains it. “Why?”

“I needed a walk,” I offer.

Richard rolls his eyes. “Then walk on these grounds. Lord knows we have plenty of them. There is no need to walk into town, Olivia.”

Of course not. I must be kept secluded here, away from normal people.

I nod once, because that’s all I can bring myself to do.

“We’ll be married soon,” he adds over his shoulder as he disappears once more in the closet. “You need to act like a Savage, Olivia.”

Imminent doom chills my heart and I fight to control it. Our wedding has been arranged, by his mother and mine. I get the respectable and feared Savage name, and he gets a wife who will allow him to be who he is without asking questions or having expectations.

I won’t expect him to be a real husband to me, because I already know the truth.

He’s a monster.

Nothing can change that, and he knows that I know.

It’s probably why he can’t bring himself to look at me.

“You may go,” he adds as an afterthought while he ties his shoes.

Gladly.

I don’t look back.

D
inner is
a refined and uncomfortable affair at Whitley.

The dining room table can seat thirty, yet only three of us are here. Richard, Eleanor and me.

My fork accidentally scrapes my china plate and Eleanor glances up at me in disapproval. I flinch.

She swallows her bite of chicken, then stares at me.

“The wedding date has been set.”

My heart pounds.

I don’t want to ask, I don’t want to show my panic, but when Richard doesn’t inquire, I have to.

“And when is it?”

I hate how small my voice sounds, so weak.

“Thirty days. Everything is being arranged. You won’t need to do anything.”

Anything other than shackle myself to Richard, that is.

“Will Mr. Savage return for the wedding?” I don’t know why I’m curious, other than the fact that Richard Savage I is the only friendly person in the family. His eyes are warm, his smile is genuine. He’s a person I think I truly like, an ally, almost. He’s always kind to me.

Eleanor’s eyes are icy.

“Perhaps. It’s hard to say.”

Mr. Savage has been away on business for a week already. Surely he won’t be gone for another month.

A month.

One month.

Thirty days.

That’s how long I have before I’m condemned to a lifetime with Richard.

It gives me a permanent lump in my throat that I can’t swallow, and as soon as I can, I excuse myself and flee to my mother.

As soon as I arrive, she opens her arms and I collapse into them, and she holds me as I cry.

“There, there.” She pats my back and strokes my hair. “It will be fine, Liv. It will be fine.”

But it won’t be. It won’t ever be. I know that.

She lets me cry and holds me tight.

“I wish I could take this from you,” she says finally, and her voice is so sad. I look at her and she looks frail in the moonlight. “You don’t have to do this for me, girl.”

But she knows that I do.

If I marry Richard, they’ll take care of my mother for the rest of her life. She’ll never want for food, she’ll never go without medical care, she’ll always be okay. Since she’s alone now that my father is gone, I have to do this for her.

I have to.

I pull myself together and I swallow the persistent lump.

“I’ll be okay,” I tell her resolutely, and I mean it. I’ll be okay. I have to be.

“You mourn for the dark haired boy,” she tells me knowingly and her eyes are troubled. “You mourn for what cannot be, my love.”

I look away because I won’t give Phillip up. They can make me marry Richard, but they can’t make me give Phillip up.

“I love him,” I tell her flatly, unable to meet her eyes. “I’ll be discreet. No one will ever know.”

I hear her sharp intake of breath and I don’t look at her.

“Olivia! That’s not who we are. You cannot be with him. You’re going to give your vow to Richard Savage, and that’s how it has to be. You are only as good as your word, child. Your word is your bond.”

I know that. I do. But the idea of not being with Phillip takes my breath away. I don’t want to breathe without him.

I don’t tell my mother that, though. Instead, I visit with her a little bit longer, and when I leave, I feel her eyes buried between my shoulder blades as she watches me go.

It’s like she knows.

And she probably does.