Initium (Nocte Trilogy #2.5)
Courtney Cole
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
In life, things are often not what they seem and most certainly, sometimes storylines are not.
The 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.”
Words are tricky. Life is tricky. Perhaps even I am tricky.
The 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.
That is what this is.
A glimpse.
A hint.
Pay attention.
Words are tricky.
Prologue
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.
Chapter One
Sussex, 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.