What Was I Made For?

Heart Of Courage

Chapter Twenty: Heart Of Courage

Heart of OCurage: Two Steps From Hell

The dim light of dawn bled into the chamber, casting a soft glow upon the discarded tokens of a night steeped in decadence. Silk garments lay strewn across the ornate furniture, and empty crystal goblets clinked gently in the stillness. The air, heavy with the scent of exotic perfumes and the lingering warmth of bodies entwined in celebration, began to cool as the reality of morning crept in.

Sir Pentious stood by the window, watching the sky change its hues, his thoughts a jumble of satisfaction and sudden concern. He turned to regard Cherry, whose laughter had been the melody of the evening, now silent. Her usual radiant demeanor seemed dulled; her movements lacked their characteristic fluidity. As she fumbled with the clasps on her dress, something akin to a shadow passed over her face—an expression Sir Pentious knew all too well to be fear.

"Cherry?" His voice broke the quiet, a whisper that floated across the room like a delicate leaf caught in a breeze.

She paused, the slight quiver in her hands betraying more than mere fatigue. Her eyes darted to his, a storm swirling within their depths before she looked away, unable to hold the weight of his gaze.

"Isss everything alright?" he asked, slithering closer with an ease that belied his growing trepidation.

"Fine," she managed, her voice but a thread fraying at the edges.

But Sir Pentious saw—the tremble in her lip, the way her shoulders tensed as if bracing against a chill no one else could feel. He reached out, his long fingers curling in the air just shy of her arm. The hesitation was palpable, the space between them charged with unspoken words and concealed truths.

"Cherry, talk to me." His tone softened, a velvet plea wrapped around a core of urgency.

She hesitated, a sigh escaping her lips as her facade cracked, revealing the vulnerability she so deftly hid behind the brilliance of her bravado. The room, once a cocoon of joyous abandon, had shifted into a confessional, and in the quiet of the coming day, Sir Pentious prepared himself to receive her burdens, whatever they may be.

"Cherry," he murmured, the word slithering out between his fangs with an unmistakable tremor. His eyes, piercing and reptilian, narrowed as they sought hers—two embers of concern glowing amidst the dimming revelry. The denial that followed was a brittle facade, her voice a hollow echo of the confidence she typically wore like armor.

His heart constricted at her attempt to cloak the torment within, but Sir Pentious could not be fooled. The serpentine intuition that served him so well in the twisted politics of their world now unraveled the threads of Cherry's pretense. His gaze bore into hers, imploring, unyielding. There was no room for evasion under that relentless scrutiny.

"Pleassse be honesst with me," he implored, each syllable heavy with earnest desperation. His hand, deft and gentle despite its monstrous form, reached out to touch her face—a silent oath of sanctity for her truth.

She recoiled ever so slightly, the gesture wrenching a solitary tear from its precarious perch.

"What'sss going on? I can sssee something'sss not right. Have you been usssing?" The question hung in the air, a heavy weight that demanded an answer.

Cherry, caught in the crossfire of her own secrets, hesitated. The room seemed to close in around her as she felt the weight of his gaze. Finally, she broke down, her voice barely above a whisper. "Yes."

Sir Pentious, his trust betrayed, felt a surge of anger. "What were you thinking? After everything we've been through? You risssk your redemption for thisssss?" His words, like venom, spat out in the midst of disappointment and frustration.