The Opal Blade (The Ashen Touch Trilogy Book 1)

by Kristy Nicolle

  There really is nothing like throwing a knife and hitting my target when I’m half asleep and hung over. It really raises my expectation for the rest of the day, as the adrenaline, to which I’m addicted, gives me my first hit of the morning before I’ve even opened my eyes.

  “You know some people would say that you take advantage of me being at your beck and bloody call,” Jules complains, halting the flow of steaming water as he turns the rose gold faucets back to their original positions. I feign innocence, feeling myself waking up at the fast pace of our usual morning repertoire.

  “Well some people don’t pay your salary. I do,” I remind him and his eyes narrow, a smirk appearing reluctantly on his lips.

  “Actually, you don’t, not yet. You’re not officially an Heiress until you get around to signing those documents your Uncle keeps reminding me to remind you about.” He glares at me sideways, and I sigh, crossing my arms across the top of my breasts.

  “Why would I want to sign a load of paperwork meaning I get more money on top of the already extortionate allowance I receive, with an added shit ton of responsibility over the empire my father built?” I demand. “Who the hell wants to be a business person when you can just swipe a platinum card and avoid all the boring paperwork?” I ask him with a serious expression and he snorts.

  “Apparently, not you.”

  “Ahh, Jules, you’re a bright one.” I click my tongue against the back of my teeth, running my hands through my long red tresses. Jules rises from his knees to his feet, his spine remaining abnormally straight as he does so. He is certainly one graceful man, that’s for sure.

  “Anything else I can do for you this morning ma’am?” he demands, and I scowl.

  “I don’t know. Does letting me hit you for calling me shitting ma’am count?” I scold him yet again, not allowing my expression to soften.

  “I am so glad your Uncle paid out all that money to send you to England so you could come back with such a colourful array of multicultural profanities at your disposal. Truly.” His sarcasm seeps into the muggy air of the bathroom before he nods his head, dismissing himself and strides from the bathroom, leaving my breakfast standing under a silver cloche beside the bed.

  I crane my neck as I watch him leave, before returning to my bath and looking down at the milky flesh that covers my tight muscles.

  I have a personal training session booked with Jacque later in the downstairs conference room of the estate, which is good as I’m feeling anxious for some boxing despite my night’s rigorous array of activities. The energy is already bubbling up beneath the surface of my skin as the vodka of my morning pick-me up rushes to my brain in the heat of the bath, and my veins dilate, blood rushing through my body like a hot river. I reach out over to the gilded bath controls and turn on the jets, sinking down deeper into the hold of the tub and closing my eyes as I let myself wake, ready for another day of fun, followed by a night of finding yet another man to conquer.

  After I’m suitably relaxed, I move across the plush carpet wrapped in a white monogrammed towel robe. I sit on the edge of my bed, removing the squashed, bell-shaped cloche from my breakfast plate and tucking into poached eggs and thin sliced parma ham. Jules is an amazing chef, and my Mother hired him specifically for that very reason. I’ve always been grateful for this because food is second only in my life to sex.

  I eat with vigour, as I do almost everything, and as the last yolk bursts in my mouth, making my tongue slick, I push thoughts of her away and instead walk over to the armoire. Chewing the last slice of ham and washing it down with a zing-filled sip from my alcohol tainted tea cup, I put the stylus onto the slick vinyl of one of my favourite records, and Dusty Springfield’s angelic tones seep out into the room.

  This definitely puts the cherry on the cake of my relaxation ritual which I undertake each and every morning.

  The lyrics continue to soothe me as I open the doors to my walk-in closet which is a room in itself. Revealing the interior, I sigh, knowing it is an unfortunate juxtaposition of my young and old selves colliding in a mess of pastel pink walls and unapologetically gothic black clothes, with stiletto boots scattered across the floor.

  Selecting a pair of riding trousers and a low-cut black vest with a long-backed riding jacket to match, I turn on my heel to find that the door to my bedroom is shaking on its hinges. I shake my head with a small smile and exhale at what I know is a too persistent animal.

  Stupid dog.

  Throwing my clothes on the unmade, sex-stained bedsheets, I pad the length of the room and let in the Leonberger. He’s so enormous that he comes up to my upper thigh when he’s on all fours alone, and stood on his hind legs, we can practically tango.

  “Morning, Cerb, how’s it hanging?” I ask him, raising my hand for a high five as the brown and black, furry beast of a dog lurches across the threshold and bowls right into me as I bend to greet him. His wide chestnut eyes look down at me, non-judgemental, and I laugh as he licks the side of my face. “Ew!” I yell out, shoving him off me and watching as he paces from one side of the room to the other, sniffing the surroundings with far too much energy before finding some leftover morsels on my breakfast tray.

  I swat him down as I roll onto my feet from the floor where I’ve fallen beneath his weight, deciding that he definitely needs a walk. I watch him as he settles, curling up by my feet, and trying to remember a time when he hasn’t been in my life.

  Cerb has been my main reason for coming home during the summers when I’ve been out of University or home from boarding school. I love this damn dog more than most humans, but he’s got to be getting on in age now, which saddens me. You wouldn’t know it though with the way he bounds all over the place like a puppy.

  As he rolls onto his back, presenting his enormous fluffy belly for a rub, I think about how he had done the same thing for my mother and father before their deaths. I think about how he had made them smile and laugh and how they’d smiled and laughed as he’d become my best childhood friend. I’d even ridden him like a pony when he was a pup; he was and still is the mightiest of steeds.

  The chasm of their never-ending absence opens a tad, and I feel myself becoming vulnerable. Putting my feelings away and replacing them, as ever, with forward motion, I throw myself into the day.

  My first priority is going to muck out Nightshade’s stall, belonging to my onyx Percheron, before taking her riding and getting in some shooting practice. Then I’ll proceed to training with Jacque to sweat out last night’s toxins so I can replace them with brand new ones tonight.

  I stand in front of the gilded, golden floor-length mirror, mounted on the back of the closet door, staring at my long, fiery, red hair and cognac eyes. They burn the colour of whisky and my pale skin makes them sheen even brighter as I’m still waking up and my pallor is at its most transparent. The tight-fitting riding pants and vest show off what my mama gave me, hugging my crotch, tits and ass, and I pick out a pair of flat riding boots, wishing they came in stiletto style but knowing that unfortunately, it’d hurt my horse.

  I leave my suite in haste, turning off the music and not bothering to put on any makeup, knowing that it’ll just run off once I start sweating while mucking out the stall anyway.

  In the corridor outside my room, I’m surrounded by inescapable nostalgia from the high ceilings and deeply hued walls of my early childhood, giving a luxurious and high-class feel, which spreads throughout the entire mansion. My bedroom is, in fact, the room with the softest colour scheme; something I’ll be changing should I decide to remain here indefinitely.

  I’m pondering having the entire place redecorated to remove the memories of those I’ve lost as I reach the top of the double width staircase. This central space of the building which branches between the east and west wings, truly is cavernous, and there are most definitely endless possibilities for its use. Turning to descend into the lobby, I find myself distracted as I catch an aged, familiar and entirely unwanted face below, waiting for me on the bottom
step with a disapproving stare.

  “Good morning… or should I say, afternoon.” My Uncle Peter gives a disappointed smirk, which immediately succeeds at pissing me off. This guy deserves a medal.

  “I was out late. Besides, it’s not like I have a job to go to,” I remind him, shrugging my shoulders as I button the double-breasted riding jacket over my chest and descend the bottle green velvet of the runner, which falls the length of the stairs, fast.

  Peter’s eagle-esque, citrus gold eyes flick the length of my body as he runs a hand through his grey hair, visibly frustrated.

  “Well, that’s not strictly true. You’re the heiress to an enormous fortune but also an enormous business. I need you to sign this paperwork, Sephy. I’m not kidding around. You have a responsibility to your father’s legacy, and I’ve let this avoidance go on long enough. It’s been over a month.” As I brush past him, his words reach me, and I turn on the spot, my eyes narrowing.

  “I’ll get to it when I’m damn well good and ready,” I bite out, my temper flaring at his attempt to use the loss of my parents to get me to do what he wants. He clearly doesn’t care about what I want at all.

  “I know you will… right now.” Peter puts his hand into the inner pocket of the mossy tweed jacket he’s wearing, pulling out a thick wodge of folded paper and an ornate looking black crystal pen.

  As he’s rummaging around with this, trying to corner me, I turn on my heel. Walking the length of the gargantuan lobby, the heels of my riding boots ringing out against the chequered black and white marble as I enter the east wing. I pass one of our libraries, several sitting rooms, my old ballet studio, and a formal dining room before proceeding out of the east-facing French doors that lead to the stables.

  I hear Peter call after me several times, but I don’t stop, nor do I care for his crap at this time of day, or any other. He might have been my legal guardian and the treasurer for the Sinclair Fortune, but I’m twenty-five now, and a Doctor no less. He is no longer the boss of me.

  Walking across the sprawling and carefully maintained turf, I take in the fresh air and enjoy the smell of moist grass, still wet from last night’s rain. I don’t look back to see if Peter is following me, and as I enter the stables, the smell of hay and manure is oddly comforting, diminishing the flames of my temper to mere embers.

  Nightshade is stood in her stall and comes over to me immediately as our eyes meet. I close the space between us and exhale, feeling the irritation at my Uncle’s lack of respect for me dissipate at the touch of the horse’s soft muzzle to my fingertips.

  I hear Cerb enter the stable through the door I’ve left wide open, having followed me like a lost child from inside the house, and I close my eyes, surrounded by two of the only beings on the planet I assume actually care about my feelings, and I about theirs.

  I love Jules, and in a lot of ways, he could be my father with the amount he worries, but I don’t have a lot of friends. Those I attended school and University with are half a world away, and I’ve never really spent enough time in Chicago to meet many people, even though I was born here. Besides, once they find out about my lineage, I can never tell whether they actually like me or my money.

  I pick up a brush and begin to groom Nightshade before feeding her, hoping it’ll help me clear my head and return to my usual state of reckless abandon, which is definitely how I operate best.

  I’ve been carved into who I am, not formed organically, etched out against my will from hard stone, blood, sweat, tears and made into something jagged.

  Elite gymnastics, figure skating, athletics, martial arts, shooting, flying and racing were the things that have filled my summers for the last eighteen years, and I am in no short supply of discipline, motivation or skill. I have always worked hard, but after getting my doctorate, after working my ass off for four years, I just want to stop for a while and have fun. I want to live. To breathe.

  My education has been elite, fastidiously strict, and I am not ready to step into the world and slave away for forty years in a company purely because my father created it. Nor is my only ambition to marry, pop out two babies and have a husband whose biggest challenge in life is to get our picket fence the purest shade of white he can. I want more. I don’t even know what that is. But I know it doesn’t lie in some boardroom with a bunch of shareholders and advisers, or in marriage to some aristocrat with a failing family fortune.

  Continuing in my fast-paced attempt at tackling the day and maintaining my inner peace, I step over to the tack room of the stable, which smells of the raw pine wood from which it is crafted, and open the fridge, which lies beneath a pin board of first place ribbons and old horse shoes. Inside the chilled depths, Jules has prepared fresh carrots as a treat for my equine bestie, and so I move back to stand before her enormous height and gait, staring into her dark glistening eyes and feeding her as I speak in horsey whispers.

  As I speak absentmindedly with the Percheron mare, I let myself float back to last night, to the man I’d slept with, to how free I’d felt as I’d climaxed atop him before collapsing and falling into a blissfully untroubled sleep.

  It wasn’t even about him; he was just there. It was about me, taking control of my own pleasure, my own life. That’s what I want. I don’t want to be tied down. In fact, I’d much rather be the one doing the tying up.

  Craving that same freedom as an addict craves heroin, I know that riding will be half a fix. I dress Nightshade quickly, feeling her black shining coat beneath my fingertips and inhaling the scent of her as I put on reins, a bridle, and a saddle. I pat her attentively as I work, and she shuffles anxiously from foot to foot.

  After about ten minutes, I unbolt the door and lead her into the slate paved courtyard outside, I climb atop her with the aid of a mounting block, my heart racing in my chest as Cerb takes flight in front of us and the wind whips my hair from my face. The grounds are sprawling, my Mother’s pride and joy, and have been maintained by my Uncle since her passing. Large expanses of lush green grass surround the house, and transition into the thick forest, which surrounds the borders of the property.

  As the mare lurches forward into a trot, I stiffen my spine, compensating for her motion as we begin at a tame speed across the grounds. Nightshade is one of those animals that needs to be worked and ridden hard, she needs her heart racing in her chest and her pulse thumping in her ears on a regular basis to stay sane, so I suppose she and I have that in common.

  I run my fingers through her thick glossy mane and pat her flank as we rise over the slight incline of the estate’s seemingly endless grounds and cross the colossally long driveway, her hooves clicking against the ivory gravel. When we hit the grass, I urge her into a gallop as I squeeze my heels into the side of her body.

  I focus on Cerb as he leads us forward, and before I know what’s happening, I realise that we’re heading toward the part of the property I try to avoid.

  The mausoleum where my parents are buried.

  I turn the horse, letting the reins fall slack on one side and twisting her enormous black head left as Cerb changes direction and continues to bound around Nightshade’s hooves, causing her breathing to become laboured and anxious.

  Whilst we canter in a semi-circle, I come face to face, yet again, with memories of the event that had destroyed my life all those years ago. The upper west wing of the house, the place where my parents’ master bedroom had been the night that the fire had burned and taken them from me at only six years old. My heart breaks in my chest at the sight of the refurbished windows, wondering why Peter had kept the same design, the same rooms, the same décor, even after the event. I can’t go past the door to my bedroom, can’t walk up the corridor or visit their old room, even though the fire damage is fixed, simply because it causes me too much pain knowing they will never be just behind that door again.

  I have learned to avoid the memories at all costs because at least this way, I can function without being heartbroken every damn day.

  Pulling ha
rd on the reins and once more squeezing the underbelly of my steed, we ride faster. I urge her onward, swallowing hard, and we ride away from the past as fast as her hooves will carry me.

  The training session with Jacque has been intense, and I’m sweating profusely, causing my white tank to go see-through and my workout shorts to cling to my legs, which gleam with perspiration. His dark hair falls across his forehead and his navy-blue eyes are beginning to look weary as we continue to spar until the song playing over the studio’s built in surround sound finishes and he lets out an exhausted breath.

  “Damn girl, you’re giving me a run for my money. Whatever you’re taking to get this kind of energy, I want some!” He winks at me, and I smile at him, wondering momentarily why I haven’t slept with him yet.

  Then I remember, Peter forbade me to sleep with the staff in case of sexual harassment law suits, reminding me of yet another reason why being a billionaire isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s true what they say, once you have money, everyone wants a piece of it, regardless of whether they have to screw you over to get it or not.

  Jacque and I part ways as he packs up his bag and exits through the double oak front doors, a one-hundred-dollar bill clutched in his hand for the hour. I hear his car pull away seconds later.

  Heading up the stairs, my heart rate lowers within only minutes.

  I slip off my sneakers and close the door behind me as I re-enter my room, restless even still, despite riding, knife throwing, shooting practice and boxing, which I’ve managed in but an afternoon. Jules is unintentionally hiding inside, and I jump at the unexpected sight of him hanging up clothes in my closet as I move to undress.

  “Jeez, you almost gave me a heart attack,” I complain, and he shakes his head with an unimpressed face.

  “I could say the same. Those shorts are…” he begins, but I stop him.

  “Called shorts for a reason.” I finish his sentence for him, and his mouth contorts into a disapproving smile as I strip off my shirt so I’m stood only in a black sports bra and the forbidden workout shorts, abs glistening.