Page 19 of Stolen
No clinking glasses or shouted orders.
No sharp whistles or wandering hands.
Only stillness.
Only him.
He calls himself Alaric.
His voice came to me first. Low and velvet-wrapped, threading through the shadows of my mind like a lullaby meant for monsters.
Now it’s like I can feel his presence before I see him.
The hum of him.
Like a second heartbeat that isn’t mine.
When my eyes flutter open, I’m lying on a bed that looks carved from obsidian and starlight.
My clothes are gone. Not in a threatening way. Like they just wentpoof.
Or maybe replaced is a better word.
A silk sheet has been draped over me, fine and pale, like moonlight woven into fabric.
There he is. Standing at the foot of the bed.
Waiting for something. I don’t know what.
Maybe he’s waiting for me?
But no, that’s ridiculous. I’m nothing, just a nobody, and he,well, he’s certainly not nothing.
“You appear calm despite everything that’s happened,” Alaric says, voice dark with satisfaction.
Pride, maybe?
He lifts a hand, and with a casual flick of his fingers, a dress appears.
It unfurls mid-air. Black silk, soft and luminous, like it was pulled from the dreams of a fairytale queen.
He steps forward and lays it on the bed beside me, his gaze trailing over my body with no shame, no hesitation.
Like he’s memorizing me for some sacred purpose.
I pull the sheet tighter around myself, heart thudding.
“Wear this,” he says, voice low and firm, holding out the same silk dress he conjured earlier—out of thin air.
It’s not really a suggestion.
Not even close.
I get the distinct impression Alaric is used to being obeyed without hesitation.
Kings and CEOs have that tone.
Authoritative, absolute.
