Page 11 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Understood.”
We repeat the exercise thrice, each time surer. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades, but exhilaration dulls fatigue. Finally he steps away, breathing faintly heavier. “Enough. You will bruise the channel if pressed further.”
I nod, chest heaving. “Your power leaves aftertaste of metal,” I say, tasting copper on tongue.
“Chaos bites.” He tilts head, studying me. “How do you feel?”
“Alive.” The word slips out. His expression softens, hunger and relief mingling.
A tapping echoes on the door. Varok lifts his chin, murmurs for entry. The servant returns, face pale, hands trembling around a gilt tray bearing a sealed scroll. “From Matron Sarivya, Dominus,” she whispers.
He takes the scroll, dismisses the servant. Breaks wax with thumb. His eyes scan lines, silver darkening to steel. He hands me the letter. I read.
Matron Sarivya requests the pleasure of my public attendance at her soirée this evening in celebration of Varok’s … “developing pursuits.” She demands I perform demonstration of my “new-found gift” at midnight. The wording drips venom. If we refuse, rumors will brand my power fiction.
I lower the scroll. Varok’s lips press thin. “She forces our hand sooner than expected.”
“Accept,” I say. “Let the vines bloom at her fête instead. Turn her trap into stage.”
His surprise lasts barely a breath before admiration replaces it. “A bold countermove.”
I hand the scroll back. “Fear thrives in darkness. Drown her party in wild beauty.” I swallow nerves. “I will play my part.”
“You risk exposure.” His voice roughens.
“As do you.” I lift shoulders. “We win or fall together.”
Heat flares in his eyes. He steps closer, reaching to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. The touch burns despite gentleness. “Together,” he echoes.
For an instant the world narrows to that word, to the closeness of his breath and the faint tremor I sense beneath his calm. I breathe him in—smoke, cedar, steel—and the embers of fascination ignite into something brighter, dangerous yet undeniable.
He steps back slowly, knuckles brushing my jaw in farewell. “Rest before dusk. Wear emerald; it will echo the vines.” Heturns, cloak catching lamplight, and pauses by the door. “And Iliana…”
“Yes?”
“The moment you feel my power weave through you at midnight, let your voice rise. Hum that melody. It will guide the storm.”
The door closes. I draw a steadying breath, visions of blooming terraces unfurling in my mind—vines spilling over balconies, blossoms exploding under starfire, nobles gasping as the world rearranges itself at our feet. My heart pounds with dread, hope, and a thrill that has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the demon who dares to remake his kingdom with a single mortal standing at his side.
I press my fingers to the shard tucked in my braid, feel it warm against skin, and whisper to the still air, “Let the storm come.”
5
VAROK
The eastern ramparts glow slate blue beneath approaching dawn when I finish sealing the final vine-sigils into the garden stone. Power thrums at my fingertips, electric as fresh lightning. Each carved spiral waits like a coiled serpent eager to spring, yet the runes lie dormant for now, hidden beneath beds of winter-dull ivy so no curious matron will notice the trap.
A pebble skitters behind me. Garrik stands near the fountain, crimson skin darkened further by shadow. Wind ripples his short cloak, exposing the twin daggers strapped across his back. He bows, yet the gesture holds no softness. Garrik’s loyalty never blunts his blade’s edge.
“Per your command, Dominus,” he says, voice low, “the southern balcony rail is reinforced with vented quartz. Guests may press against it without risk of pitching into cloud.”
“Good.” I flex my hand, letting tingles ebb. “The vines?”
“Watered, trimmed, parted just enough to reward your coaxing.” A faint smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “They will climb fast once you wake them.”
His eyes search mine, picking at unease I no longer hide. Garrik knows me too well. “The human?” he asks.
“Resting. Preparing.” Rest is a mercy I granted Iliana only hours ago. Even now her absence grates. I clamp the thought before it bleeds into expression.
