Page 3 of Burning Her Beautiful
She hesitates only a breath before lifting it. The black wine glints garnet when torchlight kisses its surface. She sips, grimaces at the strength, but keeps her eyes on mine. Molten respect stirs in my chest.
“You will rest here until the solstice,” I say. “Eat, drink, bathe. I want you healthy. Oltyx prefers fresh offerings.”
Her fingers tighten on the cup. “You could carve out any heart. Why mine?”
Because I saw eternity in your eyes. Because you stood unbroken when demons bowed. Because the void inside me howled the moment your spirit brushed against it and decided you were its reflection. I cannot say those truths, cannot even admit them to myself.
Instead I walk to the balcony threshold and brace my palms on the cool stone rail. Lightning forks in the distance, illuminating an ocean of storm clouds below the floating landmass. The charge thrums through my bones and blurs my pulse into something primal.
“Because,” I answer at length, “you interest me. Few things do.”
Silence stretches. Footsteps ghost across polished stone. She stops an arm’s length behind me, emboldened, foolish. “Interest,” she repeats, voice softer, “is not reason enough to condemn a life.”
I turn. We stand eye to eye despite my height, because she refuses to cower. Wind whips inside, carrying her scent. My control frays. I could crush the world with a single thought, yet one mortal woman undoes me with nothing but a look.
“I require no reason,” I murmur. “I am Varok.”
Her lips part as if to argue, yet no words emerge. In that fragile moment I see fear flicker, but beneath it glows something fiercer: a vow that if she dies, she will do so on her own terms. The realization slices through me, wickedly appealing.
“Sleep,” I command. “We begin preparations at dawn.”
She lifts her chin. “And if I refuse?”
My blood warms almost pleasantly. “Then we discover exactly how firm your resolve is.” I gesture. Invisible force guides her toward a silken pallet near the hearth. She resists a moment, then allows the magic to shepherd her, unwilling to reveal strain. When she lowers herself to the cushions, I release the spell.
“Comfortable?” I ask.
“Caged birds rarely complain about the softness of their perch.” Her gaze flicks up, daring.
Heat coils low in my belly. I step closer, crouching until our faces align. The firelight paints gold across the curves of her cheek, the proud bow of her mouth. I lower my voice to a rumble only she can hear. “No cage can hold a storm, Iliana. You should worry not for the bars, but for the one who commands thunder itself.”
Her breath hitches. For that heartbeat we share the same inhale, the same tremulous pause. I rise abruptly, turning away before I do something reckless—like drag her against me and taste whether her defiance is as sweet on my tongue as it sounds in my ears.
At the door I pause, letting shadows hide the tumult churning inside. “Rest and sleep after. I will have food delivered so you can have strength for tomorrow,” I repeat, softer. “Tomorrow the court will feast its eyes upon you, and I require you dazzling.”
I shut the door behind me. The sigils flare, locking her inside.
In the corridor, thunder crashes so loudly the walls quiver. For the first time in centuries, I feel unsteady. Obsession is unbecoming for a mage of my rank. Attachment invites ruin. Yet even as I walk away, every particle of magic in my blood leans back toward that chamber.
Four nights until the solstice. Four nights to master this unholy craving or let it master me.
I suspect mastery is already lost.
The rune on my chest burns, a warning or a promise—I cannot tell which—while Iliana’s emerald eyes follow me in memory all the way to my private tower, bright as a blade poised beneath a throat.
And I know, with sudden savage certainty, that I have not selected a sacrifice. I have claimed a storm.
2
ILIANA
The door thuds shut behind Varok, and the sigil embedded in its bronze surface dulls from ruby to ash gray. Only then do my knees weaken. I ease onto the pile of silk cushions near the hearth, palms flat on either side of my hips, breath rushing in great, ragged pulls that taste of clove smoke and fading thunder.
The chamber remains hushed except for the crackle of resinous wood on the grate. No guards watch from the threshold, no shackles weight my limbs, yet chains linger in the mind far longer than iron dares. I tighten my fingers against the cushion’s brocade, chase each tremor back into the marrow where fear hides. He left me unbound because he believes walls and sigils suffice. Perhaps he is right. Still, each curved line of chalk and shimmering rune reminds me that in this floating citadel ruled by monsters, stone itself takes orders.
I inhale until my ribs ache, then split the breath with a low hum. Three notes. Mother taught me the tune when I was five summers old, told me its rhythm would steady plow horses during planting. Tonight it steadies me. On the exhale the memory of her laugh wraps around my shoulders, warm despite the years.
I rise and drift to the balcony. Beyond the archway, slate clouds churn beneath Galmoleth’s rocky crust. Lightning veins the distance, illuminating pillars of basalt that spear upward from the lower continent like the teeth of some colossal leviathan. The drop must scale thousands of feet before storm vapor swallows you whole. One careless lean and gravity will claim a quicker end than any demon knife.
