Page 14 of Burning Her Beautiful
I lean palms on marble basin, meet my own gaze. “You are master, not puppet,” I whisper. The reflection’s eyes flicker crimson, disagreeing.
A knock. Servant announces Iliana waits in vestibule. My stomach tightens. I turn, stride out, the echo of boots reverberating like war drums.
She stands beneath a crystal chandelier. Emerald gown has been replaced by deeper jade velvet that cups breasts in sculpted lines, sleeves sheer, throat bare. A gold chain drapes from ear to collarbone, holding a small emerald pendant that rests between full curves. Her hair sweeps forward in soft waves, stray strands framing cheeks warmed by candlelight. The shard of crystal she stole glints at the end of her braid. She looks every inch a dangerous gift.
Conversation hushes among staff when I approach. They retreat instinctively. Iliana’s gaze collides with mine, holding steady despite nerves sparking under porcelain skin.
“My lord,” she says, dipping slight curtsy. Her voice carries that blend of respect and challenge only she can wield.
I offer my arm. She takes it, fingers resting on black dragon-scale sleeve. Heat travels through cloth.
As we walk the corridor toward the transport lift, a junior mage scurries past, papers spilling. I seize him by collar before he collides with Iliana. “Mind your steps,” I snap. Chaos arcs through fingers, and the worker pales. He bows, stammers apology, flees.
Iliana watches entire exchange, brow knitting. “You terrorize so easily,” she murmurs when we resume.
“Fear oils the gears of duty.”
“Yet you spared me fear moments ago.”
I glance down at her hand on my arm. “Your fear would poison tonight’s bloom.”
She considers, then nods. “And yours?”
The question halts me mid-stride. Panic? No. Dread? Possibly. Fascination swallows both. I lead her into the lift cage wrought of gold filigree. Wind whistles through lattice as the mechanism lowers toward Sarivya’s tier.
“Tonight I fear only one outcome,” I admit in hush, “that I fail to shield you.”
She inhales and steps closer in the cramped space, her side pressed to mine. “Then do not fail.”
A command wrapped in trust. The gilded cage stops, doors gliding open to reveal a corridor carved of rose quartz veined with silver. Music drifts from distant ballroom, strings and low drum. Perfumed air laced with ivory flowers washes over us. We step out, heads bent together like conspirators.
“Remember,” I whisper, “hum when the vines stir.”
“And you?” she asks.
“I will be listening.”
Sarivya’s ballroom swells with demons draped in silks the shade of bruises and gemstones that flash wicked under chandelier blaze. The matron herself greets us at arched portal—violet hair cascades down her bare back, horns polished, lavender skin dusted with gold powder. She bows to me, yet her eyes flick toward Iliana with such acidic curiosity I fear velvet will scorch.
“Dominus Varok, honored that you grace my modest gathering,” she purrs. “And this must be your… project.”
I angle my body subtly, placing myself between their gazes. “Consort,” I correct, voice silk over steel. “Iliana.”
Whispers ripple outward like dropping coals in snow. Sarivya’s lips tighten, but she recovers with practiced laughter. “How delightful. Please, your Majesty has taken seat in the upper gallery. You must join him when ready.”
She glides away. I sense Iliana’s breath quicken. I cover her hand with mine, squeeze. “I have you,” I say under breath. She nods, eyes steady but bright.
We cross marble floor patterned in swirling malachite. Demons step aside, curiosity electrifying the air. I spy humans in pearl collars—Sarivya’s pawns—clustered near fountain. Their eyes hold a dull resignation I recognize from past raids. Iliana notices too, jaw tensing.
“Later,” I promise. “First the vines.”
I position her at the center of a raised dais that overlooks the garden doors. Music hushes as I ascend three steps to address the crowd. My voice carries, calm yet commanding.
“Sarivya requests a demonstration,” I announce, sliding blade free of scabbard. Gasps. I twist the knife so chandeliers glint along edge, then lower it, point down, driving tip into marble at Iliana’s feet. Sparks spray but stone holds.
“Behold,” I say, turning palm outward. Chaos floods veins, roaring toward sigils carved hours past. I picture vines thickening, sap pulsing. Beneath garden soil roots wake, twisting. Leaves shiver.
Doors burst open. Guests cry out as emerald flood pours into ballroom, vines racing up columns, spiraling around crystal chandeliers. Blooms explode, petals wide as fans, spilling golden pollen that drifts like stardust. Yet no vine touches a soul; they weave perfect arches overhead. The air smells of crushed cedar and honey.
