Page 30 of Burning Her Beautiful
Behind me, the bedclothes rustle. I stiffen, expecting a sleepy murmur. Instead Varok’s deep voice sounds fully awake, threaded with concern. “Come back to the warmth, Iliana. The glass is colder than you pretend.”
I keep my gaze ontheclouds. “If I grow too comfortable, I might forget what waits beyond this chamber.”
Footsteps pad across the carpet, unhurried. He stops at my side but maintains a respectful distance, perhaps sensing the turmoil churning between my ribs. The first rays of sunlight climb his chest, igniting runes that slept moments ago.
“I never intended to fence you in,” he says, tone gentler than dawn.
“I know,” I answer, exhaling. “Yet captivity can hide in comfort. Last night—” Words snag on the intimacy still glowing beneath my skin. “Last night blurred lines.”
His reflection meets mine in the glass. “Lines can be redrawn.” He tries for calm, but a flicker of uncertainty clouds his eyes. Varok, who stands unflinching before gods and kings, fears this bruise of doubt.
I turn, leaning against the windowsill. “I need space—time to remember who I am when I’m not claimed bythestorm.”
He nods slowly. “Then space you shall have. My chamber doors remain open when you wish them, not before.”
Relief twines with disappointment—strange. I slip past him, collecting the folded cloak on a chair. “There is work to finish. The kitchens wake soon, and Lys will expect me.”
He catches my wrist—not hard, not demanding, simply anchoring. Heat travels from his palm up my arm. “You are more than work to me.”
“I can only believe that when our actions prove it outside these walls.” I ease free, offering a tentative smile that wobbles at one corner. “Give me the day.”
“Take the day,” he responds. “Tonight we plan Yalira’s proof. Tomorrow we unseat Sarivya.”
“And after?”
His mouth curves. “After we find room to breathe.”
I nod and retreat to the bathing room. A sluice of hot water washes away dried sweat, lipstick smears, and a scattering of petals. The marks on my hips remain, finger-shaped violets rising beneath the steam. I stare at them, then drag a sponge gently across, refusing either shame or gloating pride. They simply exist—evidence of choices I own. When I step from the pool, I dress in a plain russet tunic and leggings suited for traversing service corridors.
Varok waitsin thestudy, hair now knotted, horns polished toadeep shine, a dark jade coat hugging his torso. The transformation from lover to warlord steals my breath. He offers a leather folio.
“Garrik mapped guard rotations on these scrolls,” he says. “Take what you need. I trust your discretion.”
“You trust quickly.”
“I trust precisely.” His eyes warm. “Return safely.”
I press two fingers to his chest—just above the sparking rune—and slip into the hallway.
The palace teemswith purpose by the fourth bell. Brass gongs reverberate through arches, calling servants to tasks and nobles to breakfast salons. I skirt painted colonnades, dipping into narrow passages where demon architects never imagined aninfiltrator might tread. Sael waits near the laundry cylinders, a basket balanced on her hip, humming the first code measure. She breaks off when she sees me, cheeks dimpling.
“Jonn forged these,” she whispers, producing a bundle of crude iron keys. “One fits every door on the service levels.” She glows with pride as I tuck the bundle beneath my belt.
“Excellent. Tell him his work may free more than hinges.”
We exchange the next phrase of encoded hum, settling on meeting points and contingencies. I cannot linger. Gossip slithers fast; if a demon steward glimpses too many humans grouped together, questions will sprout. I leave Sael distributing linens, her mismatched eyes alight withamission.
I make my way toward the western kitchens, where Lys chops roots with the fury of a commander hacking through enemy lines. The moment she notices me, she signals another scullion to stall the overseer, then sweeps me into a walk-in pantry heavy with spice. The door swings shut behind us, muffling the clatter of pots.
“You’re flushed,” she observes, leaning against a stack of barley sacks.
“Fast corridors,” I say, wipingthesweat from my brow.
“Fast corridors and demon lovers, perhaps?” Her grin teases, but concern lines her brow. “Word drifted to the scullery rats: you left the spire after sunrise wearing his robe.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Not his robe.” A lie; but she deserves truth. I breathe once. “Yes, his robe. It’s complicated.”
Her gaze softens, then turns practical. “He hurt you?”
