AELIA REVA
"Already trying to run away?"
The sound of his voice slices through the air, cold and sudden, lodging itself beneath my skin. My fingers curl reflexively at my sides, but I force my body to move, turning slowly and carefully until I'm facing him.
The hallway behind him is steeped in shadow, but he's untouched by it, the sharp lines of his form cut clear against the dark. The fall of his robe is flawless, black fabric laced with strands of silver that catch like fleeting sparks in the half-light. His hands rest loosely at his sides, as if he has nowhere else to be.
It's his eyes that hold me still, two pools of unbroken black, so dark they swallow the light. They don't blink. They don't waver. They fix on me as if the rest of the world has fallen away.
I straighten my spine, pressing my shoulders back, willing my heartbeat to stay buried beneath my ribs. I will not let him see my fear.
"Already trying to run away?" The calm in his voice is unnerving, the words landing like a fact rather than a question.
The air between us feels heavier for it, but I keep my tone light. "You didn't exactly roll out a welcome mat." I let the words fall with a hint of carelessness, even though the taste of copper creeps onto my tongue.
He doesn't answer or move, only watching me with that unblinking stillness. The silence grows until it seems to take up space between us, touching me as surely as a hand might.
I refuse to look away. "You've had your fun," I say, letting my voice cut through the stillness between us. "Now you're going to let me leave."
"That isn't possible." His reply is unhurried, each word measured and absolute with no trace of doubt. The sound of it locks into place like a bolt sliding home.
My jaw tightens. I search his face for some hint of movement, some slip in that calm façade, but it holds, unbroken and unreadable.
"Go back to your room," he says, his tone shifting subtly into command. "Freshen up. One of my servants will be outside to escort you to the dining hall."
My eyes narrow and I tilt my head up in defiance. "And if I refuse?"
His head tilts, just enough to let shadow crawl across his expression. "Then you will come regardless. Whether you eat or not is your choice. Attending is not."
His voice lands with the kind of certainty that leaves no cracks to slip through. It lingers, heavy, threading itself into the air until I can almost feel it against my skin.
He doesn't wait for me to speak, just turns, unhurried, his steps carrying him into the curve of the hall as if the matter is already settled.
Halfway into the dark, his words reach me again low, steady and too close for the distance between us.
"Do not waste yourself on escape. This place will not give you the path you seek."
The words linger long after he's gone, settling over my skin like a mark that refuses to fade.
I shut the door behind me, the latch clicking softly. I look around the room, same window, same seamless walls but then my eyes move across the room to the bed and find something on it.
A dress, laid neatly across the bed as if it has been waiting for me.
I stop at the foot of the mattress, my mind catching on the impossibility.
My gaze drifts back to the door. It's closed, the silence behind it holding steady. But his voice lingers anyway, threading through my thoughts, carrying that quiet warning about escape.
"Do not waste yourself on escape. This place will not give you the path you seek."
I shake my head as if that might force the sound away and cross to the bathroom opposite the window.
The door swings open to a space as cold as the room I woke in, smooth grey stone, polished so fine it almost reflects, fixtures of blackened metal with a faint, silvery sheen. The tub is deep, the counter broad, the towels perfectly folded and lined up as though they've never been touched. It's not warm, not welcoming, but the size of it, the precision, tells me whoever owns this place has more than enough.
My kidnapper seems well off. I scoff internally.
I turn the tap. Water streams out clean and quick, steam curling into the air almost instantly. The soap smells faintly of cedar and something sharper, like winter air.
The water comes hot, almost uncomfortably so at first, but I stay under it until the heat eases the stiffness from my skin.
When I step out, I stare at my reflection in the mirror above the counter. My damp hair clings to my shoulders. I drag a brush through it slowly, smoothing each strand into place.
My hand stills over the mark Ulric gave me. My thumb brushes across it without thinking, and for a moment, my throat tightens in a way I can't quite breathe through.
"I wish you were here," I murmur. The sound comes out low, unsteady. I force it away, lowering the brush and pressing my lips together until the expression on my face is empty again.
Back in the bedroom, the dress waits exactly where I left it. I lift it from the bed, the fabric spilling over my fingers, smooth, heavy, made to cling. Long and black, with a deep neckline that dips lower than it has any right to.
"What a creep," I mutter, fingertips brushing the edge of the V neckline. Still, I pull it on. Of course it fits perfectly.
When I turn toward the door, I notice a pair of black boots by the side if the door. My black boots, the ones I wore when I was with Ulric and got into this mess.
A sigh leaves my mouth as I slip them on, take one slow breath, then square my shoulders.
"You can do this," I tell myself. "Whatever he throws at you, you can take it."
I pull open the door–
"GOOD MORNING, MY LADY!!!"
"AHHHHHH!"
❦︎ To Be Continued ❦︎