Chapter 3: Cinder Annie & The Library of Sass (Her POV)
The light in this place wasn't real. It breathed. Soft, warm, drifting across the ceiling like the glow of a dying ember caught in wind. I lay still for a long moment, listening to the silence. Not temple silence but a living hush like the walls were waiting to see what I would do. I wasn't used to being waited on. My body ached in familiar places as I sat up. Nothing new. Old pain, old ghosts. I swung my legs off the bed and began my morning routine because my body knew the motions even when my mind wasn't ready.
Stretch. Roll shoulders. Neck. Arms. Breathe. Hold. Exhale.
Training had a rhythm, and rhythm meant control. Some mornings, it had been the only control I had. I moved through the warm-up silently, palms brushing the floor, breath steady. Then the exercises came. Muscle work. Balance work. Precision drills burned into me long before I could consent to them.
Push-ups. Squats. Core holds. Shadow strikes. Block-and-counter drills with no opponent but memory.
It felt strange doing it here in a room that pulsed gently with gold veins in the floor watching me. But motion steadied me. By the time I finished, sweat cooled along my spine and my breath had evened. Routine was a shelter. Even here. I washed quickly, not lingering. The bathroom was beautiful in the way divine things often were. Too perfect, too aware of me. The shower adjusted instantly to my preferred temperature. That alone set me on edge. Nothing should know me that well. I avoided the mirror. I always did not wanting to see my runes.
Clothes were next. Predictably, the wardrobe was a shrine to spectacle. Silks, lace, draped fabrics meant to seduce. Not today. I dug until I found something plain enough: fitted black pants, a long-sleeved shirt soft enough to move in. The sleeves pulled almost, but not quite, over the runes on my arms. My hands I couldn't hide. Ahyona's SHITS representative priest's handiwork ran all the way to my fingertips. I tugged the sleeves anyway. Habit.
Then I stepped into the hallway and froze. The mansion had… changed. Last night, it had been onyx and gold, flames trapped in crystal. Now the walls were white stone, clean lines stretching into forever. The air felt colder. Sharper. As if the house itself hadn't made up its mind what to be. Or maybe it was waiting for him to decide. I walked. Rooms unfolded as I passed. A parlor filled with floating candles. A hall of mirrors where my reflection blinked too slow. I ignored that. Libraries. Lounges. A ballroom with a ceiling that rippled like water touched by wind. But no kitchen. My stomach tightened. I hadn't eaten since... I pushed that thought aside.
"Where in the hell is the kitchen?" I muttered. A door immediately swung open beside me. I stared at it. Then sighed. "Of course."
Inside, the kitchen stretched wide and decadent stone counters, warm hearths, shelves lined with jars that rearranged themselves as I entered. But the centerpiece, the shrine. To coffee. An entire altar of it. Machines I didn't recognize. Glass contraptions. A collection of mugs that could stock a small city. Beans labeled in languages I half-recognized. The god of chaos worshiped at only one temple, apparently. Coffee. It almost made me smile. Almost.
I brewed the simplest thing I could find. Strong, dark drip coffee and the scent alone warmed my chest. Real warmth, not this unreal light. The fridge was empty. Obviously. "Greek yogurt and berries," I said softly, because why not try? They appeared. Just like that. Like they had always been there. I patted the fridge awkwardly. "Thank you."
The food was perfect. Predictably. I ate in silence, trying not to wonder if the house was watching. Trying not to think about the fact that this realm bent around its god's emotions. Trying not to think about him rejecting the kiss I'd offered last night. Not the kiss. The performance. I didn't know what to do with that. I didn't know what to expect from this place at all. Was I safe? Was I meant to perform? Was I still property? Did he expect anything today? My fingers tightened around the mug. I didn't know the script here. That frightened me more than anything.
As if summoned by the thought, and of course he would be, the kitchen door swung open. He sauntered in, hair tousled, shirt half-unbuttoned, smugness radiating off him like heat. He leaned against the doorway like he'd been sculpted there, hip cocked, an artfully tousled disaster that should've looked ridiculous but absolutely didn't. "Good morning, Annie darling," he purred.
My heartbeat stuttered once before settling into its old, steady rhythm. Here we go. I sipped my coffee. "Morning."
His head tilted. His smile flickered, just a fragment, because he'd expected resistance, annoyance, or at least a cutting remark. Not simple politeness. Good. Let him wonder. "And did you sleep well?" he asked, strolling closer, lazy and bright like a cat in sunlight.
"Yes, I slept well. Thank you."
His step… actually hitched. One blink. Two. Then his entire expression rearranged itself into a mask of offended disbelief. "You—" he pointed at me, "—slept well?"
"Yes."
"No nightmares? No screaming? No existential dread? You didn't curl dramatically on the edge of the mattress whispering my name in longing?"
"No."
He stared. I waited. Then, dramatically, he inhaled through his nose like the universe's greatest tragedy had befallen him. "Well," he declared hands waving wildly, "I certainly didn't sleep."
Of course he hadn't. He radiated the smug exhaustion of someone who wanted applause for it. I lifted my mug. "Sorry to hear that."
This was apparently the wrong answer. He launched into motion, sweeping across the kitchen until he landed beside the counter, bracing his palms on the edge like a prophet about to deliver a revelation. "Dearest Annie, allow me to recount the harrowing saga of my night."
I set my mug down slowly. Here it comes.
"I was walking, through the celestial plains, magnificent, shimmering, truly radiant, much like myself when I spotted a phoenix."
I swallowed a sigh. "Not just any phoenix. The Phoenix of the Ninth Dawn. A creature of pure flame and passion and, frankly, unimaginably good hair."
I sipped my coffee. He continued. "We locked eyes. A challenge sparked between us. And lo—" he made a dramatic gesture that almost knocked over a jar, "—the beast attempted to STEAL the last drop of divine ambrosia."
"Ambrosia," I repeated flatly.
"Yes, Annie. Ambrosia. A sacred nectar. Hard to come by. Much like respect in this household."
I arched a brow. "You're being dramatic."
"It was a duel for the ages," he insisted, ignoring me. "Flames everywhere. Lightning. Screaming mortals throwing themselves out of the way—"
"There are no mortals in your realm," I cut in.
He froze midsentence. Then, very calmly, he put a hand to his chest, inhaled sharply, and declared: "How dare you."
I took another sip. "You stayed up doing absolutely nothing."
He reeled back like I'd stabbed him. "I! What! Annie— darling, listen... my stories are art."
"They're lies."
"ART."
"Lies."
He gasped. Loudly. Offended. Theatrical. "You are no fun at all."
I raised my cup in salute. "I try."
He stared at me for a long moment, expression shifting in slow succession: affront → fascination → something far warmer than it should've been. His eyes dipped to my mug. "You made coffee without me."
"You were sleeping."
"I wasn't sleeping, I was battling the Phoenix of the Ninth Dawn—"
"Right."
"—and a band of time-traveling sorcerers—"
"Uh-huh."
"—and possibly an eldritch sea monster—"
"Sure."
He narrowed his eyes. "You're mocking me."
"Yes."
He squinted harder. Then, gods help me, he grinned. Like my refusal to play along was a gift he hadn't known he wanted. I rinsed my spoon, set it gently in the sink, and wiped the counter clean. It was something to do with my hands. He watched me like I was performing a magic trick.
"So…" I said finally, turning toward him, "what am I supposed to do today?"
He lit up instantly. Of course he did. A question, any question, was an opening. A crack in the calm he kept trying to pry apart. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his ankles, wearing the smirk of a man who already thought he'd won. "What do you want to do, Annie Doll?"
The nickname slid from his tongue. Designed to annoy me. Designed to get a reaction. I gave him nothing. But I hesitated. Barely. A pause the length of a breath. It was more than enough. His grin sharpened. His eyes gleamed. He bounced off the counter like a child who had just spotted a shiny new toy. "Oh! Annie, I know exactly what you should do!" Here it comes. His hands flew up, dramatizing the idea before he even spoke it. "You, my darling, should dress in rags and scrub the floors like Cinderella." He clapped once, delighted with himself. "Cinder Annie."
He was thrilled. Practically vibrating. He waited for me to groan. To roll my eyes. To tell him to go to hell. I did none of those things. I turned to him and said, perfectly calm: "Alright. Bring me a bucket and a brush."
His smirk froze. I watched the moment confusion slammed into him like a wall. "…Wait. What?"
"If that's what you want, I'll do it."
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. I'd seen lesser men break under far smaller shocks. He took a step toward me, pointing an accusing finger at my face. "Are you... are you messing with me?"
"No." I shrugged. "You suggested a chore. I agreed."
He didn't handle that well. He reeled back dramatically, one hand clutched over his heart, the other flung to the side as if begging the heavens for strength. "You monster!" he declared. "You absolute menace! Turning my own joke against me!"
"I wasn't trying to—"
"Silence!" he barked, still entirely ridiculous. "I am wounded. Forever changed. My very essence, shattered."
I stared at him flatly. "So… what you're saying is, you didn't actually want me to clean."
He dropped the theatrics instantly, scowling like an offended cat. "Obviously not. What do you take me for?"
I tilted my head. "You just said—"
"And you," he cut in, pointing again, "are entirely too literal."
I fought the faintest twitch at the corner of my mouth. Not a smile. Just pressure. A muscle remembering how. He noticed. Of course he did. His eyes widened like he'd spotted a star being born. "Ohhh," he breathed, delighted, "was that a smile?"
"It was not."
"It was something."
"It was nothing."
"It was the barest beginning of joy."
"Absolutely not."
He placed a hand on the counter beside me and leaned in, smile slow and dangerous. "I'll get you to laugh eventually, Annie."
"You won't."
"I will."
"You won't."
He grinned. "And this—" he gestured to me, the room, the conversation, "—is why. You bend the joke until it breaks and snaps back at me. Magnificent. Maddening."
I crossed my arms. "I thought I was supposed to belong to you. Isn't it your job to tell me what to do?"
He stilled. Just for a moment. Then his smile curved again, sharper, softer. "Oh, Annie," he murmured, voice dipping into something silkier than before. "I don't tell you what to do. I provide… opportunities."
"And if I don't take them?"
His grin widened. "Then I make them more interesting."
I sighed through my nose, turning toward the hallway. "That sounds exhausting."
"It is, but incredibly rewarding."
I rubbed my temple with two fingers. "I'm going back to my room."
"Take your rags with you, darling!" he called after me. "We start scrubbing at noon!"
I didn't dignify that with a response. But I heard him behind me, a low, quiet chuckle he probably didn't mean me to catch. Somehow, was more dangerous than all his dramatics. I slipped back into my room and eased the door shut with a soft click. For a moment, I just stood there, letting my gaze roam across the impossible beauty surrounding me. Velvet drapes. Marble carved like starlight. A bed that looked like it swallowed queens whole. Chaos wrapped in decadence.
I needed something that made sense. Something that belonged to me, not to him. Silence. Stillness. A choice that wasn't dictated by anyone else's desire. Books had always been safe. They didn't flirt. They didn't maneuver. They didn't talk in circles until my emotions tied themselves into knots. But did this ridiculous house even have a library? I stepped back into the hall. The walls had changed again, white stone, pristine, almost surgical. A different kind of chaos. A quiet one. As if the house couldn't decide what it wanted to be around me.
"Would you take me to the library?" I asked aloud, feeling ridiculous. For a moment: silence. Then, click. A door opened directly in front of me. I blinked. "Of course."
The house listened. Useful. Creepy. Predictable, in its own unpredictable way. I stepped inside, and the air shifted. The library was breathtaking. Shelves soared toward a ceiling lost in shadow. Chandeliers floated overhead, crystals shifting in slow kaleidoscopic light. Entire galaxies rippled outside the windows, swirling in impossible colors. Books lined every wall, leather, parchment, shimmering metals, some faintly glowing as if alive. For a moment, all I could do was stand there. I moved forward, fingers brushing the spines. They felt warm. Quiet. Waiting.
"Thank you," I murmured to the empty room. It felt right to say it. Even if no one answered. Then it hit me. Choice. Row after row, thousands of them. Stories I could pick simply because I wanted them. My throat tightened unexpectedly. I hadn't chosen anything for myself in… decades? Longer? My life had been assignments, rituals, performances. Choice was foreign. Almost frightening. I cleared my throat. "A romantic fantasy book?"
Three books dropped onto the nearest table with soft thuds, stacked neatly. The top one made me stop. The Duke's Sinful Dagger by Callista Wildfire. I huffed through my nose. "I've read this one," I told the room softly. "It was excellent."
A strange comfort warmed my ribs. Maybe the house understood. Or maybe its magic simply mirrored his taste. I gathered the other two books under my arm and turned to go. Naturally, peace was too much to hope for. Of course the house probably told him I was awake. Or maybe he was watching through reflective surfaces. Or maybe gods simply appeared wherever it was most inconvenient. Either way, I had the distinct, sinking feeling I was no longer alone.