Caldan's head snapped to the side, a low grunt escaping him. His hand went to his jaw, his fingers tracing the bruise already forming. Arin braced herself for his retaliation, for the fury she was certain would erupt.
But instead, a slow, strained laugh rumbled from his chest, a sound tinged with blood. He turned his head back, his eyes gleaming with a strange, dark amusement. "There she is," he murmured, his voice laced with triumph. "I knew you were in there, little rat. All teeth and claws."
Arin stared at him, her chest heaving, a tremor running through her. She was furious, humiliated by her own impulsive act, but also… strangely exhilarated. He hadn't struck back. He had laughed.
She stormed to the broken window again, her back to him, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The first sliver of the sun's fiery disk was just breaching the horizon, painting the sky in fiery oranges and deep purples. It cast long, distorted shadows across the desolate landscape of Drakoryth, the obsidian towers looking like jagged teeth against the dawn.
"You're vile," Arin said, her voice raw, laced with disgust. "You find amusement in my anger, in my desperation. What kind of monster are you?"
He followed, his steps silent despite the creak of stone beneath his boots. He stopped just behind her, his presence a burning heat at her back. She could feel his breath on her hair, the low rumble of his voice echoing in her bones.
"The kind that thrives in the dark, little rat," he murmured, his voice dangerously close to her ear. "The kind that sees the fire in you and recognizes a kindred spirit." He reached out, his hand brushing against her arm, his touch light, almost hesitant, yet it sent a shiver through her.
Arin flinched away, but he didn't release her. Instead, his fingers curled around her wrist, his thumb gently stroking the pulse point. A slow heat spread through her veins, warring with the icy grip of fear. She tried to pull away, but he held her firm, his grip surprisingly strong, yet not forceful enough to truly hurt. It was a test, she knew. A tempting, dangerous test.
He pinned her to the cold, stone wall, his body pressing against hers, trapping her between him and the rough rock. His good arm was braced beside her head, his fingers splayed against the stone, caging her. She could feel the thrum of his heartbeat, strong and steady against her own frantic rhythm. His injured side was pressed against her hip, and she felt a fresh wave of warmth, a slow seep of blood against her tunic.
"You're vile," she repeated, her voice a whisper, lacking its earlier bite. Her gaze was locked with his, unable to tear away. She saw a flicker of something in his storm-colored eyes—hunger, raw and untamed.
"And yet you look at me like you want to burn," Caldan countered, his voice a low, seductive growl that sent shivers down her spine. His head lowered, slowly, inexorably, his eyes never leaving hers. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle scent of smoke and blood and something distinctly male.
His lips were almost on hers, the soft brush of his breath stirring the fine hairs on her face. Her own breath hitched in her throat, her mind screaming warnings, her body betraying her with a traitorous tremor. Every instinct told her to shove him away, to fight, to scream. But her muscles refused to obey. She was caught, suspended in a dangerous moment, poised on the edge of a precipice.
She shoved back, a sudden, desperate surge of defiance. But she didn't step away. She couldn't. The desire, the hatred, the confusion, churned within her, a volatile cocktail of emotions. His gaze intensified, a knowing smirk playing on his bloodied lips. He knew. He knew she was drawn to the fire, even as she recoiled from the burn.
Then, with a sudden, desperate surge of will, born of fury and a perverse curiosity, Arin reached up. Her hands closed around his collar, gripping the velvet tightly, and she pulled. Hard.
Her mouth crashed against his.
It was not a kiss of love, not forgiveness, not even tenderness. It was a war, fought with mouths and gasps, a desperate clash of wills. His lips were rough against hers, tasting of blood and sweat and something wild and untamed. Her teeth met his, a sharp, bruising contact. She bit, a fierce, primal need to inflict pain, to mark him, to claim some small victory in this brutal exchange.
He responded with a low growl, his mouth moving against hers with a raw hunger that matched her own. His tongue, a hot, invading force, tangled with hers, exploring, conquering. She could taste the coppery tang of his blood, mingling with the metallic taste of her own anger. His hands, still braced against the stone, slid down, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against his body.
Her fingers clutched at his collar, knotting in the fabric, pulling him closer, even as every fiber of her being screamed at her to push him away. The kiss was fire and fury, sharp with teeth, hot with a reckless, dangerous desire. His blood was on her hands, staining her skin, a testament to the violence that had brought them to this moment. Her hate was in his mouth, a bitter poison that he seemed to devour, to relish.
Their bodies pressed together, a tangle of limbs, of ragged breaths and desperate movements. Clothes were half-on, half-off, never quite surrendered, a symbol of the war raging within them, of the boundaries neither was truly willing to cross, yet both desperate to test. She felt the hard line of his chest against her own, the solid thrum of his heart, the heat of his skin against hers.
It was too much. Too raw. Too real.
Arin pulled away first, abruptly, tearing her mouth from his with a gasp. Her chest heaved, her lips tingling and bruised, tasting of blood and fear and a desperate, dangerous hunger. She stared at him, furious, shaken to her core, her eyes wide with a mixture of rage and something she couldn't name.
"Touch me again," Arin rasped, her voice trembling with emotion, "and I'll gut you."
Caldan's lips curled, a slow, bloodied smirk. His eyes, dark and knowing, held hers. "We both know," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive whisper, "you're better with blades than promises."
The unspoken challenge hung in the air, thick and volatile. Arin's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the silence. Just as she was about to retort, to lash out with another barbed word, the sudden, jarring clang of metal boots echoed from the stone steps leading up to the observatory chamber. Shouts, muffled at first, then growing louder, more frantic, rose from below.
"Prince Caldan! Your Highness!" a distant voice bellowed, laced with alarm.
Caldan stiffened, his smirk vanishing, replaced by a grim set to his jaw. His gaze flicked towards the heavy, ornate door that led to the winding staircase, the only visible exit from the chamber. A deep furrow appeared between his brows. "No," he muttered, his voice low, urgent. "No one should know we're here. Not yet."
Arin heard it too—multiple voices now, authoritative, demanding, closer. She could distinguish the heavy tread of armored guards, the rustle of expensive fabrics. Royal whispers. A cold dread coiled in her stomach. They were trapped.
Then, a voice cut through the growing din, sharp as a dagger's edge, carrying an undeniable weight of authority. It was a woman's voice, imperious and laced with a fierce, possessive concern.
"Get out of my way! That is my son!"
The voice sent a shiver down Arin's spine. It was the Queen, she realized with a jolt. Queen Armyra. The ice-cold woman who ruled the court with an iron fist cloaked in velvet. Arin knew her by reputation, a general in skirts, whose spies were everywhere, even in the very air one breathed.
Caldan cursed under his breath, a low, frustrated sound. He took a hasty step away from Arin, though the few inches he gained felt meaningless. Too late. The heavy door groaned on its ancient hinges. It slammed open with a resounding thud that rattled the entire chamber.
Queen Armyra swept into the room first, a storm in crimson velvet and shimmering silver embroidery. Her silver hair, coiled in an intricate braid atop her head, caught the faint dawn light. Her face, usually a mask of serene composure, was etched with a rare anxiety, though her gaze was already sharp, assessing the wreckage around her. She was flanked by an armed escort, their polished armor gleaming, and three other figures whose faces Arin didn't recognize, but whose expensive silks and arrogant bearing spoke of high birth.
Behind the Queen glided a woman with a deceptively gentle face and fiery red hair, her silk gown rustling like a snake through dry leaves. She moved with an unsettling grace, her eyes, dark and piercing, already taking in every detail. Arin knew this one by the whispers of the servants: Lady Irevya, the serpent in silk.