He leans closer, his breath grazing my cheek, hot and intimate.“It is not your fear I crave,”he murmurs,hisvoice so soft,it curls around my heart.“It is this.”He hovers,so close I can taste the tension between us. His mouth lingers a breath away from mine.I seethe desireinhis eyes,and I find myself wanting to feel his touch.I ache for it.But Idon’tknow if this is real or if I am just feeling this way because of the curse.
A scream erupts, tearing throughmydream. Roses burst from the shadows, their thorns snapping outward,sharpand glistening red, each dripping blood. The chains seize my wristandsqueezeuntil the mark blazes, agony shooting up my arm. I cry out, my voice ripped from me asLucien’s face blurs, dissolving intopure darkness. Ican’ttell if he is pulling me closer or pushing me away. All I know is pain, fear, and the cold certainty of the disappearance of his passion.
Awakened,Iboltupright in bed,mybreath ragged, sweat cold on my skin. The window shows onlydark. My wrist burns, pulsing in time with my racing heart.
I press my palm against my burning wrist, whispering to myself,“It was only a dream.”
But in the silence, the castle seems to murmur back,“Dreams are where truths dare to speak.”
Ashiver consumes me as I pull the covers close and lie back down.
Chapter seven
The Hall of Mirrors
Annabel
The castle is restless tonight. Its corridors breathe, stretching and sighing as though they have grown tired of the silence, and my dream weighs heavily on my mind. Candles flare without warning, guiding me deeper into its shifting halls. Shadows flicker along the walls, and I sense the wraiths lurking just out of sight, watching with hollow eyes. Every so often, I catch glimpses of Erik moving between doorways or reflected in the glass of a passing window, but when I try to call out to him, or to any of the silent watchers, they do not reply.
I am not choosing this path; I have learned thatmy everymove, the castle chooses for me.
TonightI’vebeenluredintoanarea of the castle I have not seen before.And while I am hesitant, my steps are guided by a curiosity pricklingat the edges ofmyunease.As I approach a large set of double doors, theyyawn open.I pause at its threshold, letting my gaze sweep the space.My breathis shallow.Mirrors fill the chamber, crowding it from floor to ceiling; their tall, slender frames stretch upward, impossibly thin, and their glass seems to ripple like water disturbed by a passing current. Every surfaceglimmerswith distortion, as if each reflection hides a secret waiting to be revealed.
My pulse flutters with anticipation. Ican’tresist the pull, so Imovefarther in, fascinatedby the way themirrors catch the faint candlelight and throw it back in twisted ribbons. Shadows swirl across myvisionas I lean closer, peering into the warped glass. At every angle, my own image is fractured. My eyesareelongated, my mouth bendsstrangely,andthe silhouette behind me flickersin and out of view. The air feels charged, humming gently along my skin, as if the mirrors themselves are alive and watching, eager for me to step deeper into their embrace. Suspense coils in my chest, each reflection promising more than mere glass, as though they might open to something far more dangerousthan I can yet imagine.
I crave more.
I want more.
I need more.
I step closerto the mirrors,andmy own image greets mein the reflection.I am startled by myplainness. Mychestnuthair tumbles wild and loose from itsbraid,stray strands catching the flickering candlelight like threads of gold. My eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, seem larger than before, dark hollows echoing sleepless nights and secrets I dare not voice. My lips, drawn tight with fear, press together as if holding back a trembling confession. For an instant, I hardly recognize this girl; she is a stranger shaped by grief and dread, no longer the one who ran laughing through sunlight or trusted that her every step was truly her own.A chill pricklesalongmy skin as I realize how much has changed—how much I have changed.
But then, the glass stirs. The surface ripples as though a drop of ink has fallen into a moonlit pool. My reflection warps and shimmers, features blurring and reforming, and my heart hammers in my chest. The air thickens, charged with possibility. Anticipationroots me in place. For behind the trembling sheen of glass, somethingstirs,something wondrous yet terrifying waiting to be revealed. The mirrors seem to breathe, eager to show me not just who I am but what I might yet become.
My mirroredself tiltsher head back, exposing her throat in a gesture that is both surrender and invitation. Darkness spills overtheimage, gliding across like velvetatop bare skin as itwrapsher in a shroud of midnight silk. The shadow deepens, seductive and possessive, as a claw traces the delicate curve of her neck,neither threatening nor restraining yet unmistakably claiming her. Herlipspart, trembling with a breathless gasp that pulses between pleasure and anticipation. No fear exists in the reflection,only longing and the electric promise ofhistouch, as shadow and flesh entwine, dissolving the boundary between danger and desire.
I’mcaught between longing and fear, and my breath hitches. A feverish heat blooms across my cheeks and rushes down my neck, the sensation so fierce,it feelslike a secret touch. Shame pulses in me, hot and raw, but beneath its sting,a darker thrill unfurls,velvet and forbidden, heavy as midnight.Desire.
I stumble backward, the movement unsteady, as if the ground has turned molten beneath my feet. My heart drums wild and desperate against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that aches with anticipation.
“You feel it.” His voice, thick as smoke, curls from the shadows behind me and scrapes low and intimate against my skin. His breath is hot, his tone rough and threaded with desire, each syllable a caress.
Ispin around to face him, drawn by the magnetic pull ofhisvoiceand the desire that pulsates through me. My body trembleswithanew and dangerous hunger, hunger Ihaven’texperienced before but mustsate.In this moment, I do feel it.I want him.I need him. And worst of all,he knows it.
The Beast steps into the torchlight, his horns casting cruel crescents along the walls. His coat bristles with stitched brambles,andhis claws flex and scrape against stone. His eyes glow molten gold, a furnace burning in the hollow of night.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I feel it.”
He closes the distance between us, his presence looming.Anirresistible gravitydrawsme in.He turns me to face the mirrorsand presseshis body against my back, heat radiating through the fragile barrier of my nightgown, every inch of him a promise and a warning. I feel the hard curve ofhismuscles asthe shudder ofhisbreathghosts along the curve of my neck. Itis intoxicatingand far too close, but Ican’tmake him step away. His clawed handcircles around my waist and rests against my belly,firm but not cruel, bracing me for what I am about to see.
“Look in the mirror,”he commands, his voice a low growl that vibrates straight through me,half threat, half caress.
I want to refuse. Terror coils in my gut, icy and tight. My chest heaves,anda tremor ripplesthrough me as I stare at my own reflection, dreading what I might see. The glass feels alive, its surface trembling with every shiver of my body. I squeeze my eyes shut for a heartbeat, desperate to avoid whatever truth or horror might be waiting in thewarped, haunted glass. But his handremainssteady at mybelly, grounding me,securing me against him. The warmth of him behind me is inescapable. My heart slams against my ribsinfear and something darker warring in my veins,while his command lingers in the air, demanding surrender. As I slowly open my eyes, the worldsharpens. Every sensation amplifies, as if the mirror might reveal not only who Iambut every secret I have ever tried to bury.
In the mirror,he is not the monstrous silhouette whose presencehas terrified me since I arrived. He is a man, abeautiful man. Theharsh lines of his body are softened, raw and achingly human, his scars trailing like silver riversalong hisskin,glimmeringwith the memory of lost warmth. His face is hollowed by suffering,andshadows pool beneathhiseyes,whichburn withbothlonging andsorrow. Grief is carved deep into his features, but it only heightens the devastating beauty that clings to him—abeauty broken, haunting,and yetirresistible. Each ache and wound on his body tells a story thatcalls tome, and in those ruined planes,I see not only pain but hope, fragile and flickering.
Desire coils low in my belly as I study him. I am captivated, unable to tear my gaze from the tragic grace of his reflection. My fingers reach for the glass, yearning to trace the outline of his cheek, soothe the furrow of his brow,andoffer comfort I did not know I craved to give.
