Page 21 of The Vespertine Treaty

I finally surrendered to the exhaustion. I stripped out of the heavy wedding gown, leaving it in a pile of black velvet on the floor like a shed skin, and pulled on the flimsy grey silk shift he had provided. It was soft, scandalously thin, and smelled faintly of pomegranate and petrichor—the scent of the estate. Ofhim.

I sank into the bed. The silver sheets were cool, swallowing me whole like a drift of snow.

I thought of Caspian.

The memory was immediate and raw—his gold-flecked eyes, the desperate warmth of his hands, the agony on his face when Cain claimed me. The image of his golden falcon, Valor, crushed beneath Rhana's paw burned behind my eyelids like a brand.

A sob escaped my throat, harsh and tearing. It wasn't just sadness; it was the physical ache of a bond that had been severed before it could form, a phantom limb pain where my heart used to be. I buried my face in the cold silk, weeping for the life that was impossible, for the light that had been extinguished.

Poppy nuzzled her soft head against my waist, a silent, heavy comfort in the vast, freezing expanse of the bed.

"Will he always be armoured?"I thought, the question heavy with grief and fear."Always in that black shell, always cold?"

"He has to be,"Poppy answered, her voice trembling."Perhaps, that armour is the only thing holding his insides from pouring out, Oph. I think it’s fear, not power."

I lay there, scratching Poppy’s ear, suspended between reality and exhaustion, unable to truly sleep. The dread of the Dance of Mates—only ten days away—hung over me like a blade. Ten days until I had to synchronise my soul with a monster. Ten days until I had to let him in.

Slowly, the exhaustion dragged me under. Images began to blend, the cold logic of the day giving way to the chaotic, treacherous theatre of my subconscious.

I was back at the Consortium Hall, but the walls were soft, draped in golden light. Caspian was there. He pulled me close, his hands warm and gentle on my waist. He was kissing me, softly, desperately, his lips tasting of honeyed ambrosia andpain. His light was a familiar, comforting presence, a balm to my battered soul. I leaned into him, seeking the sun.

But as his warmth deepened, the air shifted. The sunlight curdled into grey...

Caspian's lips, once warm, suddenly turned to frost against mine. The taste of wine vanished, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of blood. The hands on my waist didn't let go; they hardened, turning into bands of iron that bruised.

I opened my eyes. The gold was gone. The eyes staring back at me were not honey and hope; his pupils dilated, bottomless pools of obsidian, swirling with a violent, silver storm around.

Cain.

The scream died in my throat, smothered by his mouth.

His touch was the same possessive violation from the foyer, his fingers fisting my hair, pulling my head back to expose the arch of my throat. But this time, the kiss was not a cruel performance; it was starvation.

It was consuming, demanding, a silent, terrifying duel I was instantly losing. His mouth was hard, unrelenting, and hot—a searing, abrasive heat that had nothing to do with warmth and everything to do with friction. The scent of pomegranate, petrichor, and the grave filled my lungs, intoxicating and suffocating all at once.

I tried to push him away, but my hands found purchase on his chest, and instead of armour, I felt the rock-hard heat of muscle beneath cold skin. Even though I could not see his features, as if still hidden by those thick metallic layers, I felt in my marrow that he was handsome. Terribly, terribly handsome.

No,I tried to scream, but the sound emerged as a broken, needy whimper.

That sound was his permission. He groaned, a guttural vibration that shook my very bones, and deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with arrogant, claiming strokes. He tasted of power. He tasted of the Void. And gods help me, I didn't want to pull away.

I felt myself drowning in the terrifying, exhilarating strength. My own Life-Wielder light didn't fight him; it surged to meet him, a traitorous moth flying straight into the blue heart of a flame. My body arched off the mattress, seeking the pressure of his weight, my hips grinding instinctively against the phantom hardness of his body.

It was pure ecstasy. It was unadulterated, filthy passion.

My core pulsed, weeping with a sudden, slick heat that had nothing to do with fear. I wanted him to ruin me. I wanted the darkness to swallow me whole. I wanted his hands to leave bruises that would never fade. His stillness and silence felt like everything I have ever searched for. Unadulterated oblivion.

The sensation was a pure, evil thrill that was entirely against my will, yet terrifyingly, undeniably real. I was harmonising with the monster.

I awoke with a sharp, violent gasp, sitting bolt upright in the massive bed.

My skin was slick with sweat, my nightgown clinging to my shivering frame. My heart hammered a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs, echoing the phantom thrust of the dream. I grabbed my mouth, my fingers trembling, still tasting the lingering coldness and the searing heat of that kiss.

I looked down at myself. My chest was heaving, my nipples hard against the silk, my thighs trembling with the aftershocks of a desire I had no right to feel.

I looked at my hands, horrified.

I was dreaming of the enemy. I was craving the very darkness I had sworn to sabotage. My body was a traitor, singing for the touch of the male who had stolen my life.