Page 35 of A Storm of Fire and Ash

The walk back to the castle felt longer than it should have.

The sun had set completely by the time I passed through the gates, the torchlight flickered along the stone path like watchful eyes.

My hood stayed up, hiding me from the guards’ curious glances.

No one questioned me—likely because no one cared—but my heart was still pounding, not from fear, but from the shadow that had followed me back.

Or maybe it had never left.

The magic I’d felt behind the ruined cottage still clung to my skin like a second cloak.

It wasn’t Fae magic—not like mine. It had been colder.

Older. Something that knew how to watch without being seen.

No matter how many times I shook the thought, it wouldn’t leave.

Someone had been there. Watching me. Watching us.

And they didn’t want me to know who they were.

By the time I reached my chambers, my legs ached, and my mind buzzed with too many questions. I just wanted to sleep. Just one hour where I wasn’t unraveling inside.

I bit into the peach I stole from the kitchen, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

And stopped.

My breath caught, and my peach fell on the floor with a thud.

Zayn stood in the center of the room—dripping wet, barefoot, and wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. His back was to me at first, his sculpted shoulders slick with water. His broad muscles shifted beneath inked skin like armor forged from shadow and fire.

Gods help me, I couldn’t stop staring.

It wasn’t just a tattoo. It was a marking, sprawling across his entire back, etched in deep black ink.

Dark, fluid designs—bold swirls and jagged curves that looked like they’d been carved by wind and storm.

The lines started wide at his shoulders, strong and clean, wrapping inward, spiraling across muscle and spine.

The designs weren’t delicate. They were heavy, purposeful—bold lines made for a man who didn’t bend.

Zayn turned. Some of the inked swirls stretched down along his sides, disappearing beneath the band of his towel, while others rose up the column of his neck in thick, angular arcs.

It was raw. Fierce. Masculine.

Like him.

“Fuuuuuck me.”

My jaw nearly hit the floor.

One brow raised, he asked, “What was that, Peach?” His voice was low and deep as a cruel smile twisted on his perfect face. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

I cleared my throat, “Oh, um… nothing. That was supposed to be in my head.”

Gods, what is wrong with you?! I mentally slapped myself. I can’t believe I just said that out loud.

“Thought you’d be with the prince. Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” He said casually, as if he wasn’t half-naked and gleaming like a damn sculpture.

His damp, silver hair was pushed back, a single drop sliding down the line of his neck, trailing over his chest before disappearing beneath the towel. His abs flexed slightly as he shifted his stance, and the corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.

“I would’ve dressed,” he said with a smirk, “but I wasn’t expecting company.”

I barely managed to shut the door behind me.

Water gleamed on every chiseled muscle. His tan skin caught the light from the hearth in gold and shadow, outlining every ridge of his abdomen, every sculpted line down to the deep ‘V’ disappearing under that damned towel.

I was exhausted. And now I was aching too, but not from fatigue. I blinked, trying to remember how to form words. “You’re… in my room.”

Zayn turned slightly and chuckled as his brow arched. “In case you forgot, this is my room.”

My lips parted to argue—but then I remembered that this was his room. I was simply just staying in it while he was gone.

Before I could respond, he turned his back to me, muscles rippling, as he dropped his towel. My breath audibly hitched.

I froze.

His body was carved like marble. His ass was nothing short of perfection. Sculpted. Firm. Smooth skin pulled taut over pure muscle. His thighs were thick, powerful, the kind that looked like they could break someone without effort. Heat flushed through me so fast it made me dizzy.

He bent slightly to grab trousers from the chaise. That slight shift was almost cruel—muscles rippling. I swallowed hard, torn between fleeing and walking into the fireplace.

“You planning to stare all day?” He said without turning. “Little privacy here. And perhaps you should clean the drool off the floor.”

I whipped around, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “You didn’t warn me!”

He chuckled, low and clearly amused at how flustered I was. “Didn’t know I had to.”

Heat flared to my face. “And I’m not drooling.”

I heard the smirk in his tone, “It’s fine. Most women do.”

“Most women,” I muttered, “probably have better taste.”

The sound of clothing being pulled on filled my senses. “Oh, you wound me,” Zayn said, voice teasing. “You can keep facing the wall. You look better that way. However, I’m sure the view’s not nearly as good.”

“Arrogant ass,” I grumbled.

When the rustling stopped, I risked turning around. He’d pulled on black trousers, though they still clung to him unfairly well. His hair was damp and tousled, giving him a freshly-ruined look that made something low in me twist.

I tried to ignore it.

Oh, great divine… There was only one bed.

I didn’t want to stay anywhere else. All my things were in this dark little room, and I grew to love it.

“So…” I crossed my arms. “Where exactly are you planning to sleep tonight?”

Zayn stretched lazily and walked toward the bed. “Well,” he said, “in my bed, obviously.”

My eyes narrowed. “And where exactly am I supposed to sleep?”

He stopped, turned slightly, and pointed to the floor in front of the hearth. “There’s a perfectly nice rug right there. Warm. Cozy.”

My jaw dropped. “You want me to sleep on the floor?”

Zayn gave a casual shrug, like this was the most reasonable thing in the world. “Unless you’d rather join me in bed.”

My stomach did a full flip.

Arrogant. Infuriating. Gorgeous.

I hated how much that last one mattered.

“I’ll take the floor,” I snapped.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “But you’ll be begging for a pillow by morning.”

I all but fled my room—his room—still burning from head to toe.

My thoughts were a mess of tangled emotion and heat, shame threading through every breath.

The image of Zayn, standing half-naked with water still glistening across his chest and abs, haunted me like a brand. That damn towel. That maddening smirk.

I hated him. Worse, I hated how my body reacted around him. I needed to get drunk.

No—I needed to drown.

The pub was loud and smoky, tucked beneath a sloping roof that smelled of stale ale and old laughter. It was the kind of place where no one cared who you were, only that you paid.

I found Eryn and Makar at a corner table, a bottle already half-gone between them. Eryn looked up and smiled in that gentle way of hers, and Makar raised his brow, already grinning when he saw me.

“Well, someone looks like they either saw a ghost,” he said, “or walked in on a man they want to murder and kiss at the same time.”

“I’d prefer the first option,” I muttered, sinking into the chair beside them and snatching the bottle.

The mead was strong and burned all the way down. Just what I needed.

“Hey,” I looked at Makar, “Were you following me into town the other day? Watching me and my friend from the woods?”

Makar gave a puzzled look, “Love, you should know by now what my magic feels like. And, if you were with someone else and I was watching, don’t’cha think I woulda joined?” He showed off his charming smile and ran his hands through his long auburn hair.

Eryn brushed him off. “You pay more attention to that hair of yours than anything else,” Eryn huffed and rolled her eyes. “What happened?” she asked.

I chuckled. “I guess you’re right… I would’ve known it was you. And honestly, I knew it never was. This magic was different. Darker.”

I told them everything as we continued to drink.

And drink.

And drink some more, until my words started to slur a little and the numbness washed over me.

“What do you say the three of us have some fun tonight? Might not be with the prince, but perhaps I can convince you two lovely ladies to partake?” Makar flirted. I laughed and elbowed him hard.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“You know I would love another go.” His accent made my body warm. Or perhaps it was the booze.

“What do you mean, another go?” Eryn asked, her brows raised high. “This is the second time you’ve insinuated sex…” Her eyes went wide as they darted back and forth between me and Makar.

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” I teased, taking a long drink from the bottle. “But I’m no lady,” I shrugged and passed the bottle to Eryn as I said, “I fucked Makar and Fintan at the same time.”

Eryn spat wine all over my face.

She could hardly contain her coughing, which was mixed with a laugh. “I’m sorry, you what?!”

Makar and I started to laugh, and Eryn joined in.

Time passed.

We talked. Laughed a little. I even forgot, briefly, how ruined I felt inside.

But then Eryn said she needed to head back, and Makar followed not long after, off to find some trouble to charm.

Now I sat alone.

“I’m fine,” I lied, pouring another glass. “Truly. Fine.”

I wasn’t. I was piss-drunk, talking out loud to myself like some crazy drunkard. Guess I fit right in with the others here.

I was unsure where I stood with Fintan. I slept with Landen. I was living in a castle where the King wanted me to dead. I haven’t freed my father. And I haven’t figured out who—more so what—had been talking to me in my mind.

I wanted to cry. So I cried.

My life was a mess.

I was a mess.

I needed Mother.

I sat in my pity—crying, swirling the last of the wine, trying not to think about the fire, or my mother, or the glowing magic under my skin I could barely control.

And then he walked in.

Zayn.

“Ugggghhhh,” I groaned dramatically from the back of my throat.

He ducked under the low doorframe, tall and commanding as ever, his silver hair was pulled half way up, the rest falling past his shoulders. He scanned the pub once. His eyes found me immediately—sharp, green, impossibly bright even in the dim candlelight.

He walked straight to me.

I didn’t even try to pretend I wasn’t happy to see him.

“Gods,” I muttered. “Do you live in my shadow?”

He didn’t sit. Just stood there, arms crossed, looking like some unholy mix of nobility and thunderclouds.

I hiccupped and then wiped away my drunken tears with my sleeve.

“Drunk on your own tears,” he said flatly. “Snap the fuck out of it and accept what you did. Stop being a baby and own it. We all make mistakes.”

The words cut. Fast. Clean.

I stood too quickly, wobbled, but then stood tall, the chair scraped across the floor.

“Y—you think I don—don’t know that?” My voice shook with drunken fury.

“My mistake was H—HUGE! Monumentalllll,” I stuttered drunkenly.

“You th—think I don’t own it? Trust me, I own it.

I—I feel it every time I breathe. I killed her. ”

Zayn’s jaw flexed, but his voice stayed cold. “Then stop running from it like a child. You play strong, but the moment it hurts, you crawl into a bottle and hope someone else fixes it for you.”

“Fuck you,” I hissed, the air crackling faintly around me. I pressed my chest against his—well, I tried—since he towered over me. The lights above the hearth flickered. A cold wind rushed through the room, even though the door had remained shut.

Zayn’s expression sharpened. He took a step closer. “That mouth’s going to look even prettier wrapped around me… and when it does, I won’t let anyone else have it.”

My jaw damn near hit the floor.

Gods, he was confusing. Infuriatingly handsome and maddening all at once. I blinked up at him, my alcohol-hazed brain short-circuiting. Did he really just—?

He reached out, closing my mouth with two fingers, and the touch sent a jolt racing through me—magic, lust, something dangerous. It made my knees weak… and also made me want to punch him square in his perfect face.

“Be careful,” he warned, eyes sweeping over me in a way that made my stomach flip. “Your magic’s starting to bleed out… and sweetheart, if you’re not careful, someone might mistake it for desperation.”

My lips pursed together. Gods, he was impossible—one minute dripping with charm, the next slapping me with that arrogant bite. Was he flirting with me or insulting me? I couldn’t tell, and that pissed me off even more.

“Go to Hel,” I whispered.

He chuckled softly behind me. “Already there, Peach. You just keep making it warmer.”

I shoved past him before I did something reckless, the pub’s door slamming behind me with a sharp crack. I didn’t stop walking, didn’t care how loud my boots were as they struck the cobbled road back to the castle.

I hated him.

I hated how tall he was. That silver hair, wild but deliberate.

That perfectly chiseled jaw I wanted to punch.

Or kiss. Or maybe both. And those eyes—green like spring and forest leaves and danger.

And gods, even his mouth—all smug curves and well-shaped lips that made me want to scream.

I hated it all. At least that’s what I told myself.

I clenched my fists as I climbed the steps to the castle, my magic still buzzing faintly beneath my skin.

By the time I reached the chamber—his chamber—I was shaking. I threw the door open, kicked off my boots, and all but collapsed onto the bed.

His bed.

Ha! That would show him.

I smiled lazily to myself and buried my face in the pillow and let out a muffled groan.

I hiccupped again and then passed out.