Page 6

Chapter Six

C allie

“Stone walls. Climbing vines. Windows drunk on golden sunlight. Our new prison looks like something from a fairy tale—if fairy tales included psychological warfare and forced proximity. Also? This isn’t just a tiny house, it’s almost microscopic.”

“Home sweet home,” I mutter, following the Redemption Committee member up the winding path. Aries walks beside me, his tightly controlled irritation a constant reminder of what we’ve committed to.

“The dwelling is designed to prevent physical and emotional distance,” our guide explains, their multilayered voice echoing slightly.

The Sanctorii invited the Fractali to oversee their Redemption Rites centuries ago, after their own empathic abilities—which manifest as visible emotional auras—proved too merciful for fair judgment.

The Fractali’s crystalline nature allows them to perceive truth without the emotional interference that compromises Sanctorii objectivity.

“The Redemption Committee consists of three Fractali,” the central figure explains, their crystalline forms catching the morning light.

“For routine observations and daily check-ins, one member will attend. For major trials and significant announcements, all three will be present. The importance of our full presence indicates the gravity of the moment.”

He opens the door and motions us inside.

“You will find this abode encourages natural interaction through proximity.”

That’s one way of putting it. The main room can’t be more than twenty feet across, with a small kitchen area, a sitting space, and what looks like a meditation corner with cushions. A narrow archway leads to what must be the bedroom.

One bedroom. Of course.

“Physical contact outside prescribed rituals results in marks against your progress. Three marks means failure.”

And failure means they drag Aries to the execution chamber within the hour. The Fractali have never granted clemency to those who attempt to deceive their sacred process. Ever.

The Committee member’s crystalline form shifts, catching the light. “These trials were designed to reveal the truth of the heart. For those who have earned death, only genuine transformation through love can grant redemption. We do not merely seek compliance—we seek the rebirth of a soul.”

Aries and I have said nothing more intimate than “pass the salt” in five years. Now we have ninety days to prove we love each other? We don’t even like each other, nor do we know each other. And the stakes couldn’t be higher. This male’s life is on the line.

“Your first task begins at sunrise,” the Committee member continues, setting a thick book on the small table. “The Manual of Customs contains all required daily rituals and practices. Failure to complete any ritual results in a mark against your progress.”

My throat tightens at the reminder of what failure means. Aries shifts beside me, his elbow brushing me in what might be reassurance .

“Questions?” The Committee member’s multifaceted eyes reflect the dying sunlight.

“No, I think we’re—” I start, but Aries cuts in.

“The bedroom arrangement. You mentioned specific sleeping requirements?”

“Yes. You must share the bed.” My heart skips several beats. Even after all this time, sweat pops onto my upper lip when I think we might be forced to have sex in this trial. “However, physical intimacy is prohibited. The barrier provided must remain between you at all times.”

Does it make me a bad person that relief floods through me at this reprieve?

We follow as they step into the room and gesture to what looks like a long, thin pillow running down the center of the bed. It’s the width of my hand.

“That’s supposed to keep us separate?” The panicked words slip out before I can stop them.

“The barrier is symbolic rather than physical. Like many aspects of the Rites, its power lies in your commitment to honoring it.” Their tone suggests they’ve given this speech before.

“Now, please review the first chapter of the Manual before retiring. Your morning ritual begins precisely at sunrise.”

With that, they glide out, leaving us alone in our new home. The silence feels heavy with everything we’re not saying.

“Well,” I finally manage, “should we see what delightful surprises await us in the Manual?”

Aries moves to the table, his ceremonial robe rustling. We’re still in our wedding clothes, I realize. Still carrying the lingering sweetness of honey and fruit from the surprisingly sensual feeding ritual .

“‘Chapter One: Daily Observances’,” he reads, his deep voice steady despite the situation. “‘The day begins with the Greeting of Unity…’”

Stepping closer, I peer around him—careful not to touch him.

“‘Partners must touch foreheads while speaking the traditional morning blessing,’” I read aloud. “‘This connection symbolizes the joining of minds and spirits.’”

“It gets better,” he says dryly. “‘Following the morning greeting, partners shall assist each other in grooming rituals. This includes hair brushing and braiding, symbolizing the care and attention required for a lasting bond.’”

A startled laugh escapes me. “They want us to braid each other’s hair? Your horns might make that interesting.”

His lips twitch. “I’m more concerned about achieving that forehead touch around them.”

“We’ll figure it out. We’ve faced worse challenges.”

His expression sobers. “Callie…”

“Don’t.” I’m no fool. At some point, we’ll have to discuss our history; the air is thick with it. Now isn’t the time, though. I turn to explore the cottage, though I think I’ve already discovered the highlights. “We’re here. We’re doing this. No more second-guessing.”

The kitchen is well-stocked but tiny, with barely enough counter space for one person to work. The meditation corner holds two cushions positioned face-to-face, close enough that our knees would touch if we sat there.

“The bathroom off our bedroom is proportionate to everything else,” Aries calls from the other room. “Not sure I’ll fit in the shower or the tub. ”

“Of course it’s small,” I mutter. Everything is designed to force proximity, to prevent the physical and emotional distance we’ve maintained for years.

The bedroom proves equally challenging. Besides the symbolically divided bed, there’s a small dresser and a bench where we’re supposed to sit for the hair-braiding ritual. A large window looks out over a garden that would be charming if I weren’t so overwhelmed by everything else.

“We should change,” I say, spotting our bags near the dresser. “Get out of these ceremonial robes before—”

The words die as I realize the implications. We’ll have to help each other with the fastenings again.

“I’ll wait in the other room while you change,” Aries offers quietly. “Just… call when you need help with the back panels.”

He disappears through the archway, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts. The robe feels heavier now, weighted with everything this day has meant… and everything still to come.

“Ready,” I call after changing everything I can reach.

His footsteps approach slowly, deliberately. The floorboards creak beneath his weight, each step measured and purposeful. My pulse quickens as he draws near, the air between us charged with unspoken tension.

Large, careful hands make quick work of the fastenings, his fingers brushing against my bare skin with feather-light precision. Each point of contact—knuckles grazing my spine, fingertips ghosting across my shoulder blades—sends electricity skittering across my skin.

I bite my lip to stifle a gasp as his warm breath fans against my neck, so close I can almost taste the spicy-sweet scent. The ceremonial silk beneath the thick brocade slides against my heated flesh as he works, the caress of fabric somehow more intimate than nakedness .

More unsettling than the touch is my unexpected response to it.

My body betrays me with each fastening undone—nipples tightening beneath my slip, skin flushing with warmth that pools low in my belly.

This simple, necessary task shouldn’t feel so forbidden, so delicious.

Yet here I stand, trembling slightly as his deft fingers work their way down my back, each touch igniting sensations I’ve denied for five long years.

“Your turn,” I manage, proud of how steady my voice sounds.

We switch places, maintaining careful distance as I help with his robe. The bulging muscles of his back shift under my fingers.

“All done,” I say quickly, stepping back. “I’ll just…”

“Callie.” His voice stops me at the archway. “About the sleeping arrangements…”

“It’s fine. We’re both adults. We can handle this.” The words come out with more confidence than I feel. “Besides, it’s better than that cell, right? No bars, and this bed is more than twice as wide as… the other one.”

His sharp intake of breath makes me realize what I’ve said. We never talk about the cell. Never acknowledge those weeks of forced proximity, careful distance, and the Urluts’ commands to “complete the act.”

“Right,” he says finally. “Better than the cell.”

The Manual sits accusingly on the table, reminding us of tomorrow’s tasks. Meditation cushions wait in their corner, positioned for forced intimacy. The bedroom beckons with its slim pillow positioned in the exact middle of the mattress.

“Actually…” I hate to admit I’ve got cold feet, but we’re in this tiny house together, with psychic beings monitoring us. We have no choice but to join each other in bed. “We should sleep,” I say quickly. “This has been one of the worst days of my life. ”

Did I really say that when Aries was sentenced to death a few hours ago? How selfish of me. And I said the quiet part out loud—that this is the worst day of my life because I had to marry him.

“Right.” His expression sours. “Early morning tomorrow.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking as shaken as I feel. “Sleep.”

The bed awaits, promising a long night of hyperawareness and careful distance. Just like old times, I think wryly. Except nothing about this feels like old times, and I’m not exactly sure why.

Sleep comes fitfully, interrupted by the strange sounds of the cottage settling and Aries’ steady breathing on the other side of the barrier. Just as exhaustion finally pulls me under, a sharp sound jerks me awake.

“No… can’t let them…” Aries thrashes against his side of the barrier, his voice rough with anguish. “Kren, I’m sorry… had to stop… hurting you…”

“Aries?” Sitting up carefully to maintain proper distance, my heart pounds at his obvious distress. “Wake up.”

“Can’t watch anymore… Kren… please…”

“Aries!” Louder this time, fighting the urge to reach across the barrier and shake him awake.

His eyes snap open, pupils dilated in the semi-darkness. For a moment, he seems lost between nightmare and reality. “Callie?”

“You were dreaming.” The words come out gentle despite my racing heart. “Something about… Kren?”

His breath catches. In the dim moonlight filtering through the window, I can see him struggling to rebuild his walls. “My brother,” he says finally, the words barely audible. “I had to… he was suffering, and I… ”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken pain.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Rolling away to face the wall, his voice turns flat. “It was just a dream.”

But we both know it wasn’t just a dream. And as I lie awake listening to his carefully controlled breathing, I wonder what impossible choice he had to make regarding his brother—and how it led him to face execution on Garrox Prime.

Dawn eventually creeps in, finding us both pretending to sleep while questions multiply in the growing light.