Page 17 of Burning Her Beautiful

ILIANA

T he first edge of dawn seeps across the carved cornice above Varok’s bed, turning onyx inlays to veins of rose-gold.

I wake before the sun claws fully over the horizon, my head tucked beneath his chin, my body cradled within a fortress of rune-marked arms. His breathing unfolds in slow, measured waves, and with each exhale the glowing lines beneath his skin dim and then brighten again, a lullaby of living embers.

For one impossibly fragile moment I let myself exist inside that peace.

No council edicts lurk beyond the door, and no collars glint on frightened throats.

Bloodshed and politics obey an invisible tether outside this chamber.

Only the scent of cedar and of lingering heat wraps around me—his scent—and the echo of last night steals another shiver through my limbs.

Then reality intrudes. I feel my hair plastered to my neck, the tenderness where his grip branded my hips, the pulse beating far too fast beneath my ribs.

Delight wars with dread. A rebel cannot afford to drown in silk sheets or crimson skin.

I turn my head, studying the peaceful planes of his face.

Half-lidded silver eyes track dreams I cannot enter, eyelashes dark against copper skin.

Horns arch back like polished obsidian—sinister to most eyes, yet softened by the faintest curl at the tips.

He looks younger in sleep, the ruthless commander stripped away, leaving only the man who whispered my name as if it might save him.

Perhaps it will save both of us—or destroy everything we have built.

I slide carefully from the cocoon of his arms, easing free without waking him.

The chill leaches warmth from my bare skin, but I welcome its sharp clarity.

I scoop his silk robe from the floor and shrug it over my shoulders.

The fabric pools at my ankles; heat from his body still clings to the weave.

I tie the sash twice, then pad across the room toward the tall windows that overlook the western cloud sea.

The floating continent hangs silent this early, as though the whole expanse holds its breath.

Jagged pylons of basalt thrust through cotton valleys of mist, their tips catching the rising sun.

On the horizon a column of storm clouds glimmers with distant lightning, yet there is no thunder here—only a hush pierced by the windbeats of night-riders returning to roost. I press my palm to the glass.

The cool pane steadies my thoughts, whirling faster than those storm bands.

I want to laugh at my reflection—hair tangled, lips still swollen, pulse flicking at my throat—yet guilt bites instead.

Every kiss, every gasping surrender felt true, but I walked willingly into the arms of our oppressor, a demon lord whose blade hovered above my chest days ago.

I betrayed no plan, revealed no secrets, but I gave him something perhaps more dangerous: my trust.

A ghost of last night’s voice echoes—his promise to bend constellations with blood and lightning for me.

Part of me thrills; another recoils. Heroes forged from obsession may topple thrones, yet they can crush the very people they swear to save.

I rub the blossom tucked behind my ear. Its petals have wilted under the press of pillows, yet a faint fragrance lingers—memory and warning both.

Behind me, the bedclothes rustle. I stiffen, expecting a sleepy murmur. Instead Varok’s deep voice sounds fully awake, threaded with concern. “Come back to the warmth, Iliana. The glass is colder than you pretend.”

I keep my gaze on the clouds. “If I grow too comfortable, I might forget what waits beyond this chamber.”

Footsteps pad across the carpet, unhurried. He stops at my side but maintains a respectful distance, perhaps sensing the turmoil churning between my ribs. The first rays of sunlight climb his chest, igniting runes that slept moments ago.

“I never intended to fence you in,” he says, tone gentler than dawn.

“I know,” I answer, exhaling. “Yet captivity can hide in comfort. Last night—” Words snag on the intimacy still glowing beneath my skin. “Last night blurred lines.”

His reflection meets mine in the glass. “Lines can be redrawn.” He tries for calm, but a flicker of uncertainty clouds his eyes. Varok, who stands unflinching before gods and kings, fears this bruise of doubt.

I turn, leaning against the windowsill. “I need space—time to remember who I am when I’m not claimed by the storm.”

He nods slowly. “Then space you shall have. My chamber doors remain open when you wish them, not before.”

Relief twines with disappointment—strange. I slip past him, collecting the folded cloak on a chair. “There is work to finish. The kitchens wake soon, and Lys will expect me.”

He catches my wrist—not hard, not demanding, simply anchoring. Heat travels from his palm up my arm. “You are more than work to me.”

“I can only believe that when our actions prove it outside these walls.” I ease free, offering a tentative smile that wobbles at one corner. “Give me the day.”

“Take the day,” he responds. “Tonight we plan Yalira’s proof. Tomorrow we unseat Sarivya.”

“And after?”

His mouth curves. “After we find room to breathe.”

I nod and retreat to the bathing room. A sluice of hot water washes away dried sweat, lipstick smears, and a scattering of petals.

The marks on my hips remain, finger-shaped violets rising beneath the steam.

I stare at them, then drag a sponge gently across, refusing either shame or gloating pride.

They simply exist—evidence of choices I own.

When I step from the pool, I dress in a plain russet tunic and leggings suited for traversing service corridors.

Varok waits in the study, hair now knotted, horns polished to a deep shine, a dark jade coat hugging his torso. The transformation from lover to warlord steals my breath. He offers a leather folio.

“Garrik mapped guard rotations on these scrolls,” he says. “Take what you need. I trust your discretion.”

“You trust quickly.”

“I trust precisely.” His eyes warm. “Return safely.”

I press two fingers to his chest—just above the sparking rune—and slip into the hallway.

The palace teems with purpose by the fourth bell.

Brass gongs reverberate through arches, calling servants to tasks and nobles to breakfast salons.

I skirt painted colonnades, dipping into narrow passages where demon architects never imagined an infiltrator might tread.

Sael waits near the laundry cylinders, a basket balanced on her hip, humming the first code measure.

She breaks off when she sees me, cheeks dimpling.

“Jonn forged these,” she whispers, producing a bundle of crude iron keys. “One fits every door on the service levels.” She glows with pride as I tuck the bundle beneath my belt.

“Excellent. Tell him his work may free more than hinges.”

We exchange the next phrase of encoded hum, settling on meeting points and contingencies. I cannot linger. Gossip slithers fast; if a demon steward glimpses too many humans grouped together, questions will sprout. I leave Sael distributing linens, her mismatched eyes alight with a mission.

I make my way toward the western kitchens, where Lys chops roots with the fury of a commander hacking through enemy lines.

The moment she notices me, she signals another scullion to stall the overseer, then sweeps me into a walk-in pantry heavy with spice.

The door swings shut behind us, muffling the clatter of pots.

“You’re flushed,” she observes, leaning against a stack of barley sacks.

“Fast corridors,” I say, wiping the sweat from my brow.

“Fast corridors and demon lovers, perhaps?” Her grin teases, but concern lines her brow. “Word drifted to the scullery rats: you left the spire after sunrise wearing his robe.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “Not his robe.” A lie; but she deserves truth. I breathe once. “Yes, his robe. It’s complicated.”

Her gaze softens, then turns practical. “He hurt you?”

“No.” The answer releases tension I did not realize was coiled inside. “Yet kindness from someone with power can be another snare.”

“Snare or stepping-stone?” Lys asks. She folds her arms. “If the demon’s affection steadies our steps, perhaps we should use it.”

I trace a swirl in spilled flour on the nearest barrel. “That is the question clawing my ribs. I can wield his trust, yet each hour I want him for reasons beyond advantage. Desire muddies allegiance.”

Lys plants a steady hand on my shoulder. “Anchors only drag you down if you forget you can swim. Want him, but remember why you entered the storm.”

I blink away the prickle behind my eyes. “Thank you.”

She nods briskly. “Now, your chain maker requests copper filings. He says iron alone echoes too plainly through the vents.”

“I will acquire the copper.”

We part; she returns to chopping with renewed vigor. I step back into the corridors, clutching her words like a compass.

Late afternoon dims the great hallways to dusky amber. News of tomorrow’s vote seeps through every conversation. Half-blood nobles whisper about collars with terror on their tongues. Humans whisper of chance.

I slip into Yalira’s solar carrying forged ledgers: one details untaxed sapphire shipments; the second lists falsified summons logs linking Sarivya to the nightshade smugglers. Yalira rises from an ivory settee when I enter, her lavender skin luminous against a silk gown the color of thunderheads.

“Iliana.” She greets me with a kiss to each cheek—noble custom she rarely grants her own peers. “Varok said the papers were coming, yet he failed to mention you would deliver them.”

“The corridors listen more tightly when he walks them,” I reply, passing her the folio.

She leafs through, eyes flashing triumph. “Perfect. The moment the decree reaches the floor, I will release this evidence.” Her tone sharpens. “Is your demon ready for the fallout?”