Page 7 of Burning Her Beautiful

He moves toward the door. “Rest now. Dawn practice requires focus.” His hand hovers near the latch, then drops.

He faces me once more. “You searched for escape. I do not condemn it,” he says.

“I would do the same.” His shoulders lift as though shedding weight.

“Yet understand this truth: if you flee Galmoleth tonight, Asmodeus hunts you across every plane. And I…” He pauses, words snagging. “I must chase.”

The admission pins me. Not threat, but confession. My pulse stumbles. “Because of duty,” I say, voice hushed.

“Duty,” he echoes. “Obsession. Perhaps both.” He presses thumb to the rune; the door eases open. Before stepping through he glances back. “Do not burn yourself searching for cracks in prison walls when you may soon wield the key.” Then he is gone.

The rune dims. I sit slowly, heart hammering. Varok’s closeness lingers in the room like charged air after lightning. He sees me as accomplice, storms within storms swirling together. Dangerous ground. Yet beneath danger blooms intrigue. Perhaps even trust.

I pace the balcony again before sleep. The clouds glow violet, and above them the sky stretches ink-black, pricked with stars too distant to warm. I touch the shard hidden in my braid. It pulses faintly, mirroring the rune on my door—waiting.

Inside the chamber I extinguish candles. I curl on cushions, cloak wrapped tight. Sleep steals in at last, tangled with dreams of winding vines and silver eyes.

Day breaks in a hush of rose quartz light filtered through high windows.

A servant arrives bearing breakfast, her eyes downcast. I thank her softly.

She glances up, almost startled that a prisoner’s words color with courtesy.

After she leaves I eat ripe figs drizzled with honey, chew seed bread dense with fruit, and drink mint tea that clears cobwebs from my mind.

I rub at the chalk traces still faint on my arms, then dress in fitted trousers and a thin russet blouse left on the chair. Armor of confidence.

Footsteps echo beyond the door before the rune brightens.

Varok enters wearing a sleeveless coat of dark green leather that shows every sculpted line of his arms. His horns gleam newly polished, and his hair is bound in a braided knot at the crown.

He carries two books, sets them beside the tea tray, and nods approval when he sees I am ready.

“We practice projection this morning,” he says.

“If you control your posture, I can weave power around you without exposing the trick.”

“Let us begin.”

We clear space. He instructs me to stand balanced weight on both feet, shoulders relaxed, arms lifted slightly away from ribs. “Imagine you grasp a thread inside your chest,” he says, “then pull it outward through your palms.” I follow. Heat pools behind sternum, but no spark leaps across skin.

He steps behind, places large hands above my elbows without touching. Energy hums between us, gathering like static before a summer storm. He whispers directions, breath brushing the shell of my ear. “Breathe deeper. Draw the thread.”

I inhale slowly. Visualizing golden rope coiling within, I tug gently. A prickle flutters along arms. The faint lines of chalk reappear, glowing dim violet. Varok’s body stiffens behind me, reverberating with the echo of power he channels yet pretends is mine.

“Hold,” he murmurs. A tingling climbs wrists to fingertips. Sparks blossom between outstretched fingers like tiny stars. I gasp, exhilarated. He withdraws, letting me steady alone. The sparks dim but linger.

“Your face,” he says, “reveals wonder. Reserve such openness for the moment before the council. Surprise them. Let admiration or fear follow. Never let them see rehearsed confidence.”

“Understood.”

We repeat the exercise thrice, each time surer. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades, but exhilaration dulls fatigue. Finally he steps away, breathing faintly heavier. “Enough. You will bruise the channel if pressed further.”

I nod, chest heaving. “Your power leaves aftertaste of metal,” I say, tasting copper on tongue.

“Chaos bites.” He tilts head, studying me. “How do you feel?”

“Alive.” The word slips out. His expression softens, hunger and relief mingling.

A tapping echoes on the door. Varok lifts his chin, murmurs for entry. The servant returns, face pale, hands trembling around a gilt tray bearing a sealed scroll. “From Matron Sarivya, Dominus,” she whispers.

He takes the scroll, dismisses the servant. Breaks wax with thumb. His eyes scan lines, silver darkening to steel. He hands me the letter. I read.

Matron Sarivya requests the pleasure of my public attendance at her soirée this evening in celebration of Varok’s … “developing pursuits.” She demands I perform demonstration of my “new-found gift” at midnight. The wording drips venom. If we refuse, rumors will brand my power fiction.

I lower the scroll. Varok’s lips press thin. “She forces our hand sooner than expected.”

“Accept,” I say. “Let the vines bloom at her fête instead. Turn her trap into stage.”

His surprise lasts barely a breath before admiration replaces it. “A bold countermove.”

I hand the scroll back. “Fear thrives in darkness. Drown her party in wild beauty.” I swallow nerves. “I will play my part.”

“You risk exposure.” His voice roughens.

“As do you.” I lift shoulders. “We win or fall together.”

Heat flares in his eyes. He steps closer, reaching to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. The touch burns despite gentleness. “Together,” he echoes.

For an instant the world narrows to that word, to the closeness of his breath and the faint tremor I sense beneath his calm. I breathe him in—smoke, cedar, steel—and the embers of fascination ignite into something brighter, dangerous yet undeniable.

He steps back slowly, knuckles brushing my jaw in farewell. “Rest before dusk. Wear emerald; it will echo the vines.” He turns, cloak catching lamplight, and pauses by the door. “And Iliana…”

“Yes?”

“The moment you feel my power weave through you at midnight, let your voice rise. Hum that melody. It will guide the storm.”

The door closes. I draw a steadying breath, visions of blooming terraces unfurling in my mind—vines spilling over balconies, blossoms exploding under starfire, nobles gasping as the world rearranges itself at our feet.

My heart pounds with dread, hope, and a thrill that has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the demon who dares to remake his kingdom with a single mortal standing at his side.

I press my fingers to the shard tucked in my braid, feel it warm against skin, and whisper to the still air, “Let the storm come.”