Page 8 of Burning Her Beautiful

VAROK

T he eastern ramparts glow slate blue beneath approaching dawn when I finish sealing the final vine-sigils into the garden stone.

Power thrums at my fingertips, electric as fresh lightning.

Each carved spiral waits like a coiled serpent eager to spring, yet the runes lie dormant for now, hidden beneath beds of winter-dull ivy so no curious matron will notice the trap.

A pebble skitters behind me. Garrik stands near the fountain, crimson skin darkened further by shadow. Wind ripples his short cloak, exposing the twin daggers strapped across his back. He bows, yet the gesture holds no softness. Garrik’s loyalty never blunts his blade’s edge.

“Per your command, Dominus,” he says, voice low, “the southern balcony rail is reinforced with vented quartz. Guests may press against it without risk of pitching into cloud.”

“Good.” I flex my hand, letting tingles ebb. “The vines?”

“Watered, trimmed, parted just enough to reward your coaxing.” A faint smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “They will climb fast once you wake them.”

His eyes search mine, picking at unease I no longer hide. Garrik knows me too well. “The human?” he asks.

“Resting. Preparing.” Rest is a mercy I granted Iliana only hours ago. Even now her absence grates. I clamp the thought before it bleeds into expression.

He tilts his head. “You walk a frayed rope, my friend.”

“Tell me something new.”

“I will.” His arms cross. “Sarivya expects you to falter. She wagers the court will watch you burn.”

“Then we’ll offer fireworks of another sort.” I step past him, cloak whipping. “Signal me at sunset if she changes the guest list. No surprises.”

Garrik bows once more, yet calls after me as I descend the spiral stairs. “Surprises already simmer, Varok. Be certain which boil you wish to taste.”

My chambers stand silent when I enter, but the air smells of fresh soap and wild mint.

Iliana’s fragrance lingers even though she sleeps in the adjoining suite.

The scent threads through me, winding tight as rope.

I breathe deep, then turn toward the outer hall where two junior mages await.

They kneel, foreheads pressed to cold stone.

One tries to rise without being bid, eager to please.

I let a spark of chaos flicker between us.

He recoils, eyes wide; the smell of singed hair crawls through the corridor.

Respect regained. I assign them simple tasks—anchor glyphs, gust warding—then dismiss them with curt nods.

They scramble away like startled crows. Obedience from others remains easy. Only she destabilizes.

I cross to the washstand and strip out of travel leathers, shrugging into a robe of deep bronze silk. The fabric slides over shoulders, cool against overheated skin. I pour wine into a cut-glass tumbler, yet the fragrance turns my stomach. Liquor will not steady this restless blood.

A faint scuff sounds beyond the arch that leads to Iliana’s suite.

I approach, footsteps silent on mosaic tiles.

She stands at the balcony, hands braced on rail, brow furrowed as she studies clouds still colored by sunrise.

Emerald silk drapes her body, molded to curves by a leather bodice dyed forest green.

Gold stitching coils across the corset like ivy vines.

The gown Garrik procured has done its work; she looks less mortal prisoner and more storm-born noble in disguise.

I linger a moment, greedy for the sight before she feels me.

Dawn light paints bronze highlights down the length of her braid and skims the graceful lines of neck and shoulder, making my fingers twitch.

She must sense the shift in air, for her chin lifts.

She does not startle when she sees me, though a quick pulse beats at her throat.

“You tread soft as a cat,” she says.

“Doors creak around those who need warning.” I step into sunlight spilling across the floor. She turns, letting the wind nudge her skirt against long legs.

“You finished with your vines?” she asks.

“For now.” I cross the terrace until a hand’s breadth remains between us. “You wear the gown well.”

“Garrik’s taste, not mine.” She smooths the side seam, then looks up. Her eyes remind me of deep forest ponds, reflecting light yet giving back no secrets. “Does it please you?”

A simple question, but it spears through defenses. I reach for one thick lock of hair that slipped loose, coil it behind her ear. Skin there feels warm, pulse quick. I allow my thumb to graze lobe before withdrawing. “It pleases me more than it should.”

“And that troubles you.”

“Everything about you troubles me.” The admission escapes before caution can muzzle it.

She draws breath, but instead of retreating, she steps closer. Now her chest nearly brushes mine. The bodice pushes her breasts up, yet her expression remains level, unflinching. “Then perhaps we test the limits of trouble,” she says softly.

My body answers before my mind. Heat sparks low, flaring through veins. Yet I hold still. “Careful,” I warn, voice rougher than intended. “Fire cannot choose which parts it burns.”

She lifts her hand, lays it flat against my sternum over Oltyx’s brand. Her palm is small, warm, daring. “Tell me something, Varok,” she murmurs. “When you killed that noble in the throne room, what did you feel?”

No fear in the question, only keen curiosity. The memory stirs cold and hot together. “Satisfaction,” I say. “Not for death itself, but for precision. A fault corrected.”

Her thumb moves in a slow circle over skin. “Could you do the same to me? Kill me with precision?”

I exhale, tension coiling deeper. “Yes.” My hand comes up, fingers circling her wrist, not squeezing yet holding firm. “But I will not.”

“Because you need my heart for tonight,” she challenges.

I tug her forward until bodice presses against robe, silk whispering over silk. “Because,” I say, “nothing in this world tempts me more than watching your heart keep beating.”

The truth rings through me, startling in its power. I release her wrist. Her eyes widen, then soften with an emotion I do not dare name.

She steps back first, granting breathing space, though my lungs still labor. “You asked me to test your limits,” she says. “Perhaps you should examine mine.”

Intrigue sparks. I nod toward the chaise near the arched window. “Sit,” I command, gentle but firm. “Remove your slippers.”

She raises a brow yet obeys, perching on the edge of cushioned gold brocade. She unlaces thin velvet straps and sets the shoes aside. Bare feet flex against cool tile, nails painted jade to match the gown.

I circle behind her, gather her braid in my hands. I tug free the silver vine clasp, letting dark waves spill. She stiffens but does not pull away. “I plan to test your poise,” I say, voice near her ear. “Not your pain.”

Her breath leaves on a controlled exhale. “Very well.”

I step in front, sit beside her instead of looming. I take her left foot into my lap, thumb sliding along arch. She jerks, not in fear, but surprise at tenderness. The draw of those reactions—small, genuine—is more potent than power games in the throne room.

“Balance is more than stance on a balcony rail,” I tell her. “It dwells in nerves, in breath.” I press acupoints along her sole, coaxing muscles to loosen. She watches my face, one hand curled at her thigh, unsure if she may touch me. I finish both feet, then shift, pulling her to stand.

“Walk across the room,” I instruct. “Slow.”

She does. Hips sway with natural grace, gown sweeping. I watch the confident roll of shoulders, the dip of waist. She stops at the far hearth, glances back.

“Again,” I say.

The second walk she exaggerates poise, chin higher, stride longer. When she reaches me I catch her by elbows, twirl her half turn so her spine meets my chest. My arms fold around her waist. She inhales sharply.

“Balance while blind,” I whisper, covering her eyes with one hand. “Trust me to guide.”

Her body firms, but she nods. I move her backward, one step, two. She matches me, feet bare on tile, each breath measured. My palm slides from eyes to throat, thumb at pulse. Her head tips against my shoulder, exposing column of neck.

I lower mouth to that tender skin, stop a hair’s breadth away, breathe in her scent. She shivers, throat working. The temptation to kiss almost topples restraint. Instead I move lips to the shell of her ear. “I could demand surrender,” I murmur. “Yet I find I want it offered freely.”

Her fingers rise, grip my forearm where runes glow faintly. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I continue wanting.” One hand drops to cinch of corset, feeling her stomach flutter under laces. “Want can be an exquisite ache.”

She breathes my name, part request, part warning. It slices reason. I pivot her to face me, hands braced on either side of her ribs.

“That night in the Sanctum,” she says, voice low, “you halted the blade for reasons beyond courage. Tell me those reasons.”

Dangerous ground. I curl one hand in her hair, tilt her face up. Dawn light sets green gems in her eyes afire. “I saw a future in which killing you felt like killing the last honest part of myself.”

She draws breath that trembles, lashes fluttering. “Honesty scares you.”

“I have waded through centuries of deceit. Honesty sets new wars under skin.” I step back before desire frays reins. “Dress for dusk. We leave at first star.”

She nods, voice thready. “Understood.”

I head for the door but pause at threshold. “Iliana.”

She looks up.

“I may rule the storm,” I tell her, “yet you command the lightning that splits it.”

Color rises on her cheeks. My heart kicks hard, and I escape before temptation roots me to the spot.