Page 9 of Burning Her Beautiful

Preparation consumes the afternoon. I stalk corridors, barking orders to staff.

Vines must coil just so, guests corralled within safe rings, wine reinforced with mild sedative to blunt panic if my display grows too wild.

Servants scurry faster in my presence today, for I allow no second instructions.

In the weapon room I select a ceremonial blade—slimmer, more ornate than the kirpan—which will hang at my hip tonight. Its handle of carved wenge wood fits palm like memory, though I have never channeled chaos through it. A symbol, not a tool, yet still lethal if needed.

As I secure the buckle, Garrik enters with news. His usually placid stare crackles with unease. “Matron Sarivya has added five human courtiers to her guest roster,” he says. “High-born pets dressed in pearls.”

I grind molars. “To remind me Iliana is expendable.”

He nods, shifting weight. “Also, the king will attend.”

Cold spreads under skin though room stands warm. Asmodeus seldom emerges without fanfare, yet Sarivya has seduced his curiosity. The spectacle must excel.

I dismiss Garrik, then stand before a tall mirror. Silk of my robe has been replaced by close-fitted coat stitched from night-green scales that catch light in peacock shimmers. Runes flare beneath skin, eager. Yet beneath that power lurks something less stable—my fixation.

I lean palms on marble basin, meet my own gaze. “You are master, not puppet,” I whisper. The reflection’s eyes flicker crimson, disagreeing.

A knock. Servant announces Iliana waits in vestibule. My stomach tightens. I turn, stride out, the echo of boots reverberating like war drums.

She stands beneath a crystal chandelier.

Emerald gown has been replaced by deeper jade velvet that cups breasts in sculpted lines, sleeves sheer, throat bare.

A gold chain drapes from ear to collarbone, holding a small emerald pendant that rests between full curves.

Her hair sweeps forward in soft waves, stray strands framing cheeks warmed by candlelight.

The shard of crystal she stole glints at the end of her braid. She looks every inch a dangerous gift.

Conversation hushes among staff when I approach. They retreat instinctively. Iliana’s gaze collides with mine, holding steady despite nerves sparking under porcelain skin.

“My lord,” she says, dipping slight curtsy. Her voice carries that blend of respect and challenge only she can wield.

I offer my arm. She takes it, fingers resting on black dragon-scale sleeve. Heat travels through cloth.

As we walk the corridor toward the transport lift, a junior mage scurries past, papers spilling. I seize him by collar before he collides with Iliana. “Mind your steps,” I snap. Chaos arcs through fingers, and the worker pales. He bows, stammers apology, flees.

Iliana watches entire exchange, brow knitting. “You terrorize so easily,” she murmurs when we resume.

“Fear oils the gears of duty.”

“Yet you spared me fear moments ago.”

I glance down at her hand on my arm. “Your fear would poison tonight’s bloom.”

She considers, then nods. “And yours?”

The question halts me mid-stride. Panic? No. Dread? Possibly. Fascination swallows both. I lead her into the lift cage wrought of gold filigree. Wind whistles through lattice as the mechanism lowers toward Sarivya’s tier.

“Tonight I fear only one outcome,” I admit in hush, “that I fail to shield you.”

She inhales and steps closer in the cramped space, her side pressed to mine. “Then do not fail.”

A command wrapped in trust. The gilded cage stops, doors gliding open to reveal a corridor carved of rose quartz veined with silver. Music drifts from distant ballroom, strings and low drum. Perfumed air laced with ivory flowers washes over us. We step out, heads bent together like conspirators.

“Remember,” I whisper, “hum when the vines stir.”

“And you?” she asks.

“I will be listening.”

Sarivya’s ballroom swells with demons draped in silks the shade of bruises and gemstones that flash wicked under chandelier blaze.

The matron herself greets us at arched portal—violet hair cascades down her bare back, horns polished, lavender skin dusted with gold powder.

She bows to me, yet her eyes flick toward Iliana with such acidic curiosity I fear velvet will scorch.

“Dominus Varok, honored that you grace my modest gathering,” she purrs. “And this must be your… project.”

I angle my body subtly, placing myself between their gazes. “Consort,” I correct, voice silk over steel. “Iliana.”

Whispers ripple outward like dropping coals in snow. Sarivya’s lips tighten, but she recovers with practiced laughter. “How delightful. Please, your Majesty has taken seat in the upper gallery. You must join him when ready.”

She glides away. I sense Iliana’s breath quicken. I cover her hand with mine, squeeze. “I have you,” I say under breath. She nods, eyes steady but bright.

We cross marble floor patterned in swirling malachite. Demons step aside, curiosity electrifying the air. I spy humans in pearl collars—Sarivya’s pawns—clustered near fountain. Their eyes hold a dull resignation I recognize from past raids. Iliana notices too, jaw tensing.

“Later,” I promise. “First the vines.”

I position her at the center of a raised dais that overlooks the garden doors. Music hushes as I ascend three steps to address the crowd. My voice carries, calm yet commanding.

“Sarivya requests a demonstration,” I announce, sliding blade free of scabbard. Gasps. I twist the knife so chandeliers glint along edge, then lower it, point down, driving tip into marble at Iliana’s feet. Sparks spray but stone holds.

“Behold,” I say, turning palm outward. Chaos floods veins, roaring toward sigils carved hours past. I picture vines thickening, sap pulsing. Beneath garden soil roots wake, twisting. Leaves shiver.

Doors burst open. Guests cry out as emerald flood pours into ballroom, vines racing up columns, spiraling around crystal chandeliers.

Blooms explode, petals wide as fans, spilling golden pollen that drifts like stardust. Yet no vine touches a soul; they weave perfect arches overhead.

The air smells of crushed cedar and honey.

In the hush Iliana hums—three notes, clear and bright. Runes beneath my skin surge in answer. Violet sparks snake from my fingertips, dancing across vines, igniting petals until each glows soft violet. Awe rolls through the crowd, shivering against my skin.

I focus on Iliana. Her eyes gleam with wonder I have earned, not stolen. The sight rips open a space behind ribs where only duty once lived.

Above, Asmodeus stands, hands on rail. His face remains unreadable, yet he nods once. Approval. Sarivya’s smile falters. Victory tastes wicked sweet.

As guests resume breathing, I step close to Iliana, voice low. “You held firm.”

“And you did not fail,” she whispers back.

Guests surge forward to marvel at flowers. In the commotion Sarivya advances, expression lacquered sweet. I meet her halfway, blocking approach.

“Impressive,” she says. “But control can slip. Vines strangle if unchecked.”

I lean near, whisper so only she hears. “So can ambition.” I let chaos flicker in eyes, tiny tongues of power dancing. Sarivya pales a shade. She retreats, skirts brushing vine leaves that curl politely aside.

Later, when music swells again and guests toast my name, I guide Iliana to balcony overlooking storm clouds. Petals drift around us, glowing embers in night breeze. She leans on rail, face lit by soft violet.

“You tamed the garden,” she says.

“I merely set it free in proper direction.”

Her gaze meets mine. Under moon hung low, her features soften. “Why does freedom for me feel bound by threads I cannot see?”

I swallow, step nearer. “Because I bind myself to you, and thus you share my chains.”

Complicated truth. She searches my face. “What if I ask you to break them?”

My chest cracks with the thought. “I might.” I lift hand, brush knuckles along her jaw. “But the world beyond these clouds is no gentler. I would need to follow.”

She smiles faintly, sadness flickering. “Storms travel with the wind.”

I close distance, press forehead to hers. “Iliana.” The name tastes like confession. “Whatever path you choose, my storm follows.”

Cries erupt inside hall—cheers at some toast. We remain in hush spun between hearts. I feel her breath mingle with mine, warm and steady.

At last she steps back, hand sliding from my chest. “Take me home, Varok.”

Home. Not cell. Hope knifes through doubts. I escort her through halls fragrant with vine blooms. Servants bow, eyes wide. I barely note them, mind caught on new word echoing.

In my tower vestibule she thanks Garrik for escort. He bows politely but shoots me a knowing look that sharpens my own awareness. Desire thrums, raw and immediate, yet I guide her to her door, not my bed. She pauses, studying me.

“You could claim reward,” she murmurs.

“I could,” I agree, voice husky. “Instead, I savor restraint.” My hand lifts of its own volition, fingertips tracing the curve of her lower lip once. She parts lips, breath soft. The moment stretches taut. I drop my hand. “Rest.”

She steps inside, eyes never leaving mine until door seals.

I turn away, heart pounding so hard I taste copper. I stride into my chamber, yank off coat, toss blade onto desk. My reflection glares from crystal pane—ravenous, haunted. I slam fist into wall. Stone cracks but holds.

“I am in ruin,” I whisper, breathing hard. “And I welcome the collapse.”

Crimson runes on my arms flare, mirroring storm outside. I sink onto chair, bury head in hands. The vines, the king’s approval, none of it cools the fever twisting through me. I fear not the peril ahead, but the measureless depth of what I would surrender for the woman humming storms into being.

Outside, thunder rolls. Inside, my obsession roots deeper, fed by the echo of her heartbeat I felt beneath emerald silk. I do not know whether it will bloom into salvation or devour crown and kingdom whole.

But as petals drift through open casement, glowing violet even in darkness, I accept the dangerous truth.

I no longer wish to be her executioner, her captor, or even her savior.

I wish only to belong to the wildfire she carries in her chest.