Page 119 of Lustling

I curl into myself on the too-soft bed, fists twisted in crimson sheets that smell nothing like home. I want to scream. I want to disappear. I want to tear the silk from my skin and rip the necklace free until it bleeds.

But I do none of those things. I stay still.

The door opens—no knock, no warning. Just a hush of magic and polished boots on obsidian floors. My heart stutters.

Zepharion enters like a king visiting a shrine built to honor himself.

He’s draped in ceremonial robes—black and gold, sharp and gleaming—stitched with ancient script I don’t recognize. He’salready dressed for our wedding. The one I never agreed to. The one I can’t escape.

And he lookspleased.

“Ah,” he says, voice silken, “you’re awake.”

I sit up slowly, careful not to show how the movement costs me. My stomach knots. Hunger claws at me. My skin feels dry, cracked, as if my magic is leaching out of me with every breath I take.

He crosses the room and sets a silver tray down on the side table. Three slices of fruit. A crystal goblet of water.

Scraps. Again.

I say nothing. I just stare.

“You should eat,” he says gently. “You’ll need your strength for the ceremony. Crimson suits you, by the way.”

His eyes drag over me, slow and indulgent. I clutch the sheets tighter to my chest, suddenly aware that I’m naked. Bare before him.

He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek with the back of his hand.

“You’ll be the envy of Hell, Lillien. A goddess in red.” His voice lowers, syrup-thick. “I commissioned your gown myself. Each stitch soaked in the blood of a thousand offerings. You’ll be so radiant when you kneel beside me.”

I flinch, and he sees it. Revels in it.

“Do you know what I look forward to most?” he murmurs, his fingers tracing down the curve of my jaw. “Not the ceremony. Not the politics. Not even the power that comes with claiming you.”

His hand drifts to my throat.

“It’s the moment I make you mine. Completely. Irrevocably. In front of them all. Before the court. Before your precious rebels. Before whatever gods you still pray to.”

I shake my head. “You won’t win.”

His smile is sharp. “But I already have.”

He leans in, his lips ghosting over my cheek. Not a kiss. Not quite. A claim in progress. His hand lingers on my bare thigh, just enough to make my skin crawl.

But he doesn’t touch me where I need him to. Heneverdoes. That’s the point.

“You ache, don’t you?” he whispers against my skin. “It’s in your nature. You need to feed. To burn. To befilled.”

I shut my eyes. The shame is its own brand of fire.

“And yet…” He sighs, lifting his hand again. “Not yet. Not until you’re mine by law and blood and magic. Not until the bond is sealed and your power belongs to me.”

He walks away before I can speak. Before I can scream. Before I can collapse. The door clicks shut like the snap of a guillotine. And I’m alone again.

I don’t move for a long time. Just stare at the velvet drapes that frame nothing. No window. No stars. Just the illusion of softness over stone.

My thighs are slick where he touched me—touched, but never gave. A tease, a torment. A test.

Every inch of me shakes with the effort not to scream. Not to shatter.