Page 4

Three weeks in the quarters attached to Aerix’s chambers, and I’m still no better at the harpsichord than I was the day he gifted it to me.

The sheet music stares back like a cruel joke, those little black notes swimming just out of reach. I thought five years of childhood piano lessons would count for something—but the harpsichord is no piano. It’s colder. Sharper. A beast that resents me.

“You can do this,” I say to myself, flexing my fingers over the keys again.

For a moment, it flows—water-like and perfect. Then my finger slips, striking a jarring minor chord that makes me wince.

“Don’t stop,” a voice says from the doorway. “The mistake is part of the learning. ”

I startle, nearly falling off the bench as I whip around.

Aerix leans against the doorframe, his midnight eyes fixed on me with that unnerving stillness—the kind that makes your skin tingle before your brain even registers danger. His wings are tucked in, but they shift slightly, betraying his mood.

He’s pleased.

“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, heat rising to my cheeks.

“Long enough.” He steps forward, all predator fluidity and dark intent. “You’re improving.”

I snort. “Was that before or after I massacred that last chord?”

“It will take time.” He joins me on the bench, air magic swirling around him, caressing my skin in cool currents. “But with enough practice, you’ll be a master in no time.”

In no time.

The words sink into my stomach.

How much time does he think I have? How long does he plan to keep me here, trapped in these beautiful rooms with nothing but games, books, and artistic pursuits to fill my days?

“I brought you something,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a narrow velvet-lined box .

I lean forward in curiosity, studying it. It’s not small enough to be a ring. A bracelet, maybe? A necklace?

“What is it?” I ask, taking the box and feeling its weight in my hand.

“Open it and see.”

I lift the lid, and nestled against dark velvet is a handcrafted, obsidian fountain pen that gleams in the soft light of the chamber.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, lifting it from the box and admiring my newest trinket. Something about it looks expensive. Dangerous. Magical. More so than anything else he’s given me so far—and he’s given me a lot.

Aerix’s lips curve into that smile I’ve loved for longer than I care to admit.

“It isn’t filled yet,” he says, and then he reaches into his pocket again, retrieving a slim, empty crystal vial. “Retrieve your dagger.”

The world tilts. He can’t mean…

But Aerix doesn’t like hesitation.

So, I walk to the desk where I keep the weapon I was given in the Winter Court, when Riven sent me and Sapphire on those three deadly trials. The one I used to attack Aerix in the bunker. The one he promptly took away from me… then eventually returned, just in time for me to kill Henry.

But when I touch it, I don’t feel guilt, or shame.

I feel powerful .

“The ink chamber,” Aerix explains, watching me closely, “is meant to be filled with your blood.”

My heart clenches.

“My blood?” I repeat.

“Yes, your blood,” he says, his gaze so intense that I tighten my grip on my dagger just so I can stay standing. “So that everything you create carries your essence. Your truth. Your soul.”

I stare at the tiny glass reservoir of the pen, my heart pounding so hard that I’m sure Aerix can hear it.

He’s watching me. Always watching. Waiting to see if I’ll flinch. Break. Refuse.

But I won’t.

So, with a steadying breath, I press the tip of my dagger to my index finger. The pain is sharp and clean, and blood wells instantly, bright crimson against my pale skin.

Aerix inhales. A sharp, almost imperceptible sound—like a man drowning in restraint.

He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t taste. He just… waits.

Go ahead, his nod seems to say.

I can’t wait any longer. If I do…

I don’t think about it further. I just hold my hand over the tiny vial, letting my blood drip into the glass, watching it hit the bottom.

One drop. Two. Three .

Aerix’s breathing deepens, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matches my pulse. His wings shift behind him, stretching slightly before folding tight again, like he’s physically restraining himself.

The air chills. The shadows hush.

“That’s enough,” he says, rougher than before.

At his command, I stop, pulling my finger away, a stray droplet of blood falling on one of the harpsichord’s keys.

Aerix simply takes the vial from me, his fingers brushing against mine, and slips it into the pen’s reservoir.

“Now,” he says, sealing it with practiced fingers, “it’s complete.”

Before I can respond, he takes my hand again, lifting my bleeding finger to his lips. His eyes lock with mine as his tongue slides across the small wound, pricking the exact spot with his fangs so his magic can knit my skin back together.

“All better,” he murmurs, releasing my finger and reaching for the sheet music I was struggling with. “Now, use it on this.”

I smile slightly, since I’ve been irritated enough with that music to revel in the thought of staining it with my blood.

I honestly don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.

So, I press the pen’s tip to the paper, just beneath a particularly difficult measure.

It glides across the surface, leaving a cathartic trail of deep crimson in its wake.

Satisfaction curls inside me as I examine the mark I’ve made.

“I want you to use it daily,” Aerix says, his gaze fixed on the glistening lines. “Draw for me. Write for me.” He pauses, then looks up, his midnight eyes swirling with desire. “Bleed for me.”

The space between us crackles with tension—his air and ice, and my rapidly beating heart. His wings flare, and even though I can’t see his back, I know just what it looks like when that sensitive place where his wings meet his skin grow taut.

But it’s his face that undoes me. That aching need behind his power. That fragile hunger he’ll never admit.

“I love you,” I tell him, the words coming easier each time I say them.

His wings fold. His breath steadies. And then he kisses me—slow, consuming, and desperate in its restraint. Like he’s starving but afraid of breaking the feast.

The kiss is gentle at first, quickly deepening with the hunger he always has around me.

But even as my lips respond, my mind drifts. Because these walls—this palace—it’s all so beautiful… and I’m drowning in silk-lined silence.

Aerix pulls back, his brow furrowing, frost forming in patterns along the harpsichord’s keys. He studies my face, then glances at the pen.

“You don’t like it,” he says, the temperature dropping several degrees, his wings tensing.

“No,” I say quickly, reaching for his hand. “It’s beautiful and thoughtful. I love it. Just like I love you.”

“Then what’s troubling you?” His dark eyes continue to search mine. “You’re tense. I can feel it.”

I hesitate, knowing how precarious this conversation could be. But these thoughts have been circling for days, and I can’t keep them contained any longer. If I do, I might burst from it.

“I was just thinking about the future,” I admit, my voice softer than I intended.

“The future?” he repeats, his head tilting slightly.

I gesture around the luxurious room. “Is this all there will ever be for me? These rooms? This...” I pause, searching for the right word. “This gilded cage?”

His wings stiffen, and frost cracks and blossoms along every key of the harpsichord like frozen veins—elegant and deadly.

I misstepped.

“I didn’t mean?—“

“You feel trapped,” he cuts me off. “Even with everything I’ve given you.”

I clutch the pen tighter.

“It’s not about what you’ve given me,” I rush to explain, desperate for him to understand.

“It’s about wondering if I’ll ever see anything else.

If this is all there ever is—these rooms, and these walls, day after day, year after year.

” I swallow hard, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.

“I keep thinking about what the rest of my life will be like, and I can’t see beyond these chambers. ”

He doesn’t get angry.

He gets still. Dangerous. Quiet.

A storm building behind locked doors.

“You have freedom here,” he says, his voice so soft and measured that it feels more dangerous than if he’d shouted. “Everything you could ever want. You never have to fear the world again.”

I swallow, heart pounding. “Aerix?—”

“Haven’t I kept you safe?” he continues. “From the Court, from the king… from being discarded like Victoria?” His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing.

“I know,” I whisper, guilt tightening in my chest. “You have. But?—”

“It’s still not enough.”

His gaze drops from mine, his fingers curling around the pen resting on the harpsichord. His movements are precise, but I can see the tremble beneath the grace. The effort it takes for him to not snap the pen in two.

“Do you still want this?” he asks quietly, studying it as if he can’t bear to look at me.

“Of course I want it. I meant what I said, Aerix—I love you.” I hesitate, my voice softening as I force myself to continue. “But I can’t live like this forever.”

He nods once, and that single, mechanical movement terrifies me more than any outburst.

Then, with absolute calm, he places the pen back in my hand.

“Then draw your freedom,” he says. “Show me where you think you belong.”

“Aerix—” I start, but he silences me with a kiss, his lips lingering on mine as if trying to memorize their shape. When he pulls back, he gives me one final look, then turns away and walks out, leaving me alone in the lavish silence of my suite.

My gaze lands on the sketchbook resting on my nightstand. The leather binding is creased from how often we’ve passed it between us—its pages filled with sketches of me, Aerix, and of us together. We’ve spent these past few weeks adding to each other’s work, a silent dialogue of ink and paper.

I flip open the cover and run my fingertips over our intertwined drawings. Each one pulses with the energy we poured into it, reflecting pieces of ourselves we’ve shared in stolen moments. It’s by far the most precious thing I’ve ever owned.

With newfound determination, I find a fresh page and smooth it out.

Draw your freedom .

A challenge and a plea.

And so, I do.

The blood from the pen flows smoothly as the Night Court palace takes shape beneath my hand, its spires and arches more imposing than beautiful.

I draw the entrance where I first arrived, terrified and defiant, on Nyx’s back with Aerix’s arms around me.

I bring the streets to life where night fae leered at me in town, whispering cruel predictions about how long I would last.

But I change it.

In my drawing, Aerix still rides Nyx… but I’m on a jaguar of my own, my back straight, my chin lifted.

And the night fae who line the pathway aren’t leering or threatening.

They’re bowing their heads. Not in fear, but in respect.

To both of us.