Page 103 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

LAILAH

B y the time we make our way back from the forest, Casper is already preparing dinner.

Looking out over the river, I feel a cool breeze brush against my cheeks.

The scene is so peaceful, the gentle flow of water calming my thoughts.

I close my eyes, breathing in the fresh air, letting the sounds of nature surround me.

But then another scent reaches me—a rich, spiced aroma.

When I turn, Casper is there, carrying two bowls of stew, steam curling from their rims like tendrils of comfort. I reach for one, our fingers brushing briefly as I take it from him. Without a word, he sets a dark bottle of wine between us, the glass catching the firelight as he settles beside me.

“You brought wine?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as he casually opens the bottle.

That ever-present glint of mischief in his eyes softens.

“Malachi left provisions while you slept,” he says, settling beside me with the ease of someone who belongs there. “He came before dawn—didn’t want to wake you.”

He nods toward the pack resting near the fire.

“There’s bread, herbs, and washed linen. A few things to keep us steady through the next few nights. ”

He pours the wine into two rough-hewn cups and I take mine without hesitation, sipping slowly. The taste is dark and earthy, full-bodied, exactly what I needed without knowing it. We settle onto the pillows, the fire still crackling beside us, and I dive into the stew.

“Gods, this is so good,” I murmur, savoring the lean rabbit and tender vegetables.

It’s hearty and rich, the perfect meal for this kind of evening. His gaze darkens as he leans in, wiping a bit of broth from my bottom lip. Slowly, he brings his finger to his mouth and licks it clean. The sight sends a thrill through me, and I want nothing more than to pull him into a kiss.

"Who taught you how to cook?" I ask, glancing at him over the rim of my bowl.

Casper pauses, his spoon hovering midair. His expression shifts as he looks at me, then down at the ground, the corners of his mouth tugging into a faint, thoughtful smile.

"My mother."

I set my bowl down, leaning forward slightly.

"That’s a strange thing to teach someone who doesn’t need food to survive," I say, a teasing lilt in my tone.

He looks up at me, his smile deepening, though there’s something tender in it now.

"She used to say there are two things every man should know: how to cook for the woman he loves, and how to love her so fiercely that she’d want to cook for him in return."

His words light a spark in the atmosphere. Love.

I feel my chest tighten and my cheeks warm, but I push the feeling aside. It’s just a story about his mother, not about me.

"She sounds like a wise woman," I say softly.

Casper chuckles under his breath, glancing toward the woods beyond us. I follow his line of sight, letting the silence settle before speaking again.

"I never knew my mother," I admit, hesitant. The words feel strange, like opening a door that’s been locked for too long. "I’ve always wondered what she looked like, who she was. Sometimes I think I see her in the corners of my mind, but it’s like trying to hold smoke."

Casper’s gaze shifts back to me, and I notice the way he hesitates, his brows pulling together slightly. His silence makes my own uncertainty deepen. I shake my head, forcing a small laugh.

"Anyway… I’m glad you had time with your mother."

He sighs deeply, as though a hidden burden sits on his shoulders.

"Not enough time," he murmurs, his jaw tightening.

I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure if I should press further. But the question slips out before I can stop it.

"What happened to her?"

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looks at me.

"She was killed."

I nod slowly, unsure of what to say but knowing all too well the ache of losing someone who should still be here.

"It was a long time ago," he adds, his voice steadier now, though I can sense the pain lingering at the edges.

He takes a sip of wine as if it might dull the memory. I pause, searching for the words that might soothe his deep-seated ache.

"Just because she feels like a shadow of the past does not lessen her influence on you," I say, watching as his gaze softens. “Perhaps it’s in the way you smile, or that dimple you try to hide.”

He laughs softly, the mood lightening for a brief moment.

“We often become so lost in the world’s demands that we forget to remember the past that shaped us. The hands that guided us to this moment.”

He studies me.

"And you? Do you think about the past?"

I hesitate, the question tugging at something deep inside me.

“It is the one thing that carries me,” I confess at last, my voice soft. “The only thing that has never faltered. Memories, tales—they are like old companions, even those I wish to leave behind. And for someone like me... that is a rare comfort.”

He tilts his head slightly, watching me as I laugh softly, shaking my head .

"It’s strange, isn’t it? To have all this power and yet no ability to rewrite the past. It’s the one thing I can’t touch, no matter how much I might want to."

Casper gaze lingers on me as though he’s trying to see past my words.

“I understand,” he says after a pause. “The past has driven me for so long. But with you…” His voice lowers, trailing off as he grasps for his next words.

“You make me question if I should keep carrying it at all.” He tilts his head, pausing.

“Maybe it’s time to leave it behind and start something new. ”

The suggestion hit me like a stone dropped into deep water, sending ripples of surprise through me. I force myself to meet his gaze, searching his eyes for the truth.

"You say that," I scoff, my voice trembling, "but the past clings to us. It doesn’t let go, no matter how much we want it to. I know that better than anyone."

Casper leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees as his voice lowers, almost a growl.

"What if it’s not the past holding us back, Lailah? What if it’s us holding onto it because we’re afraid of what happens if we let it go?"

My brows draw together, the feeling of shame crashing into me like a tide I didn’t see coming.

"I don’t know how to let go."

"You don’t have to," he says, his voice steady. "But I will. I’ll carry it with you, even if it breaks me."

I look away, swallowing hard. The vulnerability in his voice is too much.

"Casper…"

"I’m not asking for anything," he says, his resolve firm. "Not now. But understand this—I’ll wait. No matter how long it takes, no matter how much it costs me. I’ll shoulder it, but I won’t walk away."

He pauses, his gaze steady. "Not from you ."

The finality leaves me breathless, and all I can hear is the fire crackling and the distant sound of the river. I press my hands into the dirt, trying to ground myself, to steady the chaos in my heart .

"Don’t promise me things like that," I whisper, my voice breaking.

"Why not?" he asks, leaning closer. "Because you think I won’t keep them? Or because you’re afraid I will?"

It’s a truth I can’t deny anymore. I see him .

In this moment—his past, the woman who raised him, the legacy she left behind.

I see the weight he carries because of her, the violence carved into him like memory.

And I understand, with aching clarity, that we are both forged in fire we didn’t start.

Maybe that’s why I crave him so much—because he understands the burn.

Because even when he offers me a choice, I already know I’ll choose him.

I want him. Gods help me, I want him like I’ve never wanted anything safe.

Casper’s hands find my face, firm but gentle, tilting my chin until I’m forced to meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low and steady. “I’m yours, Lailah.”

Before I can speak, he leans in and kisses me.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s desperate—fierce and possessive, like he’s trying to brand the truth into my bones.

His lips claim me as his hands pull me closer, and I fall willingly into the heat of it.

The world narrows to the taste of him, the feeling of his mouth moving against mine with unrelenting hunger, with need that says we are no longer separate beings, but one. My body melts into his, trembling.

"Casper..."

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The way his hands grip my hips—tight, possessive, as though he's staking a silent claim—says more than words ever could. There’s a hunger in him, as if he’s been starving for this and now that he has it, he’s terrified to let it go.

He draws me into his lap with a fluid pull, our bodies aligning like a memory—familiar, inevitable.

I sink down onto him slowly, my thighs sliding around his, trapping him beneath me.

Every part of him is tense beneath my touch, coiled with restraint so taut I can feel it emanating from him.

He’s not human and yet his body responds to me like a man possessed.

His heartbeat, deep and ancient, thunders beneath my palms, dark and wild and completely mine.

His lips crash against mine like he’s breathing me in, like he’s drowning and I’m the only air he’ll ever need. I gasp against him, fingers tangled in his hair, and his answering growl rumbles through both of us, reverent and ruinous all at once.

“ Lailah …”

My name slips from his lips like a confession, his voice rough and ragged with need. The sound sears itself into my skin as his hands roam over me, slow and reverent, as if my body is the only thing that’s ever made sense to him.