Page 15 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

LAILAH

A s the warmth of the bath surrounds me, my thoughts begin to drift, carried by Jason’s cryptic words.

“A great opportunity to join the vampire royal family.” The more I replay it in my mind, the more the words gnaw at me.

What did he mean by that? Was this really about a marriage, about joining families?

Or was it something more—a strategic move, a duty, perhaps?

The lingering thought unsettles me, but it’s not just Jason’s words that plague me.

It’s also the way the servant had looked at him.

Her doe-like eyes followed Jason with possessive intensity, barely acknowledging me, as though I were no more than a passing shadow.

And yet, Jason’s gaze never fell from me.

The contrast between the two of them confounds me. Her attention had seemed so expectant, almost as if she already knew her place beside him, while I—his promised bride—was left questioning whether I was truly wanted.

I push the thoughts away, willing myself to focus on the soothing sensations of the bath, but they cling to me like a lingering echo.

The gentle lapping of water against the sides of the tub should be calming, yet it only feeds the disquiet swirling within me.

I close my eyes, trying to anchor myself, to find something steady amid the chaos in my mind.

But the more I try, the more the stress of the day settles into my bones, pulling me deeper into my thoughts.

I had hoped the warm water would wash the unease away, that the lavender-scented steam curling around me might weave a lullaby strong enough to silence the noise.

Yet, the tension persists. I let the bathwater cradle me, my head tilted back, my breathing steady.

I’d asked my maid to bring milk and honey, but her absence stretches too long.

Something—or someone—must have kept her from returning.

The stillness of the room amplifies the sound of my breath and the faint ripples of water. I glance around to confirm I’m alone before letting my hands emerge from the bath. My fingers begin their rhythmic dance, pulling on the invisible threads of my magic.

The water responds instantly, deepening into a soft violet hue as the familiar scent of lavender thickens in the steam. Slowly, another note begins to bloom—a darker, warmer fragrance that winds through the lavender without overwhelming it. Nightrose.

Rich and velvety, with a whisper of smoke and sweetness beneath it.

The surface stirs. Petals begin to form, rising from the water like breath pulled from memory.

A single nightrose blooms from the water, its black-violet petals edged in silver, delicate yet vivid.

I reach for it, cupping it in my palm, watching as droplets slide from its silken edges.

A soft smile touches my lips. A moment of stillness, conjured just for me.

But it vanishes just as quickly, shattered by the crash of metal behind me.

I twist toward the noise, startled, and spot the tray of milk and honey spilled across the tiles, a sticky mess glistening under the light—my maid standing frozen beside it, wide-eyed.

Her trembling hands cover her mouth, her wide eyes fixed on me, as though I’ve done something criminal.

Her fear is almost palpable, cutting through the warmth of the bath like a cold wind.

I meet her gaze, exhaling through my nose before rolling my eyes.

It’s always like this—shock, fear, judgment.

Without a word, I sink beneath the surface of the water, letting it swallow me whole.

The violet ripples close over my head, the world above dissolving into muffled silence.

Down here, the pressure of the water wraps around me like a shield, insulating me from stares and whispers.

Here, I don’t have to explain myself. I don’t have to mask the way I move or breathe or exist. For a few precious moments, I am untouchable.

But I can’t stay submerged forever. Slowly, I resurface, the air in the room feeling heavier now, more tense. My maid is gone, replaced by Sera, who leans casually against the doorframe, her arms crossed, a familiar smirk tugging at her lips.

“You know,” she says dryly, “every time you vanish into a deep, dark pool like that, people are going to think you’re drowning—or worse.”

A soft, bitter laugh escapes me as I rise from the bath, reaching for the towel draped nearby.

Wrapping it around myself, I pad to the vanity and sit down, tossing my damp braid over one shoulder.

My scarred hands find the jar of lotion, and I begin carefully smoothing it into my skin, each motion grounding me.

Sera doesn’t move, but I can feel her eyes on me, discerning yet softened by concern.

"Are you okay?" Sera asks, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

The question lingers in the air, pressing against me like the weight of the water moments before.

I hadn’t thought I wasn’t okay, but her words burrow under my skin, planting doubt where there wasn’t any before.

My hands falter, hovering over the jar of lotion, and I glance at her. I summon a small smile.

"I'm fine." My voice is even, yet so close to breaking.

Sera doesn’t move from her place by the door, but I feel her watching me—not intrusively, but with a familiar patience she always seems to carry, like she’s waiting for me to return to myself.

Then, slowly, she steps forward, the soft rustle of her skirt the only sound in the room. She kneels at the edge of the bath and reaches toward the water, her fingers brushing the surface with reverence as she lifts the nightrose from where it floats.

She smiles down at it, cradling the bloom as if it were sacred .

“It’s beautiful,” she says softly, her voice just above a whisper.

My brows pull together, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. It lingers, softening into something warm and genuine.

To her, I've never been a monster. And it means more than she will ever know.

But the moment passes too quickly, dissolving like steam in the air.

I rise and move to the wardrobe, opening its doors and letting my fingers drift over the array of soft fabrics hanging there.

The textures offer a distraction, something tangible to tether myself to.

Each gown seems too extravagant, too demanding for the night ahead.

The silence stretches. I know she’s giving me space, waiting for me to acknowledge whatever I’m holding back. My fingers hover indecisively over the gowns until Sera speaks again, her voice lighter this time.

“Do I need to choose for you?” she teases, a hint of a smile in her tone.

The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I reply, though my hands remain still.

Her melodic laugh rings out, cutting through the quiet heaviness in the room.

“You’re hopeless,” she says with a faint shake of her head. “Move aside. I’ll save you from yourself.”

I step back, folding my arms as I watch her cross to the wardrobe with her usual enthusiasm.

Even from a distance, her energy radiates, her hands deftly sifting through fabrics and embellishments as if piecing together a puzzle.

She cares about the details I’d rather ignore, and for a fleeting moment, I feel a wave of gratitude for her.

“Here,” Sera announces triumphantly, holding up a black tulle gown.

I blink at her, arching a brow.

“Black? Really?” I ask, tilting my head. “Weren’t you the one who said black doesn’t do me justice? Something about how I ‘fade into the shadows like a brooding gargoyle’? ”

Sera pauses, tapping her chin as if she’s giving my words serious thought.

“Well, I didn’t use those exact words, but now that you mention it… they’re pretty accurate.”

I laugh despite myself, shaking my head.

“And yet, here you are, championing black.”

Her grin widens.

“Call it character growth. Besides, if anyone can make black work, it’s you. Brooding gargoyle chic is all the rage this season.”

Sera hums as she unfastens the laces on my gown.

She always hums when she's nervous, though she'd never admit it.

I remember the first time she entered my chambers—barely sixteen, all elbows and attitude.

Clyde brought Sera to the castle under the guise of gifting me a handmaiden, as if that might somehow mend whatever he believed had fractured when Jason left.

They assigned her to me—a pretty noble girl from the Riverlands who bragged she’d once fought off another drunk lord with nothing but a candlestick. I liked her instantly. And in the end, he gave me something else entirely—the only friend I have ever known.

I roll my eyes.

“Right. I’ll just perch on the castle roof while I’m at it.”

“Perfect,” she quips, her tone dry but amused. “Add some thunder and lightning, and you’ll have the whole court swooning.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, though I try to stifle it. “Fine.”

I step into the gown, Sera continuing to offer suggestions and commentary as I adjust the fabric into place.

She describes how the neckline should sit, how the gown will draw just the right attention.

It’s as if her excitement spills into the air, brushing against me even from a distance—too bright, too eager, like a veil thrown over the trembling underneath.

The gown fits perfectly, its soft layers brushing against my skin. Sera circles around me like an artist appraising her work, her eyes narrowed in ardent focus. She kneels briefly, smoothing the hem, then steps back, tilting her head .

“Now, sit,” she commands, gesturing to the stool in front of the vanity. “Your hair is the final touch.”

I sigh but sink into the seat, watching her through the mirror.

“You act like I’m your masterpiece.”

“You are,” she replies, unraveling my braid between her fingers. “Besides, you’d just pull it back and call it a day. Someone has to make sure you don’t look like you’ve crawled out of a library.”