Page 36 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

His denial is suffocating. Before I can speak again, I feel a familiar hand tilt my chin upward. I turn, my body stiffening as my father’s dark gaze meets mine. His hand, firm but measured, guides my face toward him. There’s a faint edge of warning beneath his calm tone.

“My sweet,” he says softly, his voice low but commanding.

I lower my eyes, a gesture of respect I’ve practiced my entire life, though tonight the motion feels heavier.

When I lift them, an ache I can’t ignore burrows deep in my bones.

My father has never turned his cruelty on me directly, not in the way he does with others, but tonight his words cut deeper than ever.

He spoke with full knowledge of Jason’s wandering eye, yet he still made me the centerpiece of this charade, as if my pain were just another piece in his endless game.

“Jason,” Clyde says, voice smooth as polished steel, “would you grant me a moment with my daughter?”

The words are courteous, but the smile he offers Jason is carved too precisely to be warm. Jason stiffens. His gaze meets mine for a breath—hesitant, searching—before shifting to Clyde’s .

“Of course, Your Grace,” he says, the title clipped, respectful. He looks at me once more, then steps aside in silence.

His hand falls from my chin, resting briefly against his chest before he extends his arm.

I hesitate, the weight of his expectations pressing down on me, but years of training pull me forward.

I slide my hand into the crook of his arm and straighten my posture, though I feel like I’m crumbling inside.

He leads me to the center of the room and the crowd parts without hesitation, their heads bowing in deference to the Vampire King.

Around us, the music swells, laughter chimes softly, and dancers spin in perfect synchrony, but none of it touches me.

The room is a blur of shimmering gowns and twirling figures, another performance in the unending show of courtly life.

Every step feels scripted, every glance rehearsed, every moment choreographed for a story I no longer want to play a part in.

My father’s grip remains firm, and the heavy silence makes him seem far away.

“My sweet,” he says at last, though his voice lacks the warmth I once believed it held.

“It has been a long night. Will you forgive my earlier harshness? My anger should have been directed at him , not you.”

His gaze shifts briefly to Jason, who stands near the wall, his posture rigid, his face carefully neutral. My father’s disappointment lingers in the air, his words doing nothing to soothe me. If his anger wasn’t for me, why did it feel like a blade carving through my heart?

More importantly, why had his anger been for Casper?

The question gnaws at me, lingering like a splinter beneath my skin.

My father had looked at him not just with rage, but with something deeper, something possessive.

As if Casper’s presence at my side was a personal affront, a challenge rather than a simple transgression.

But how? What history lay between them, hidden just beyond my grasp?

And why had Casper become a shadow of himself in my father’s presence—his defiance, his fire, vanishing behind a mask I had never seen before?

I lean slightly into him, resting my head briefly on his shoulder. The gesture is meant to bridge the distance, but it feels vacant. He presses a kiss to the crown of my head, a motion that might have comforted me once, but now it only deepens the ache.

Tears threaten to rise, but I blink them away.

This was supposed to be a celebration, a night of joy, yet it feels more like a battlefield.

My father’s veiled disappointment, Jason’s distant gaze, the whispers of betrayal that seem to follow me everywhere—all of it rests like a yoke on my shoulders.

And yet, as always, I still yearn for his approval.

“Don’t fret, Father,” I say quietly, a faint smile lifting the corners of my mouth though it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Men will be men, one way or another.”

The words taste bitter, but I know they’re what he wants to hear. Leaning in, I press a kiss to his cool cheek, an act of rehearsed affection meant to smooth the jagged edges of the evening.

He hesitates, his face expressionless, before he pulls back. His gaze shifts to Jason, hardening as he steps forward, ready to address the insult to his household. The air around him changes, his authority palpable, and though I know his fury is meant for Jason, I still feel the weight of it.

I can’t bear to be in this room any longer. Without another word, I slip away, my footsteps quiet as I make my way out of the ball room and into the cool hallway beyond. The air here feels cleaner, freer, and the echo of my heels against the stone is the only sound.

I move quickly toward the west wing staircase, each step marking a steady, grounding rhythm that quiets the chaos in my mind. But as I near the first turn, a soft touch grazes my elbow, halting me mid-stride. Even before I turn, I know who it is.

Taking a steadying breath, I turn to face her—the woman with golden eyes that gleam like embers.

She stands before me, her posture regal, as though she has every right to challenge me here.

As though she belongs. My gaze sweeps over her, taking in the sharp set of her chin, the tilt of her shoulders, the curve of her lips.

She doesn’t bother to hide it. Her boldness almost commands admiration, but instead, it stirs something bitter inside me.

A practiced smile forms on my lips, cold yet polite.

Without hesitation, I extend my gloved hand toward her, a mark of civility I don’t feel.

She hesitates only for a fraction of a second, her gaze shifting between my eyes and the hand I’ve offered.

Then, with calculated elegance, she takes it.

Her touch is featherlight, her fingers grazing the silk of my glove as she lowers her head and presses a kiss to my palm.

Her curtsy is fluid, precise, every movement carefully measured to project the grace she thinks she possesses.

But as she rises, she steps closer, breaching the space between us. Her breath warms my cheek as she leans in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

“He is mine ,” she says, her tone soft yet cutting, each word like an arrow carefully aimed at my chest.

I remain still, letting her audacity echo in the stillness. Most would have faltered by now, their arrogance crumbling beneath the quiet darkness that surrounds me, but not her. She holds her ground, defiance radiating from her in waves.

A soft, bitter laugh escapes my lips, colder than the air surrounding us.

I tilt my head toward her, so close now that I can see the subtle unease in her golden eyes.

It’s faint, but it’s there—a crack in her confident facade.

Slowly, I lean closer, my lips brushing the shell of her ear as I speak, my voice low and stern.

“He’s yours.” I let the words linger, deliberately stretching the silence.

Her shoulders shift slightly, and I catch the flash of relief across her features, the faint relaxation in her stance as she begins to believe she’s won.

I tighten the grip of my hand on hers. The smooth silk of my glove presses against her skin, and I feel her pulse quicken beneath my touch. Slowly, I pull back just enough to meet her gaze, my eyes glinting coldly as I finish.

“In the bedroom, in his dreams, in every fleeting moment, he may be yours. But at the end of the day, he belongs to me. My father owns his loyalty, and I own everything else. Be careful, darling, not to let your strings get tangled. Puppets tend to break when they fall underfoot. ”

I release her hand and step past her without another glance. She doesn't follow. Doesn't speak. Just stands there—still, silent—her boldness cracking beneath my words, though not yet fully shattered. The venom in my voice clings to the air, suffocating and final.

The further I walk down the corridor, the more my heart and body ache.

When I reach my chambers, I shut the door behind me with a heavy thud.

The sound reverberates through the room, drowning out the distant music and chatter of the court.

My trembling fingers fumble with the lock before I lean back against the door, exhaling a long, shaky breath.

I sink to the cold stone floor, pressing my palms against it, letting the chill seep into my skin. My legs feel weak beneath me, and I feel as though I might drown under the tidal wave of emotions the evening has wrought. Lies, betrayal, and the endless charade swirl in my mind, refusing to quiet.

Then, faintly, footsteps approach from the other side of the door. They stop just beyond it, the silence broken only by the soft rhythm of breathing. My breath catches as I wait, internally willing whoever it is to leave. But then, the knock comes.

“Lailah…” Jason’s voice is soft, laden with desperation. “Please, let me explain.”

The sound of his voice twists something deep inside me. Anger. Resentment. Disdain. I don’t answer. I can’t. Instead, I press my hands harder against the cold floor, grounding myself in its unyielding solidity as his voice falters.

“Lailah… please…”

The words trail off into silence, and I let myself believe he’s gone. But the knock comes again, louder this time, insistent.

“Let me explain.”

My hand drifts toward the door, my fingertips brushing the smooth wood, but I hesitate. A soft murmur slips from my lips, and a swirl of dark mist unfurls from my fingertips. The shadows rise, twisting and coiling like smoke, forming a barrier. It is pure darkness, swallowing every sound.

The silence that follows is immediate, absolute.

The absence of his pleading feels almost jarring, the quiet ringing in my ears like a melody I don’t recognize.

But then I exhale slowly, the quiet wrapping around me like a comforting shroud.

For the first time tonight, I feel something close to peace.

I rise from the floor, my body heavy with exhaustion.

I fumble for the delicate clasps of my dress, undoing them one by one until the fabric pools at my feet.

The jewelry follows, discarded in a heap of clattering metal and jewels on the ground.

Sliding beneath the cool silk sheets of my bed, I let the sensation of the fabric anchor me to the stillness.

Staring up at the darkened ceiling, the evening’s events replay in my mind, vivid and unrelenting.

The ache in my chest refuses to ease, the memory of Casper flickering like a flame in the back of my mind.

Tonight was chaos. Swept from Casper’s warmth into Jason’s arms, all I felt was anger—anger at the lies, the betrayal, the farce everyone around me insists on upholding.

My bones ache from the weight of having to play my part perfectly.

I felt with Casper something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years—safe.

That feeling, so foreign and fleeting, filled me with shame.

Shame because it wasn’t Jason who gave it to me.

Shame because I had let myself lean into it, even for just a moment.

Shame because now, lying here, I am questioning everything—my duty, my loyalty, and my own heart.

Casper’s words linger in my mind, heavy and haunting.

It’s as if he knew—as if he’s always known—about Jason, about my father’s plans, about the burden I carry.

His gaze tonight had held something I couldn’t place—understanding, perhaps, or something darker.

Whatever it was, it unsettled me in a way I don’t want to admit.

Jason, by contrast, felt like a stranger. His touch was cold, his gaze distant, his presence empty. He played his part, as I played mine, but beneath it all, there was nothing. I clutch the pillow tightly, willing myself to be calm, but the questions refuse to stop.

What am I doing?

The shame clings to me like a shadow, as does the memory of that fleeting safety. My breath hitches as I think of what it might mean. And yet, amid the chaos, it is the memory of Casper’s dagger that cuts through unexpectedly.

I let out a muted, bitter laugh. Of all the mysteries surrounding me, of course that’s the one my mind clings to.

It feels absurd, but perhaps that’s why it stands out—it’s something tangible, something I can define in a world of unanswered questions.

I sink back into the mattress, the silence enveloping me.

My thoughts swirl, refusing to settle, fragments of memories and stories from the library spinning in a maddening dance.

My body feels heavy, each breath slowing as the exhaustion I’ve ignored for too long finally catches up to me.

As my eyes close, the story comes alive in my mind, unbidden.

A forest, vast and ancient, stretches endlessly before me.

The trees stand tall, their roots tangled together in quiet solidarity.

Dappled light filters through the canopy, painting the mossy floor in hues of green and gold.

There is peace here, a quiet harmony that feels sacred, untouched.

I picture the witches walking through the woods, their hands glowing faintly with magic, their soft laughter carried on the breeze.

Vampires linger in the shadows, their movements elegant, their watchful eyes a silent promise of protection.

The balance between them feels natural, unshakable, like the rhythm of the seasons or the cycle of the moon.

The whispers of the story wrap around me, pulling me deeper into the dream.

The witches weave their spells into the very earth, their magic thrumming in the air.

The vampires, strong and unyielding, guard the boundaries, scanning the edges of the forest. Together, they create a sanctuary—a place where trust exists without question, where power doesn’t breed fear, but respect.

The woods grow more vivid, the sounds and smells sharpening in my mind.

I can almost feel the coolness of the earth beneath my bare feet, the dampness of the air as it clings to my skin.

The trees seem alive, their branches swaying gently as though in conversation.

But as the vision deepens, it begins to shift, the golden light dimming, the whispers growing quieter.

The woods blur, the harmony unraveling into silence.

A pang of loss tugs at me, but I am too far gone to reach for it, my body surrendering fully to sleep.

The last image lingers, soft and fleeting—the witches and vampires, side by side, their silhouettes fading into the forest.