Page 37 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)
LAILAH
T he library is silent, bathed in the soft, golden light of early morning.
Dust motes drift lazily in the air, undisturbed by the stillness around me.
My fingers trail along the spines of ancient books, their cracked leather and faded titles whispering of forgotten secrets.
This is where I find myself after a tumultuous night, the solace of these towering shelves my only refuge.
I had slept briefly, no more than a fleeting couple of hours, before restlessness sank its claws into me, dragging me from the comfort of my bed. Now, as the castle slumbers beneath the cover of daylight, I linger in the one place that feels truly mine.
I’m not supposed to be here—not because of any official rule, but because wandering the castle during daylight hours is unheard of.
The vampires who rule these halls, including my father, are creatures of the night.
The day belongs to no one, left in the uneasy hands of human guards my father barely trusts.
I know the risks of slipping out during these hours.
Clyde would not be pleased to know I’m wandering while his chosen guards sleep.
But I can’t bring myself to care. The silence here is different—a peaceful absence rather than the ominous quiet of the night.
I let myself sink into it, the weight of my father’s shadow and the world’s expectations melting away as I wander the rows of books, searching for some form of escape.
Dressed in black pants and a loose tunic, I make no effort to look the part of a princess.
The heavy gowns, the corsets, the meticulously arranged hair—they hold no place in this sanctuary.
My hair falls in unkempt, blood-red waves down my back, a far cry from the intricate styles Sera insists on perfecting.
She would die if she saw me now—I can almost hear her lashing out a lecture in my mind.
Yet here, in the quiet expanse of the library, I’m not the princess, not the weapon my father has meticulously shaped.
I am just Lailah, alone among the books, free from the duty to which I’m bound.
The light streaming through the high windows casts long shadows across the floor, broken only by the occasional flutter of pages as I pull books from the shelves.
The silence wraps around me, comforting in its completeness, allowing my thoughts to quiet.
My bare fingers skim the cracked leather of a book’s spine, the restlessness of the night still lingering in my trembling hands.
I let the scent of parchment and ink ground me, allowing me a momentary reprieve.
It isn’t until the hairs on the back of my neck prickle that I realize I’m no longer alone.
The notion of another presence presses against the silence, subtle but undeniable.
My fingers pause mid-page turn, and a chill sweeps through me.
With a snap of my fingers, black gloves weave themselves over my hands, their smooth, cold fabric anchoring me.
I close the book gently, not daring to make a sound, and turn to face whoever has intruded on my sanctuary.
Jason stands at the edge of the aisle, framed by the soft gold light spilling through the windows. The silence stretches, heavy and taut, as though the room itself is holding its breath. For a moment, neither of us moves, our gazes locked in an unspoken exchange.
I see the hesitation in his stance, the way his fingers brush against the hilt of his sword as though seeking something solid to hold onto. He’s caught between duty and something far more fragile, and though his mouth remains closed, his eyes speak volumes.
I try to return my focus to the book, but his footsteps grow nearer, more heavy, each one unraveling the fragile threads of my concentration.
He settles beside me, his presence oppressive and impossible to ignore.
My grip on the book tightens as my heart quickens, every fiber of my being alert to his nearness. Then his hand moves toward my chin.
I freeze, the gesture almost tender—but not enough to erase the intrusion. Before his fingers can brush my skin, my magic rises, unbidden and unrelenting.
It surges from me, coiling around his wrist like a phantom chain. Icy and unforgiving, it grips him mid-motion, halting him as if the air itself had turned solid. My skin won’t touch his. It can’t. I won’t allow it.
“Fuck!” Jason snarls, the curse slipping out as he jerks back, cradling his hand like he can still feel the sting of my magic.
The coldness lingers, a tangible barrier he should have known better than to cross. My magic isn’t just a shield; it’s a warning, an extension of the unspoken boundaries I’ve set. Jason knows this better than anyone, and yet he still tried.
He stumbles back to the other side of the table, his hands gripping its edge as though he’s fighting to stay grounded.
His breaths are shallow, his chest rising and falling with a pace that matches the tightness in my own.
When he finally meets my gaze, his golden-brown eyes betray a storm of emotions—hurt, iniquity, and something dangerously close to desperation.
The library falls silent except for the faint crackle of the fire, its light dancing against the walls. Jason leans forward slightly, his broad shoulders slumping as though the distance is finally wearing him down.
“Lailah… Can we please talk about this?” His voice is quiet, almost pleading, the edge of desperation slicing through the stillness.
I lift my head slowly, studying him. The dark circles under his eyes speak of a sleepless night, of regrets too heavy to carry.
His loose shirt, the undone buttons, and the disheveled state of his hair tell me more than words ever could.
This isn’t the polished, controlled Jason my father chose to stand at my side.
This is someone unraveling, someone undone.
I rise, the scrape of my chair against the stone floor cutting through the stillness.
My steps echo softly as I round the table, keeping my gaze fixed on him.
Jason doesn’t move, though I see his shoulders relax, just barely, as if my approach might signal the beginning of something close to forgiveness.
It isn’t.
“She means nothing to me.”
His words tumble forward like he’s trying to outrun their implication. His eyes meet mine, wide and pleading, but his apology feels feigned.
“She means nothing?” I repeat, my voice low and quiet, laced with disbelief. My gaze pierces his, unrelenting, searching for the truth he’s so desperate to bury.
“Then who is she, Jason?” I demand, my jaw tightening with every word, anger rising like a tide that threatens to consume me.
Jason’s hands twitch at his sides as though he wants to reach for me, but he hesitates.
His fingers hover just shy of my gloved hands, and the atmosphere thickens unbearably, charged with emotion.
Disgust twists like a vise around my lungs.
He drops his hands, shoving them into his pockets, his shoulders stiff with tension.
He exhales, his teeth gritting as though wrestling with words he doesn’t want to speak.
“Do you even have an answer, or is this just some act to win my heart?” I snap, my voice slicing through the silence.
I’m done waiting for him to piece together excuses.
Jason shakes his head slowly, his brow furrowing as though my words cut him deeper than he’s willing to admit. His lips part, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, steady, and devastatingly certain.
“We both know I already have it.”
The air leaves my lungs, shock flooding my system and rooting me in place. I stare at him, frozen, as his gaze holds mine with a quiet intensity that feels like both a challenge and an admission .
Anger churns within me as I lift my chin, forcing a composure I don’t feel. I search Jason’s face, desperate to find something—remorse, an apology—but all I see is smug certainty, as though betrayal could never unseat what he thinks he already owns. Bile rises in my throat, bitter and unwelcome.
“How dare you speak as if you still know me,” I whisper, trembling with restrained fury. “As if you know anything about my heart.”
The weight of it builds like a tide too long held back. For years, I waited for him to choose me, to claim me, but that longing has eroded, leaving only emptiness behind. It’s a gaping void where hope once lived, and it’s spreading, consuming every ounce of feeling in its path.
Jason doesn’t flinch. He only nods, once, as if he’s prepared for this.
“Then tell me I’m wrong.”
His eyes lock onto mine, and something in them dares me to look away. “Tell me you never thought of me after I left,” he continues. “That you never wondered where I was, who I was with. That you didn’t imagine what it would’ve been like if I had stayed.”
I try to speak, but the words catch like thorns in my throat.
“You can’t,” he says, and there’s something cruel in how certain he sounds. “You want to hate me for leaving, for finding comfort in the arms of someone else. Fine, but don’t stand here and lie about what you felt. About what you still feel.”
My fingers curl into fists at my sides.
“ I know you. ” He says, softer now.
I want to look away, to distance myself from the quiet power he holds over me, but my body betrays me.
I stand frozen as Jason steps closer. His knuckles graze my cheek with a gentle touch that feels almost overwhelming.
My breath catches, my heart fluttering as his eyes meet mine, then drop lower, tracing the line of my lips.
He leans in, his intent unmistakable. I hesitate, confused, but before I can react, his hands thread into my hair, and his lips crash against mine.