Page 6 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

The comment strikes me, the implication deeply unsettling. The way he says it—like the truth is something palpable—makes my breath falter. No ordinary man speaks like that.

“Maybe I’m not,” I say. “But wouldn’t you like to know?”

His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter. It holds me, ensnares me .

A slow beat of silence.

His jaw clenches, the muscle feathering beneath his skin. Then—just barely—I catch the low growl of approval, deep in his throat, like he’s savoring my defiance. Something tightens in my core. I force a soft smile, tilting my head as if his reaction hasn’t shaken something loose inside me.

“Maybe I’m just looking for trouble,” I add, my voice softer now, teasing—but the way he watches me makes the air thicker, heavier. My own words betray me, their weight settling deep in my ribs.

He studies me, his gaze lingering a moment too long, as if searching for something buried beneath the surface. When he speaks, his voice is low and devastatingly soft.

"I think we both know that’s not true."

I barely have time to react before his eyes drop to my lips. A second, maybe less. But it’s enough. I can feel the mood shift, the atmosphere darkening.

And then, I see it.

A flash of something sharp. His fangs. My breath stutters, my body locking tight, but not in fear. No—not fear. I should have known.

Vampire.

The thought should send me turning the other way. But it doesn’t. Because what I feel isn’t fear—it’s a gradual, creeping awareness that I’m not as invisible as I told myself I’d be.

I didn’t come out here to be seen. I came to disappear.

No title, no guards, no eyes tracking my every breath.

Just a mask and a few stolen hours in a city that doesn’t know my name.

I told myself that was freedom. That if I kept my head down and my voice low, I could move through the night untouched.

But now—this man. This vampire. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He just watches.

In Astral, vampires don’t act on curiosity. They act on orders. Bound by blood, by law, and worse—by my father’s will. They don’t have the luxury of disobedience. Whether they walk through courts or shadows, it’s all the same. They see. They report. They serve .

I don’t know him. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know me.

My father’s spies don’t wear uniforms or offer polite warnings.

They blend in. They’re trained to. He could’ve seen me in passing, heard whispers, caught a glimpse through someone else’s eyes.

And if he recognizes me now—if he even suspects—I’ve lost control of tonight.

And yet I don’t move.

A reckless, traitorous part of me wants him to see me. Not the mask. Not the name. Me . And that’s the part that scares me most. Because I don’t know what’s more dangerous—being recognized, or being forgotten.

He watches me carefully, unmoving, his body composed with a stillness that feels purposeful. And for a brief moment, I can feel the shape of my realization settle—quiet and tense, like a held breath.

“I should have known you were one of those,” I murmur, the words almost an afterthought, shaped with quiet curiosity rather than accusation.

He tilts his head, amusement passing across his face.

“One of those?”

I meet his eyes and nod once, calm and deliberate. “A vampire.”

His posture adjusts, just slightly—shoulders drawing back, chin lifting by a fraction. The smile lingers, but something beneath it stills. A pause, precise and unblinking. The air between us sharpens, like the space itself has leaned in to listen.

“Depends on who’s asking,” he says, his voice low.

I offer a slight shrug, a gesture of careless charm, letting a veil of indifference fall over my words.

“I’m just a curious girl, interested in the stories people like to tell. Vampires seem to collect more than most.”

His brow arches, though he does not move. He watches me closely now—closer than before—as if trying to decide whether I am exactly what I appear to be, or something else entirely.

“Are you asking if the rumors are true?” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower, the edges of it softening into something more grounded—something serious. Something real.

I lift my glass to my lips, smirking against the rim .

“I guess that depends on which ones you’re talking about.”

His lips twitch into the faintest smile.

A pause—just long enough to make me feel the weight of his attention before he speaks again.

“And which ones are you most curious about?"

I hold his gaze, unwilling to flinch.

“I think people like to romanticize vampires,” I say, tilting my head. “No heart, no soul… cursed to exist rather than live.” My voice is light, almost teasing, but my fingers tighten around my glass. “Tell me—does any of it hold truth?”

Something in his demeanor shifts .

His expression turns stoic as he watches me. Then, without a word, he steps closer. My breath catches, my grip tightening around my glass.

His voice drops lower, edged with something I can’t quite place. " And what is it you hope is true?"

A challenge. A demand.

I swallow, pulse betraying me.

"I suppose that rests on which stories are worth believing," I say, tilting my head, searching his face.

His gaze lingers, waiting— expecting something.

I exhale slowly, letting my expression soften as I pivot.

“But there is something I’ve always wondered.”

His brow lifts slightly, but he doesn’t step back. "And what is that?"

I glance toward a nearby table where a golden-haired stranger sits bathed in lantern light, laughter tumbling effortlessly from her lips, all ease and beauty and light. She is the kind of woman men notice. The kind that draws attention without trying. Then, slowly, I return my gaze to him.

"It is said that vampires are drawn to a certain kind of woman." My voice lowers, laced with a challenge meant to get under his skin. “I wonder if there is truth in it.”

It is a subtle move, carefully placed—a shift meant to pull his focus elsewhere, to loosen the thread tightening around me.

But Casper does not so much as glance in her direction .

His eyes remain on mine, unflinching, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet but firm.

“That is not the kind of woman who holds my interest.”

Something in his tone unsettles me. My fingers tighten around my glass, but I lift my chin, forcing my voice to steady.

"Oh? And whom do you favor, then?"

He leans in, slow, deliberate. Hungry.

" One who does not cower behind a mask," he murmurs, his voice sliding through me. " One unafraid to be seen. "

Something inside me fractures. The words land too deep, sink too far. This is no idle talk. No careless reply. It’s recognition.

And—gods help me—I feel seen.

I force myself to keep a level tone despite the storm raging inside me. " Well ," I say, cocking my head, " it seems I am not the woman you seek to steal away into the night, either."

He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly.

"I do not think you are one to be stolen at all."

I arch a brow. " And what makes you so certain?"

His gaze does not waver. It presses into me, heavy as a hand against my skin, a force I cannot shake.

" Because ," he murmurs, his voice dipping low. " One such as you does not give herself so easily. You are not seeking something fleeting."

My body quivers, hot and cold all at once.

" Is that so?" My voice is more harsh than I planned, but I do not step away.

Without hesitation, he steps forward again.

The distance vanishes—erased, obliterated. For a moment, I think he might kiss me. His breath is warm against my lips, his presence suffocating, and when he speaks, it is scarcely a whisper—words meant for me, only me.

" Something raw," he murmurs. " Something real."

His warmth skims my skin, and I ache. For something I do not understand. For something that terrifies me.

For him .

Through the thick air of the tavern—cloaked in ale and sweat—I catch his scent, dark and unshakable.

Leather and something sweet, something forbidden.

It lingers, not just in the air but in me, winding itself around my body like it belongs there.

It isn’t just a smell—it’s a presence, a quiet claim that seeps beneath my skin.

A pull at the very marrow of me. A temptation I should flee from, yet one that feels inevitable, inescapable.

It drowns me.

And for a heartbeat, the world shifts beneath me. My breath hitches. My fingers tremble.

I step back.

My pulse is a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs, but I force my voice steady. Cool.

" Careful ," I warn. " I might break your heart."

His eyes— those impossible, knowing eyes —darken, flashing with something unreadable.

" And here I thought vampires had none to break."

His words curl around me, pull me back in. And I realize, in that moment, that I am already his .

We stand there, trapped in something far greater than just a gaze.

The pull grows with each breath, each silent second stretching impossibly long.

My breath comes quick and shallow, the air in my lungs thick and burning.

My stomach twists, hot and heavy, and the pulse hammering through my veins no longer feels like my own.

His eyes, dark and knowing, devouring , seem to strip me bare. See me. Know me.

The tavern around us fades. The world itself pauses .

Then—he moves.

His fingers slowly find the edge of my mask, daring me to stop him. I don’t. With a careful tug, he lifts it away, peeling back the last barrier I have. Cool air brushes my skin, but it’s nothing compared to his searing, unrelenting gaze.

I feel bare, stripped in a way that has nothing to do with the mask and everything to do with him. He watches me like he’s seeing something no one else ever has, something I’m not sure I’m ready to let him find.