Page 60 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

The coven—her family—is obliterated. The witches, along with the vampires who lived in their sacred space, are slaughtered, their blood staining the earth beneath the towering trees.

The forest, once a place of refuge and magic, becomes a graveyard.

And as the echoes of death fade, something darker remains.

The last lines of the story are etched with a chilling finality:

And now, the forest is not empty. The spirits of the fallen—witches, vampires, and innocents—linger, their souls bound to the land. Anyone who dares to enter the forbidden forest now risks becoming one with the ghosts that haunt its depths.

I shudder, the weight of the story lingering in the air like a thick fog.

The room grows colder, and the pages in my hands seem to darken, as if the tale itself has bled into the room, saturating it with sorrow.

Tears sting the corners of my eyes as the vision of the child in the woods materializes before me—her small form swallowed by the cold, empty night.

She is lost to time, abandoned, her spirit severed from all it once knew, drifting aimlessly in the silence, trapped forever within the haunting embrace of the forest.

I shake my head, as if trying to free myself from this phantom burden. I know this sensation—one of unsettling longing, of yearning for something just beyond my grasp.

But before I can begin to ease the ache in my chest, I feel a light tug at my gloved elbow.

My breath catches in my throat, and I turn, startled, to find Jason’s golden-brown eyes searching mine with an intensity that catches me off guard.

His gaze is steady, concerned. His expression is one of quiet scrutiny, as if he sees something in me I cannot see myself.

My heart skips, and I wonder if I look like I’ve seen a ghost—maybe, in a way, I have .

Jason’s concern shifts, his eyes darting to the book in my hands, and before I can speak, he reaches forward, cupping my face with hands that are warm and grounding.

The room feels smaller as I’m caught between the memory of our first night as husband and wife and now, being here with him, unsure where we stand.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Jason says quietly.

My breath catches as a quiet, unexpected flutter stirs within me—gentle and familiar, yet new. Slowly, I place my hand over his, locking our fingers together. When I pull back slightly, the movement is controlled, but the quickened rhythm of my pulse betrays me.

Jason holds my gaze, the pull between us impossible to deny. I take a measured step back, lowering my hands but not breaking away entirely. A subtle smirk curves at my lips.

“Hiding again, are we?” he asks.

His words carry a hint of amusement, but beneath them, there’s something far more complicated. Jason’s eyes sweep the room slowly before landing on the stack of books on the table beside us. He tilts his head slightly.

“You didn’t want to be found, did you?”

A soft laugh escapes me, more to myself than him, the sound surprising even me. There’s something about him, something about us, that makes it easy to think about falling back into the way we were—natural, effortless. But it’s not the same. Not anymore.

As he studies me, I let my gaze flick to the corner of his mouth.

“That’s healing nicely,” I murmur, nodding faintly toward his lip.

Jason chuckles, the sound low and warm.

“Are you concerned for me, wife?”

I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth lifts despite myself.

“Hardly.”

Jason pulls a chair closer, positioning it just in front of me.

With the same quiet confidence that has always unnerved me, he sits, crossing one foot over the other, exuding an ease I envy.

His posture is casual, but there’s an intensity in his presence, in the way his eyes stay locked on me, as if he’s seeing through every layer I’ve tried to build, as if he can sense my inner conflict.

I remain standing, hovering just out of reach but close enough to feel the tension vibrating between us.

“Where were you this evening?” I ask, keeping my voice light, though curiosity splinters my tone.

“With your father,” he replies smoothly, his honesty disarming me.

The bluntness of his answer catches me off guard, leaving me momentarily silent.

“Talking about what?” I press, narrowing my eyes slightly, though I tread carefully.

“You,” he says simply, the word feeling heavier than I expect.

“And?” I whisper, the question lingering in the charged air.

Jason tenses at my question. He sees it—my hesitation, my unease—and then, his composure shifts.

“He’s thrilled to know you’re… satisfied with me,” he says finally.

The admission sends a jolt through me, and I step back, unnerved by how easily he can say those words.

“You told him…” I begin, my voice trembling, but Jason cuts me off.

“Nothing.”

Slowly, he rises from his chair and steps toward me.

His hand lifts, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that feels at odds with the strain in his voice.

His fingers linger, the touch casual yet charged with an intimacy that sends a ripple through me, far too fervent to ignore.

“Believe it or not, Lailah,” he says, his voice low, quiet like an oath, “I will always protect you. Even if it means standing between you and the king.”

The words land with quiet force.

It isn’t fear that rises in me—it’s the ache of something far more unfamiliar, something quieter and more dangerous: the feeling of being protected without expectation, without demand, without strings.

Clyde doesn’t believe in love, or in loyalty without leverage; he believes in obedience, in power, in control so absolute that even the intimacy of a marriage bed becomes a weapon, a proof of ownership— and if he knew that Jason and I were not sharing one, he would see it not as grief, but as failure, as weakness, as something to correct. And yet, Jason said nothing.

“Thank you,” I murmur, forcing my voice steady. “For not telling him.”

Jason’s hand falls away, but his gaze stays steady.

“It’s no one’s business but ours,” he says gently. “Not even his.”

Relief washes over me as I tilt my head, studying him.

“You probably expected to be sharing a bed with your wife when you agreed to this marriage.”

His expression shifts.

“I want your heart more than your body, Lailah.”

The words resound like a vow as his hand rises again, his fingers grazing the curve of my ear with a tenderness that steals the breath from my lungs.

“You know how much I love your cute little ears?” he says, his voice soft but teasing, his eyes watching me carefully.

I almost laugh, but something in his expression stops me. He’s not joking—at least not entirely.

“What are you searching for, wife?” Jason’s voice is softer now, but unrelenting. The question hangs heavily between us. I can’t ignore it.

I freeze, his gaze pinning me in place.

“I’m not sure,” I say quietly, though the words feel like a lie even as they leave my lips.

I can’t tell him the truth—that I’m here, buried in books, searching for answers to words etched on another man’s dagger.

The gravity of that secret presses against me, shame bubbling under the surface.

Perhaps it’s not just the lie that stirs this unease, but the deeper truth I can’t escape: that he is the one desire I crave most, the one I shouldn’t want but can’t deny.

Jason tilts his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“When you figure it out,” he says, his tone steady. “You know where to find me. ”

He begins to step away, but before he fully turns, I call out, my voice soft yet cutting through the silence.

“And where is that?”

Jason pauses mid-step, his shoulders stiffening before he glances back at me. His gaze meets mine, steady and unguarded, the usual glint of levity in his eyes replaced by something deeper.

“Wherever you want me to be,” he says quietly, his tone serious but laced with a softness that feels disarming.

Jason’s eyes linger on mine, a spark of mischief lighting them as he steps closer and leans slightly forward.

“Where do you want me to be, Lailah?” he asks, his voice low, smooth, and undeniably teasing.

I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head as I reply, “Not here.”

He tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Fair enough. But if you do want me, all you have to do is stop hiding from me.”

“I’m not hiding,” I counter, narrowing my eyes at him, though the slight curve of my lips betrays my amusement.

“No?” Jason leans back slightly, his gaze sweeping the room. His smirk deepens as his eyes find a shadowed corner of the library.

“If my memory serves me well,” he says, his tone playful, “we were right back around that corner the first time I kissed you.”

My breath hitches, my mind instantly conjuring the memory of that long-forgotten moment. Jason’s voice draws me back.

“If I come back here,” he continues, his eyes locking on mine, “that’s the first place I’ll look.”

I open my mouth to reply, but no words come. He knows he’s left me speechless. He leans in, his presence warm and steady, and with a tenderness that makes something in me ache, he presses a kiss to my cheek. The moment lingers—too brief to be anything more, but long enough to stay with me.

Then he turns.

“Jason,” I breathe, reaching out instinctively, my fingers brushing his sleeve.

He pauses mid-step, glancing back with a brow raised, waiting .

“The diamond shawl,” I murmur. “It’s... too much.”

His smirk softens as he tilts his head, his voice lowering with something that sounds too much like knowing.

"You were never one to want to stand out," he says, his gaze steady, his voice low and sure. "But you do, Lailah. Even when you don't mean to. You always have."

I look down, unsure what to say, unsure how to hold this part of him he’s still offering so freely. But he doesn't let the silence swallow us. Instead, he takes a single step forward and murmurs, “It’s for you.”

My gaze traces the lines of his face, the calm in his eyes, the quiet curve of his mouth. I search for words, but they vanish before they reach my lips. He notices. Of course he does. And he smiles, slow and knowing, like he’s always been able to read me.

“Happy hunting, wife,” he says smoothly, his voice dripping with teasing confidence.

Before I can come up with a reply, he winks, turning on his heel and walking away with an easy, self-assured stride.

As Jason disappears through the doorway, the playful smile fades from my lips, and a dull ache settles in my chest. I sink into one of the library’s worn chairs and open a book, letting my fingers trail absently over the fragile pages, but the words blur into nothingness beneath my gaze.

I want to want Jason. I should want Jason.

It would be so easy to fall into step with him again, to let his kindness and warmth carry me into something effortless and familiar.

But the anger that bubbles within me refuses to be soothed, gnawing at the edges of my resolve.

No matter how much I try, I can’t shake Casper’s shadow.

His name lingers in my mind like an unwelcome guest, and the memory of his dark eyes haunts me even now, tugging at places I’ve tried to lock away. Why can’t he leave me? Why does he still occupy the spaces where Jason should stand?

I turn a page, the sound crisp in the silence, but the book offers no escape.

Instead, it mocks me with its calm, its stillness, while my thoughts churn restlessly.

My frustration spills over as I stare at the inked lines.

I want to desire Jason the way he desires me, to let him be enough.

But deep down, I know—there’s a part of me that’s still tethered to Casper, bound by something I can’t name but feel in every stolen thought, every unguarded moment.

It infuriates me, this hold he has over me, this constant pull that won’t let go.

I close the book gently, setting it aside as I lean back, letting my head rest against the cool wood of the chair. The quiet of the library wraps around me, but it does nothing to silence the war within.