Page 62 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

The scar on his cheek pulls into a dimple, turning his smile into something disarming. I take a step closer to him, my eyes narrowing.

“Who were those men?” I ask, this time with force.

“Guards,” he replies, and I can hear the sincerity in his voice. “Not loyal to your father.”

Not loyal to my father . My breath catches in my throat.

“Or did you mean your newly acquired father-in-law?”

I freeze. My jaw clenches as a thousand questions flood my mind, but I don’t answer.

I wait, forcing silence, hoping he’ll reveal more.

He steps closer to me, his presence unsettling in the most intoxicating way.

I move without thinking, my hips swaying just enough to catch the light of the moon.

It’s a subtle dance, one I’ve perfected—one I know well.

My father taught me the art of seduction, how to wield it as a weapon when brute force fails.

And for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that Callum would prefer the brute force.

But as I step closer, Callum doesn’t flinch, standing firm like he’s daring me to make the first move.

He doesn’t look away. Instead, his eyes darken, and I feel the magnetic pull of his attention.

I drag the tip of my dagger across his chest, the cold metal gleaming in the torchlight.

My movements are measured, as I press just enough for him to feel the threat without breaking his skin.

It glides upward, tracing the line of his shirt until the blade rests at the base of his chin.

He still doesn’t move. There’s no fear in him, and I can’t decide if that makes him more intriguing.

“You know who I am?” I ask, curious despite myself.

He leans in, his breath hot against my ear.

“I know exactly who you are, Your Grace”

His words are lethal, sending a jolt of unease through my body. But before I can react, an arrow whistles through the air, landing mere inches from us.

I gasp as Callum moves without warning, spinning me behind a thick tree trunk and pressing his body close to mine.

His muscles are firm, warm against the chill of the night, and I can feel the pull between us—between the risk of the situation and the undeniable pull of his presence.

His breath mixes with mine, and for an instant, everything else fades into the background.

Callum’s eyes shift from my eyes to my lips and back again, a sultry smile playing on his face.

“Maybe in another lifetime, beautiful,” he murmurs.

He pulls away, moving with deadly grace, as though he’s done this a thousand times before. He draws knives from his waist, hurling them with lethal precision. Each one hits its mark, sending the guards collapsing in a heap without a sound. It’s effortless. Smooth. A dance of violence.

I stand there, breathless, as the chaos unfolds before me.

I reach out, my fingers curling into the air, and dark tendrils of magic flow from my fingertips, swirling in the night.

Before Callum can throw another dagger, my tendrils are already there, wrapping around the neck of the last human guard.

With a firm tug, his head is severed from his body, falling to the ground with a sickening thud.

Callum watches me, his dark eyes alight with a mixture of respect and amusement.

“Maybe I was wrong,” he says, his voice a low murmur.

I look at him, unsure of whether I’m pleased or unsettled by his words. His gaze lingers on me a moment longer before he turns back to the fallen guards. The last guard’s blood sputters from his windpipe.

As we approach the guard, his eyes lock onto mine, and a wave of hatred washes over his face, full of malice.

Callum’s gaze flickers toward me. Then, with quiet ease, he retrieves the knife still lodged in the man’s chest, sliding it back into his belt, as if reclaiming a piece of unfinished business.

I kneel beside the guard and hold my fingers against his throat, feeling the faint pulse of life that still clings to him. Blood begins to trickle, warm and thick, onto my fingertips. Callum’s breath catches in his throat, a hiss escaping him at the sight of the blood.

“He’s dead.” Callum mutters, his voice tinged with disdain, as my fingers press harder against the guard’s wound.

My magic flows into his severed artery, knitting it together as the blood that once poured freely begins to slow.

The guard's breath hitches, his chest rising and falling erratically as he stops gasping for air, momentarily suspended between life and death.

His eyes widen in shock, a silent plea hidden behind their raw panic.

Callum steps closer, his boots silent on the dirt, his presence an unnerving calm in the chaos of the moment. I lean over the guard as his pulse weakens beneath my fingertips. I lower my face to his, my breath steady and controlled, as I lean close enough to whisper in his ear.

“Who sent you?” I murmur.

My hand moves, brushing his damp, ashen hair away from his face, revealing the streaks of blood and dirt that mark him.

Father’s lessons echo in my mind, his cold, methodical teachings on the art of torture.

This isn’t my first time prolonging a death, keeping someone tethered to life just long enough to extract the answers I need.

He’d always told me that a man, when faced with his end, would seek comfort in the touch of a woman.

As though the warmth of her hand, the softness of her voice, would bring him peace on the edge of death.

He believed that women, who bring men into this world, should be the last thing men see before they leave it.

I lean down, my lips grazing his forehead in a gesture that should feel tender, but is instead calculated and cold.

“Tell me,” I whisper, my voice soft like an angel’s promise, “and I’ll let you pass in peace.”

But the truth is far darker. Little does he know, I’ll give him no peace.

I’ll let him linger in agony until the answers spill from him.

His eyes lock onto mine, still filled with defiance, though the rage has dulled, replaced by something almost…

sad. The tears gathering in his eyes glisten, a reflection of his fear.

His mouth twitches as I stroke his cheek with the gentleness of a lover, yet my touch is anything but.

“He will never find it,” he mutters through clenched teeth, the blood spilling from his lips as he speaks.

The words are a challenge, an accusation. I pause, tilting my head slightly to study him. As if he’s figured out the game I’m playing, his eyes harden again, narrowing with spite .

“Whore,” he spits, the word thick with venom.

And just like that, the warmth of my magic fades, and I withdraw my hand, leaving him to die in silence.

The bitterness of his words is like a poison in the air, but I don’t flinch.

Instead, I watch as his eyes cloud over, and the blood begins to flow freely once again, the life finally draining from his body.

I stand slowly, my gaze lingering on the guard's lifeless form before meeting Callum’s. His eyes betray an emotion I can’t decipher—longing, perhaps, or admiration. His brow raises slightly, and with a single, fluid motion, he pulls his hood over his head, obscuring most of his face.

He takes a step back, his presence still commanding as he turns to face me fully. There’s an almost predatory grace in his movements, the way he stands, waiting, as if he expects me to follow without question.

"Are you coming?" His voice is low, amused, as though this were some game to him.

The question lingers in the cool night air, and I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I study him, weighing his words, trying to gauge the meaning behind that glint in his eyes.

"Where are we going?" I ask, curiosity creeping into my voice.

My new companion pauses, his eyes assessing every inch of me.

"Come and find out," he replies, throwing a wink my way.

Without waiting for a response, he turns and strides off, not bothering to check if I’m following. His confidence, his nonchalance—it only makes me more intrigued.

And then, I step forward, the path ahead uncertain but strangely inevitable.

Walking behind Callum felt like a decision I hadn’t fully made—more like an instinct I couldn’t ignore.

I trusted him, but there was an undercurrent of doubt, a gnawing sense that I couldn’t trust him completely either.

It was an uneasy balance, like walking a tightrope without a net.

But we say nothing, as if what had just happened didn’t exist. If not for the blood staining my gloves and the guard’s final words still echoing in my ears, I might have believed it was nothing more than a bad dream.

Yet as we approach a camp with flickering lights, my mind shifts, grounding itself in the present.

As we move through the guard campgrounds, the sounds of laughter and music began to fill the air.

I’m surrounded by gleaming firelight, the rhythmic beating of drums, and men and women—guards, some of the most disciplined soldiers I’ve ever known—dancing, drinking, their inhibitions unraveling.

It’s as though the walls that usually define them as guardians had come crumbling down, leaving only ordinary men and women beneath.

They were still dangerous, still warriors at their core, but tonight they were simply… people.