Page 70 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

CASPER

A s the sun dips below the horizon, the sky transforms into hues of amber and crimson, a breathtaking display that does little to ease the turmoil I feel. Tomorrow, we leave—Lailah, Jason, and I—bound for the outerlands of the Striden territory. The thought turns my stomach.

My task is clear yet daunting: infiltrate Lord Striden’s domain, uncover how close he is to finding the stone, and ensure his plans fall apart before they can solidify.

His cold, calculating gaze will make this mission anything but simple, but he has no idea how much we already know about his treachery.

The hardest part of this mission isn’t the danger or the lies I’ll have to weave.

It’s pretending Lailah means nothing to me, as though the other night wasn’t the most significant moment of my existence.

I’ve shared my bed with countless women, but none of them have stayed with me like she has.

She’s carved into my thoughts, unshakable and consuming.

I haven’t truly had her—not the way I want, not the way I crave—but she’s already a part of me.

She’s the fire in a world I thought was nothing but ash, the only person who has ever made me feel alive.

Yet tonight, I must extinguish that fire, bury every ounce of longing and every ache to stay near her.

I need Clyde to see a man disillusioned with the castle’s gilded cage, someone worn down by the royal court’s schemes and suffocating splendor.

If Clyde even suspects my true intentions—or senses how deeply I want her—he will dismantle everything before I have the chance to act.

He has to believe I despise this life, that I am desperate enough for freedom to risk the hazards of the outerlands, even under Lord Striden’s cold, watchful eye.

The palace, with all its glittering beauty and endless deceit, has never felt more oppressive.

Every second spent within its walls tightens the noose around my plans.

If Clyde unravels the truth, all of this—the lies, the sacrifices—will have been for nothing.

But the thought of Lailah believing she’s nothing to me cuts deeper than any risk Clyde poses.

She’ll think she’s just another shadow I’ve left behind, when in reality, she’s the only light I have ever known.

The scent still lingers, cloying and false—vanilla and lavender, sweet as spoiled fruit. It clings to my skin like a stain, though the night air cuts sharp against me, as if trying to scour it clean.

Stepping out of my tent, the cool night air bites at my skin, grounding me in the moment.

Callum is waiting, leaning against a nearby tree with his arms crossed, eyes locked onto mine.

Vanessa moves past him, her heels clicking against the ground.

She pauses briefly, her lips curling into a self-satisfied grin as she wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.

The sight twists my stomach, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral.

Her smugness deepens as she turns her attention to Callum, a glimmer of hope flickering in her eyes.

Swaying toward him, she drags a fingernail lightly down his chest, her every movement a desperate bid for his favor.

But Callum remains unmoved. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink—his icy expression unchanging, as if her presence is little more than a nuisance.

When her attempt fails, she lets out a mock pout, her voice dripping with false sweetness as she tries to mask the sting of rejection.

"You’re no fun," she murmurs, her frustration slipping through the cracks in her coy facade .

Callum doesn’t dignify her with a glance, tilting his head slightly as if the sound of her voice grates on him. His nostrils flare, his expression carved from stone, and his silence only deepens her irritation.

She lets out a playful snarl, but it quickly turns sour when he flicks his hand dismissively, as though she’s beneath his station. Her eyes flash with anger, her lips curling into a sneer, but he remains unmoved, his indifference cutting deeper than any insult.

Vanessa hisses, the sound low and venomous, before finally turning on her heel, still swaying her hips in an exaggerated attempt to reclaim her pride as she stalks back to her campsite.

“Vanessa,” I call, my tone barbed and commanding.

She turns to me, her smile wide and blood-drunk, eyes glinting with misplaced satisfaction.

“We leave within the hour,” I say curtly.

She stumbles off with a confident swagger, still grinning like a fool, as if the world belongs to her. Meeting Callum’s gaze once more, I turn and retreat into my tent.

As I stagger inside, a wave of dizziness crashes over me, forcing me to grip the edge of the desk for balance.

My breath comes shallow, my skin clammy beneath the cold.

I reach up and swipe the blood from my neck—a mark I didn't want, one I never invited.

The wound pulses faintly, a reminder of what I allowed. What I endured.

The fabric of the tent rustles behind me as Callum steps inside, slowly and deftly, like a predator closing in.

He doesn’t bother with pleasantries or false concern.

His dark eyes bore into me, brimming with emotions that churn like a storm—anger, frustration, maybe even disappointment—but none of it feels like worry for my well-being.

There’s something else in his expression, though, lurking just beneath the surface.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he says, his voice low but simmering with anger.

I don’t look at him right away, focusing instead on the desk beneath my hands.

I focus on taking steadying breaths, the effects of Vanessa’s feeding still muddling my mind.

I had allowed her to feed— nothing more.

Never more. She was never permitted to touch me beyond what necessity demanded.

No kisses. No caress. No illusion of intimacy. Only blood.

And yet, it still feels like something vital has been taken from me.

My fingers curl against the wood as if gripping it harder might wash the stain away. But it won’t. Not this. Not what I gave to keep the game alive.

“Tell me, Callum,” I say at last, my voice cold and cutting, “since when do you care who warms my bed?”

He exhales a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head as if the question itself is absurd.

But I see the truth in his eyes—he knows Vanessa hasn’t touched me since the night of Lailah’s wedding.

He knows because he was the one who ripped her off me, her fangs buried deep in my neck.

The image of her laughing at him, mocking him with veiled accusations of jealousy, is burned into my memory.

His jaw tightens, and his eyes flash with anger.

“What would she say,” he spits, his voice low and venomous, “when she finds out you’ve been allowing another woman something that is rightfully hers ?”

The words hit me like a blow. My eyes snap to his, and in that moment, I see everything. His anger isn’t for me. It’s for her.

“You care for her … don’t you?” I ask softly, the remorse in my voice surprising even me.

The weight of my mistakes presses down harder now.

He rolls his eyes and takes a step back, but not before I catch the truth behind his deflection. Anger coats his expression, but I know what’s underneath. I’ve kept him too close to her for too long. Allowed him to see too much, feel too much.

“This is my fault,” I say, more to myself than to him, my voice barely above a whisper.

Callum’s jaw tightens further, his silence as damning as any confession. He tilts his head toward the exit, his demeanor composed now.

“You should get dressed,” he says flatly. “You have a feast to attend. ”

Without another word, he turns and leaves the tent, his movements rigid, his shoulders tense.

I stare at the tent flap as it falls shut behind him, my mind racing.

Callum has been my most loyal ally, the one person I trusted to protect her while I was away.

But in doing so, I’ve made him a part of her life in ways I never intended.

And now, knowing what I’ve demanded of him, I can’t blame him for his anger—or for his feelings.

Because the truth is, if she found out, it would devastate her.

I lower myself into my chair, my gaze drawn to the mirror on my desk.

The reflection is unkind—a weary man with shadows under his eyes and fresh bite marks on his neck, stark against pale skin.

They’ll heal, but not quickly. The marks are a reminder, not just of Vanessa’s hunger, but of what I’ve allowed.

Callum’s words echo in my mind, clearer than I’d like to admit.

He’s right—Vanessa doesn’t deserve my blood.

Vampires don’t share blood lightly. It’s not just about feeding; it’s an act with consequences.

Sharing blood can grant power, but it can also lead to something far more dangerous—an irreversible bond.

Once two souls are tied, they can’t be separated.

If you bond with the wrong person, it can destroy you little by little over time.

The connection is meant to be sacred, reserved for those who are truly meant for each other. But power complicates things.

Sharing blood grants strength, a rush so intoxicating it’s like a drug.

Some vampires lose control, becoming so consumed by the power that they accidentally form a bond.

That’s why most vampires tread carefully.

Sharing blood is never a casual act—it’s a gamble with eternity.

Blood is only given out of love, or in moments of absolute necessity. Anything else courts ruin .

Vanessa knows nothing of restraint. She craves without caution, taking what she desires regardless of the cost. To her, blood is merely a tool—power to wield, control to assert, a path to her ambitions.

But for me, it is sacred, something intimate and irrevocable, something I would never give without meaning.