Page 73 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

LAILAH

A s I ascend toward the east wing staircase, a heavy nausea coils in my stomach, a bitter residue of the farce Jason and I had woven tonight.

The heavy diamond shawl around my neck feels suffocating, its cold brilliance mocking me.

Every glimmering facet feels like a chain, its radiance a cruel reminder of the illusion I’m forced to uphold.

I glance down at the gown I wear—exquisite, imprisoning—and my magic stirs violently beneath my skin.

I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that my father would permit Jason and me to travel to the Riverlands for our honeymoon.

The thought of being alone with my husband in a quiet, distant palace seemed like salvation compared to the suffocating prospect of traveling to the Striden lands.

The idea of Casper being near us—near me —throughout our entire journey is unbearable.

How could I possibly focus on Jason, my husband, with Casper so close?

The longing to be near him—when I should long for Jason—is a truth I cannot reconcile.

I hadn’t told Jason why the Riverlands were my priority, hadn’t dared to confess that my selfish need to escape Casper’s presence burned hotter than any desire for the tranquil beauty of the river palace.

How could I admit that the thought of Jason’s hands on me feels like a betrayal, not because of him, but because of Casper ?

My magic churns, mirroring the turmoil within me.

As Casper’s gaze pierces through my thoughts, my steps falter.

He stood there tonight, his arm draped casually around Vanessa, her laugh soft and intimate as it spilled against him.

I recall the way he dismissed me after our kiss, casting me aside like an afterthought.

That kiss had unraveled me, broken something deep inside me, yet to him, it was nothing.

Rage and jealousy collide, each feeding the other as I picture the way Vanessa kissed him tonight, claiming him as hers, flaunting her possession of him for all to see.

The storm within me explodes outward, my magic surging in a volatile, uncontrollable wave.

The diamond shawl unfastens itself from my shoulders, the clasp snapping free under the pressure of my anger.

It slides to the floor, clattering against the marble.

Breathless, I push my hand against the hidden entrance to the staircase, the cool stone giving way beneath my palm.

The passage opens, swallowing me whole, and I step through, letting the door close behind me, shutting out the suffocating splendor of the feast. The shawl remains abandoned, a fallen relic of my charade.

In the silence of the hidden staircase, my breaths come shallow and uneven.

I press my back against the cool stone wall to numb my racing thoughts, my fingers trembling as they curl into fists.

I need control. I need to bury this—the longing, the rage, the jealousy—before it consumes me entirely.

But no matter how hard I try, I can’t escape the truth: Casper’s presence is a wound that won’t stop bleeding, a ghost that refuses to let me go.

And yet, tomorrow I will leave with Jason.

I will travel to the Striden lands, where Casper will be at my side, too close and yet too far all at once.

I will pretend, as I always do, that I am the dutiful wife and princess my father expects me to be.

Jason is trying, truly trying, to be the good man I deserve, and for that, I owe him the same effort.

No matter how much I crave Casper, no matter how his memory lingers on my lips, I know the truth: this longing will end only in tragedy.

There is no future for us, no happiness at the end of this desire. Only ruin.

Straightening, I push off the wall, forcing my trembling legs to carry me forward.

My reflection flashes in the polished steel of a wall sconce as I ascend the narrow stairwell, tired and hollow.

I place my hand over my heart, counting my breaths, grounding myself.

But before I can center my thoughts, a voice—low, velvet, and cutting—slices through the quiet.

“So, he’s domesticated you?”

The words are a taunt, soaked in mockery. I whirl around to find Callum leaning casually against the staircase wall.

Even in the dim stairwell, his presence is striking.

His guard uniform, dark and fitted, accentuates his tall, lean frame.

The subtle gleam of polished buttons catches the faint light, but they are secondary to the man wearing them.

His jawline is framed by the tousled dark waves of his hair.

But it’s his eyes—dark brown, rich and intense—that hold my attention.

They’re depthless, almost cruel in their ability to see too much too easily.

A faint scar slashes through one eyebrow.

Shock ripples through me, quickly swallowed by fury.

“What did you just say to me?” My voice is low, a tremor betraying my anger.

Callum shrugs, unbothered, his expression infuriatingly neutral.

“You heard me.”

Rage boils over, and I take a step toward him.

“Say it again. Say it. ”

Even now, I can’t ignore how maddeningly perfect he looks—his features carved like a cruel artist’s masterpiece.

“You know exactly what I said.”

Biting down on my lip, I shake my head, trying to find clarity in the whirlwind of emotions. But none comes. Just heat. Anger. Frustration.

“You smug, arrogant son of a bitch,” I hiss, lifting my gaze to meet his for the first time.

Callum’s smirk deepens .

“You know what? Fuck you.” I turn to leave, but the venom in his tone stops me cold.

“Gladly.”

The word slices through the air, and it stops me in my tracks.

I spin back toward him, meeting his gaze fully this time. The air is electric, tense, and suffocating. Callum pushes off the wall, taking slow, deliberate steps until he’s inches from me. His breath brushes against my cheek, a whisper of warmth against my skin.

“Let’s not pretend,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress, “that I’m not picturing those claws of yours wrapped around me… Or that beautiful mouth of yours taking me in...”

The crack of my palm against his cheek rings out, cruel and unforgiving. His head turns with the force of it, and for a fleeting moment, I feel the sting in my own hand. But he doesn’t recoil. He straightens, his eyes gleaming.

“ There she is ,” he says softly, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

I can’t breathe. My chest rises and falls in uneven gasps as he leans closer, his breath now ghosting along the curve of my neck. I freeze, caught in the chaos of his proximity.

His knuckles brush against my cheek, cold as ice. A cruel smile tugs at his lips as he bends down, his voice a whisper in my ear.

“Don’t worry, Your Grace. I know I’m not the man you seek.”

He steps back, his thumb grazing his bottom lip as he studies me, his eyes lingering in a way that feels both admiring and disarming.

“You don’t know anything about what I seek,” I say, my voice shaking with defiance.

His eyes roll as he moves to sit on the staircase, pulling a knife from his belt and twirling it lazily. He looks so at ease, so arrogant, as if none of this matters, as if I am nothing more than an amusing distraction in his otherwise thrilling day.

I don’t move—I watch him, my patience thinning with every slow turn of the blade, every flick of his wrist. He doesn’t look at me, not directly, but I know he feels my stare, knows I am waiting, expecting something—anything—from him other than this infuriating indifference.

The tip of the dagger catches the faint glow of torchlight as he spins it again, a smirk tugging at his lips, and I realize he is enjoying this.

Enjoying making me wait. Enjoying the tension stretching between us like a bowstring drawn too tight.

It’s a game.

Of course, it’s a game.

Everything with him is.

My fingers curl into fists, my breath coming sharper now, hot with irritation. The moment stretches too long, and I see it in the way his head tilts, watching me from the corner of his eye like a cat waiting for its prey to let its guard down.

I snap.

“You don’t know me at all,” I bite out, shoving past him.

In a blur of movement, he’s on his feet.

One moment lounging, careless and untouchable—the next, a force before me, unshakable, immovable.

The dagger is gone, vanished as if it had never existed, but something far more sinister lingers in its place.

His posture is rigid, his shoulders squared, tension rippling beneath the surface like a storm waiting to break.

His piercing gaze locks onto mine, as if it could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me.

“I know you more than I ever wanted to,” he says quietly, the words sinking into the silence like a blade finding its mark.

There’s no levity in his tone this time. No teasing edge.

Something in the way he says it unnerves me. Callum is blunt, a provocateur who wields truth like a weapon, but this…

This feels different. Darker. Deeper.

Like a confession he never meant to speak aloud.

I tilt my head, studying him as confusion gnaws at me.

Before I can speak, he moves past me, effortlessly descending the staircase as if nothing had happened at all.

His footsteps echo in the stillness, and I hate the way I stand there, frozen, watching him go.

Callum and I have crossed paths only a handful of times, and yet I know this much: he didn’t come here to rattle me, though he succeeded. He came to ensure that the woman he believed me to be still lingered beneath the mask I wore.

And somehow, that thought cuts deeper than anything he could have said.