Page 78 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

Without a word, I grip the saddle and swing my leg over, letting myself slide to the ground.

My boots hit the damp earth with a soft thud, mud clinging to the hem of my cloak as it drags behind me.

Malachi doesn’t react, his gaze fixed ahead as if my dismount was inevitable and needed no acknowledgment.

His restraint isn’t cold—it’s almost considerate.

A small, unspoken agreement not to overstep.

The sounds of the camp bustling to life draw my attention forward.

My eyes catch on a figure moving toward a nearby tent.

Casper . Even among the chaos, his steps are steady, his posture commanding without trying to be.

He doesn't spare me a glance as he disappears into his tent—far enough away to provide some privacy, yet close enough to be tempting.

Yet, something about the stillness he leaves behind feels unbearably loud.

I draw a steady breath, bracing myself as I make my way toward our royal tent.

The structure’s regal embellishments are a striking contrast to the rugged, practical camp surrounding it.

As I step further into the tent, I’m enveloped by its rich interior—a bed draped in cream sheets embroidered with delicate gold patterns, a wooden bathtub in the corner already filled with steaming water, and neatly arranged buckets alongside it.

It’s expected, of course, that such comforts would follow me, even here.

But then something catches my eye—a single black baccara rose, vibrant and out of place, resting on a small stool beside the bath.

Drawn to it, I approach, furrowing my brow in curiosity.

The delicate petals shimmer faintly in the dim light, and as I lean closer, a familiar scent drifts toward me.

Sweet, with a faint trace of something deeper—an intoxicating musk that stirs a memory, one I can’t ignore.

My heartbeat quickens as I pull off my glove and brush my fingers against the velvety bloom.

I bring it to my face, inhaling deeply. The scent is unmistakable, hauntingly familiar.

Him. The realization takes hold—this flower is not part of the carefully arranged luxuries that follow me.

It doesn’t belong, yet it feels as though it was always meant to be here.

I lower the flower slowly, my gaze drifting to the tent’s entrance.

The distance between us is maddening—mere yards separating me from him.

Close enough to imagine the way he moves in his private world, the rituals that define his evenings, the quiet rhythm of his breath as he sleeps.

It’s dangerous, this pull toward him, and I know I need to steady myself before I do something reckless that I can’t undo.

I shake the thoughts away, forcing my focus elsewhere as I begin removing my clothing.

Each piece falls to the floor as I make my way to the waiting bath.

The steam rises invitingly, and I pull my hair back, carefully draping it over the edge of the tub to keep it dry.

Sliding into the hot water, I let out a sigh, my scarred hands sinking below the surface, hidden from view.

The heat soothes my body, but not my thoughts.

They betray me, wandering back to Casper, lingering on the what-ifs.

What if I gave in to this longing, this maddening need to see him, to feel his arms around me again?

My heart stutters at the idea, a thrill I can’t allow myself to entertain for long.

And then, the tent flap rustles.

I freeze, sinking lower into the water as the fabric parts and Jason strides in.

My eyes widen in shock, and I instinctively lower myself further, the water rippling as I try to make myself as inconspicuous as possible.

Jason exhales heavily, seemingly oblivious to my presence as he unfastens his cloak and tosses it onto a nearby chair.

His boots follow, then his shirt—oh gods, his shirt.

My jaw tightens as I stare, unable to look away from his taut muscles and the smooth definition of his shoulders.

He starts to unbutton his pants when I finally find my voice.

“You should know... I’m in here.”

Jason freezes mid-motion, his head snapping toward me as he processes the situation, clearly caught off guard.

A grin tugs at my lips, and I sink halfway beneath the water, trying to stifle a giggle.

His expression shifts, half amused, half exasperated.

He tilts his head, his lips curving into a slight grin as he reaches to zip his pants back up.

“You could’ve mentioned that sooner,” he says, his voice laced with dry humor.

I bite down on my bottom lip, suppressing a laugh as I watch him retrieve his shirt. He pulls it over his head, the fabric stretching over his chest, and I can’t help myself.

“You know,” I say, tilting my chin upward, letting the playful edge seep into my voice, “if I’d known back then that you looked like that beneath all that heroic smugness, I might’ve been tempted to ask you to warm my bed... back then.”

Jason’s fingers still on his shirt, as he tilts his head at me.

“Back then, huh?” he teases.

“Yes,” I reply, sinking a little deeper into the water. “But fortunately, I’ve grown much wiser with age.”

He chuckles softly, then reaches for his cloak, sweeping it over his shoulders.

“Careful, wife, if you keep talking to me like that, I might just take it all off.”

I let out a soft laugh, the kind that feels warm and genuine, before slipping my face just below the waterline, trying to hide the flush that creeps up my neck. When I surface, I hear his chuckle low and easy as he adjusts the clasp.

“I’ll find another place to wash off,” he says, glancing toward the tent flap. “There’s a river around here somewhere. ”

He winks at me before stepping out into the early dawn, leaving me alone with the echo of his teasing words.

Leaning back in the tub, I press my hands to my face, a laugh slipping through my lips.

It’s been so long since things felt this simple, this light.

Jason and I used to be like this—always teasing, always playful.

A fleeting glimpse of the past, when everything was easier, before duty and betrayal cast their shadow over us. And gods, how I’ve missed it.

As Jason walks out of the tent, I lean forward, grabbing the soap and lathering it across my scarred hands. A cold draft cuts through the air, accompanied by the sound of footsteps returning. Assuming it’s Jason, I place my hands back beneath the water, speaking before looking up.

“You know, you should wear a bell.”

The soft sound of footsteps reaches me, almost drowned by the crackle of the fire outside the tent.

“I’ll wear a collar if you hold the leash,” a voice purrs, low, dark, and wicked

My brows furrow, and I glance around the dimly lit tent.

Then, as if the shadows themselves take form, a figure emerges.

Dark, disheveled hair. A gaze that’s both piercing and twisted, like a scar etched across his soul.

Callum. My hands instinctively dart back beneath the water, hiding my scars as heat rises to my cheeks.

“Get out!”

But Callum’s expression remains maddeningly calm as he leans against the tent post.

“ You get out,” he counters smoothly, a slow grin curving his lips as he pulls a knife from his belt.

With infuriating ease, he twirls it between his fingers.

His movements are playful—like a predator toying with its prey.

To him, this is nothing more than an idle game.

My frustration flares, and with a subtle flick of my fingers beneath the water, my magic responds.

The bath ripples, a layer of foam spreading across the surface in an instant, obscuring me from his prying gaze.

His eyes flick to the newly formed bubbles, one brow arching in that infuriatingly amused way of his .

“Nice touch,” he says, stepping closer.

The air thickens as he crouches beside the tub, resting one knee on the ground. His hand trails lazily along the wooden rim, his long fingers dipping into the water. The intimacy of the gesture sends a jolt through me, but I refuse to flinch.

“What are you doing?” I finally ask, my voice low and steady despite the chaos inside me.

He tilts his head, his devilish smile never faltering.

“What are you doing, Your Grace?” His voice is maddeningly smooth, a blend of mockery and coyness that sets my teeth on edge.

He wields my title like a weapon, twisting it into something intimate, something that feels like it belongs to him alone.

The way he says it sends a ripple of unease through me, as though he’s peeling back layers I’d fought to keep hidden.

His fingers glide through the water, tracing idle, lazy patterns that feel far too intentional, his gaze locked on mine as if daring me to stop him. My pulse quickens despite myself.

“Isn’t it strange,” he murmurs, “to be bare and vulnerable like this, with a man who isn’t your husband watching you?”

My breath hitches, and the heat rising to my cheeks has little to do with the warmth of the water. His gaze sweeps over me, unapologetic and shameless, pausing just long enough to make me feel exposed in every way imaginable. His lips curve into a slow, predatory smirk.

“What would he think, Your Grace?” he continues, his voice quieter now, almost intimate, but no less biting. “Knowing I’ve seen more of you than he has?”

My stomach twists, the words hitting their mark with brutal precision.

My cheeks burn hotter, and despite my flaring anger, there’s a feeling in my stomach that I can’t ignore.

He knows. The smug glint in his eyes makes it abundantly clear—he knows Jason and I haven’t been intimate. And he’s reveling in it.

Callum stands slowly, the water rippling in the wake of his movement, the tent suddenly feeling too small.

He steps back with an air of unhurried confidence as he begins to walk toward the tent flap.

Just as he reaches it, he pauses. His hand brushes the fabric aside, but instead of leaving, he turns back to me.

Slowly, he lifts the finger that had been trailing through the water to his mouth.

His eyes lock onto mine as his tongue flicks over the tip.

The gesture is maddeningly slow, as though he’s savoring the moment.

“I wonder where he is?” he muses, his voice a velvet thread of insinuation.

The faint smirk tugging at his lips deepens, his gaze still holding mine, as if he can see every thought I’m trying to bury. And then, without another word, he slips through the tent flap, disappearing into the night.

The space he leaves behind feels suffocating, his parting words replaying over and over in my head.

They claw at the edges of my mind, the insinuations weaving themselves into every vulnerable corner.

I sink deeper into the water, hoping its warmth might wash away the frustration he’s left in his wake.

But it doesn’t. The heat only amplifies the restlessness he’s ignited, leaving me angry and disturbingly aware of every lingering trace of his presence.

Callum’s parting words— “I wonder where he is?” —are like a thorn, small yet impossible to ignore.

He wasn’t just here to rattle me. Not entirely, at least. Yes, his flirtation continues to disarm me, leaving me flushed and off-balance, but Callum doesn’t waste words.

He never has. Beneath the teasing and the sly remarks, there’s always something more.

A truth hidden beneath the surface, waiting for me to uncover it.

My gaze drifts to the lantern light dancing across the canvas of the tent.

I picture him smirking again, his voice low and wanton as he said,

“Isn’t it strange? To be bare and vulnerable like this, with a man who isn’t your husband watching you?”

I clench my jaw as the realization settles like a stone dropped into a pond.