Page 85 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

I’m not in the mood for his games. I roll my eyes and push past him, but before I can get any further, his hand shoots out, wrapping around my elbow with a firm, insistent grip. Instinctively, my dagger is at his throat in a heartbeat, the cold steel gliding against his skin.

Callum doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans in, his gaze darkening with a sultry edge as he presses himself into the blade.

“I believe we’ve done this dance before,” he teases, the words brushing against me like a physical touch.

I tilt my cloak back, our faces inches apart, and let the moment unfold. He pulls his hand away from my elbow, stepping back, but his sly grin never fades.

“Run along, puppy,” I sneer, my voice laced with venom. “Go tell your master where I am. Maybe I’ll get that collar and leash after all, so you don’t forget your place.”

I see it in Callum’s eyes before he says anything—hurt and confusion, a look I’ve never seen from him.

His gaze, usually filled with playful flirtation, now holds something darker.

It throws me off, makes me pause for a heartbeat.

I don't know what to make of it, but it stings in a way I wasn’t expecting.

Leaving Callum outside, I step into the tent.

Inside, Celaena huddles in the far corner, her hands stretched out, trying to soak in the warmth of the glowing coals.

A fur blanket is tightly wrapped around her shoulders, adding a sense of fragile comfort to her still form.

Her eyes flicker with surprise as they lock onto mine, but that initial shock quickly shifts into disdain.

“Take off your dress,” I keep my voice curt as I look around the tent, avoiding her gaze. “Put on the slacks and shirt by the coals.”

She hesitates, but I don’t wait for permission.

I turn my back, giving her some semblance of privacy, though I can’t help but notice the subtle rustle of fabric behind me as she strips off the yellow dress.

My eyes quickly scan the room, taking in the dim lighting and the stillness of the space.

I try to steady my breath, knowing what’s coming, knowing that once I give these orders, there’s no turning back.

After a brief moment, I hear the sound of fabric being pulled on, the soft rustle of the slacks, and then the silence. When I turn back, Celaena is already dressed in the new clothes—almost like she’s trying to escape this moment as much as I am.

“Let’s go,” I command, my voice cold and unwavering.

Celaena hesitates, her brows furrowing, confusion radiating off her like a tangible force.

But after a moment, she stands and moves toward me.

Her steps are stiff, almost reluctant. I step forward and remove my cloak, draping it gently around her shoulders.

The touch of my gloved hand makes her tense, as though she’s expecting something more.

I watch her flinch, a brief reaction before she recovers.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d already be,” I say softly, with a sly, almost mocking smile, watching her eyes soften with wary relief.

Her hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed, but I say nothing, just pull the cloak tighter, the fabric a silent bond between us.

“You will walk swiftly toward the royal tent,” I instruct. “Enter, say nothing, and bed my husband.”

Her eyes widen, clearly shocked, and there’s an uncertainty in her face. But I don’t soften. I lock my gaze with hers, forcing my words to sink in.

“I told you before,” I add, my voice low, “he’s yours.”

Celaena doesn’t respond, but I see the weight of my order in her posture. She hesitates, then steps closer, preparing to leave. Before she can take another step, I reach out and grip her elbow tightly, forcing her to face me once more.

“Try not to be too quiet,” I whisper.

Her confusion deepens, but she doesn’t argue. She simply nods and steps away from me, exiting the tent with hurried steps.

I watch her go, a bitter smile curving on my lips.

Never did I imagine that I’d be sending another woman to sleep with my husband.

But the guards must believe that Jason and I are doing exactly what we should be—under the moon, as husband and wife, possibly to conceive.

And with Celaena in the mix, no one will question Jason’s competence in satisfying a woman.

They’ll hear the sounds they expect, and all will remain as it should.

I look down at the ground, finding the fur blanket Celaena had used for warmth.

Without thinking, I pull it over my shoulders, the thick, soft fabric settling against me like a shield.

I hadn’t planned for what came after she left.

I wasn’t sure where I would sleep, where I would stay, but something inside me told me it wouldn’t matter.

Sleep should be taking me by now—after almost a day and a half without rest—but I know I won’t sleep.

Not today. Not when everything is so unsettled, so fragile.

It feels like the entire plan, born from sleep-deprived motives, is on the edge of falling apart.

I step outside the tent, the air cool against my skin.

My magic cloaks me in shadow as I move silently, my thoughts tangled in the murky web of today’s events.

I make my way toward the outer edge of the campsite.

As I round the corner, I spot Malachi sitting alone at a fire pit.

The fire crackles, sending up small bursts of flame that illuminate his rugged face, his eyes unfocused as he stares into the embers.

Relief washes over me at the sight of him. There’s something familiar in his solitude, as though he, too, understands the comfort of being unseen, of remaining in the shadows. I pause, scanning the area around us to make sure we’re truly alone before I move closer.

I try to make my steps purposeful, hoping he’ll hear me coming, but as always, Malachi doesn’t flinch.

He sits perfectly still, as if he knew I would approach.

I sit beside him, close enough to feel the warmth from the fire, yet he remains as still as a statue.

My eyes lift to the sky, and for the first time, I feel a sense of calm.

Then, I feel his gaze shift to me. I look down, catching his eyes as they study me intently.

A small smile curves my lips, warm and genuine, before he looks back at the fire.

"You said something to me earlier," I start, my voice quiet. "Something that’s been on my mind."

He doesn’t respond at first, but picks up a drink, something warm, and takes a sip. I watch the way his throat moves as he swallows, a deep, meditative motion that only deepens the smile on my face.

"You said I sounded like her," I continue, the words hanging in the air. Malachi holds the drink in front of him, his expression still neutral. "Did you mean the witch?" I ask.

The way he had talked about her, so casually, but with such reverence, made me think there was more to this story than I understood.

Malachi’s eyes flicker to me for a second, and I see the slightest surprise in his gaze, as though I’ve caught him off guard. He doesn’t answer right away, but then a soft smile touches his lips, the scruff on his jaw catching the light of the fire.

A sense of quiet confirmation lingers between us, as though his gaze is telling me without words that he knew this witch intimately—that she had left some mark on him, a lasting imprint.

And now, in some strange twist, I remind him of her.

My smile falters for a second as the thought sinks in, a strange feeling rising in my chest.

“Did Casper know her, too?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Malachi lowers his gaze and nods his head slowly.

“He knew her before I did.”

My mind spins with questions—about her, about Casper, about their past. Had she been someone every man wanted?

Did Casper love her? My stomach coils at the thought.

I can see it—his hands on her waist, that quiet look he wears when he thinks no one’s watching.

Did she know his secrets before I ever got the chance to ask?

The image of Casper looking at someone else the way he sometimes looks at me—soft and serene—burns like a splinter I can’t dig out.

My thoughts spiral until Malachi’s voice cuts through, rough and steady, grounding me before I unravel.

“You’re a lot like her,” he says. His words hit me like a strange revelation. “Sharp as a dagger. Your eyes... they’re not like hers. Hers were icy, like the coldest winter. Yours... yours are more like a storm, dark and unpredictable. But your tongue? Your wit? Almost the same.”

I smile, a mix of amusement and curiosity.

“She must have been some woman,” I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.

Malachi chuckles softly under his breath, a sound that sends a shiver through me. I can’t help but watch him in awe, brought to life by this ghost from the past.

"You loved her," I say, more a statement than a question.

He nods softly, quietly, as if the admission is a small weight he carries but no longer bears with sorrow.

I had once been consumed by curiosity about the witch who came before me.

As a child, I clung to any rumor, any whispered mention of her name, desperate for something to explain what I was—what I might become.

I used to ask Clyde about her constantly, hoping he would give me some small piece of truth to hold on to.

But he would never speak of her. Not her name, not her magic, not her fate.

Only silence. Cold, unrelenting silence.

Over time, I stopped asking. I buried the questions beneath obedience and silence, but the need to know never truly faded.

“What happened to her?” The question leaves me quieter than I intend

Malachi’s jaw tightens, his gaze never straying from the fire as it casts uneven light across the stone, illuminating the edges of his grief with raw honesty.

“The world has never been kind to witches, Lailah,” he says, voice low and steady, though there’s something frayed beneath it that even time hasn’t managed to mend. “Especially to those who refuse to break.”

I stare into the flames, but I do not see them.

I see pieces of myself scattered through years I cannot get back, fragments of a girl who once believed she would live a quiet life.

I had imagined a future that might burn out gently, one shaped by fleeting things—touch, love , time.

I used to believe I would live a mortal life, brief and ordinary, free from eternity.

But witches are not granted such mercy. We do not live forever, but we outlive those we love.

We outlast the warmth. We carry the ghosts. We endure .

I hesitate, my pulse hammering, knowing the next question will taste like poison on my tongue. But I have to ask.

" And Casper?" The words feel foreign in my mouth. " Did he love her, too?"

Malachi’s gaze diverts, a flicker of something I can’t read passing through his eyes.

" Not in the same way," he says, his voice low, steady—too steady, like he’s trying to ease the dread he knows is already stirring inside me. The words should be enough. But they aren’t. Because all I can see now is Casper with her.

Did he touch her the way he touches me? Did he watch her in quiet moments, did his voice soften when he said her name? Did she haunt him the way he haunts me?

The thought burns through me.

"But he cared for her?" I whisper, barely able to force the words out.

Malachi exhales, tilting his head slightly, watching me too closely, like he can see every unspoken thought forming in my mind.

"Casper doesn't care easily ," he murmurs, and the weight of those words settles deep into my bones.

I clench my fists, hating how the jealousy coils tight around my throat, hating that even the possibility—just the idea of her lingering somewhere in his past—feels like a blade pressed to my skin.

And worse than anything, I hate the voice in my head whispering that I have no right to feel this way. That I have no claim to him.

But gods help me, I want to.

I try to push down the possessive feeling that threatens to overtake me—this bitter taste of jealousy, as though the knowledge of Casper’s past somehow belongs to me. But I can’t deny the pulse of emotion that stirs within me. He was in love before .

“How long have you known Casper?” I ask, trying to divert my thoughts, though I know the answer will probably lead to more questions.

Malachi’s jaw tightens at the question, his silence making it clear he’s not eager to discuss it. But after a long pause, he answers.

“I’ve known him for nearly two hundred years.”

My eyes widen slightly.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Three hundred and forty-eight,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it’s nothing remarkable.

I can’t help it—a soft giggle escapes me, followed by a snort that makes Malachi raise an eyebrow at me. He watches me, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Oh no, I didn’t mean to laugh at your age,” I say quickly, a blush creeping up my neck as he takes my gloves away from my face. “It’s just... no one’s ever been honest with me about their age before,” I admit, my smile widening. “It’s refreshing.”

Malachi’s smile deepens, and we sit in the comfortable silence of the crackling fire. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel a sense of ease—a friendship forming in the stillness.

Maybe there’s more to life than isolation. More than guarding my heart so fiercely that I forget I was never meant to be alone.

And maybe, just maybe, I’m not.