Page 91 of Tower of Ash and Darkness (Tower of Ash #1)

She dives for her blade, her body hitting the ground with a thud as her fingers close tightly around the hilt in desperation.

But before her blade can lift, his hand snaps around her wrist, his grip like iron, and with a brutal twist, he tears the weapon from her grasp, sending it clattering uselessly across the dirt.

She barely has time to draw breath before his other hand is on her throat, and in one seamless motion, he drives her backward, slamming her against the nearest tree with enough force to shake the leaves loose from the branches above.

His body pins hers to the tree as his fingers dig into her throat, cutting off air, bruising flesh, until her breath falters beneath his grip.

“Touch her, and I’ll rip your throat out,” he hisses.

This isn’t a threat—it’s a promise.

Despite his sincerity, Vanessa laughs—a loud, confident sound, tinged with something seductive.

“Oh, come on, Callum,” she purrs, trailing her long, pointed nails across his chest. “You know I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

The words hit me like a slap, and all the anger, all the rage that had started to rise earlier, surges once again. First Casper, and now Callum. My stomach twists in fury. But he releases her with a casual shove, letting her drop to the ground, disgust etched across his face.

“I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last woman on this godsforsaken earth.”

Without another glance at her, he takes my arm gently, guiding me toward Zander.

Callum gently helps me mount the stallion, his gaze locking onto mine, dark and searching, as if silently begging me to understand something he can’t vocalize.

He murmurs low into Zander’s ear, words lost to the early light of dawn, sending him forward into a full gallop toward the camp.

I glance back, pulse quickening as Callum’s focus sharpens on Vanessa.

Her smile spreads, the dagger in her hand gleaming with deadly intent.

Zander’s hooves slam against the earth, each step a harsh reminder of the distance growing between me and Callum.

The wind cuts across my face, tangling my hair, but it does nothing to quiet the storm raging in my mind.

My grip on the reins tightens until my knuckles ache, fear twisting inside me—not for myself, but for him .

I glance back, my stomach sinking. Each second that Zander carries me farther feels like a betrayal.

Helplessness gnaws at me—I’m no good to him running away, but I have no choice.

As camp comes into view, Zander slows, but the panic inside me doesn’t ease.

Jason steps out of our tent, his expression hardening as he takes in my disheveled state.

“What’s going on?” he demands, his eyes scanning the camp.

I barely glance at him, my focus shifting toward Casper’s tent, urgency clawing at me like a beast waiting to be unleashed.

I dismount Zander and sprint to the tent, shoving the flap aside.

Inside, Casper lies asleep, his breathing slow and even, the steady rise and fall of his chest a quiet rhythm in the stillness.

I can see more of his tattoos wind over his bare skin, dark and intricate, telling stories I haven’t yet heard.

His hair falls carelessly over his forehead, soft and innocent in his slumber, a stark contrast to the fierce man he becomes when awake.

Without thinking, my trembling hand reaches out to shake him awake. The moment my fingers brush his skin, a jolt of fear shoots through me as his eyes snap open—black as the void, wild and primal.

Before I can process it, he moves—a blur of motion that’s faster than I can follow.

His fangs catch the dim light as he rises, and suddenly his hand is around my throat.

I’m slammed against the post, the air rushing from my lungs as his grip tightens.

My heartbeat echoes in my ears as I struggle to catch my breath.

“Casper, it’s me,” I choke out.

My voice trembling as I press my palm to his face, desperate to calm him, to pull him back from whatever darkness has taken hold.

But his eyes are empty of recognition, flickering between mine and my lips, his gaze heavy and predatory, hauntingly unfamiliar.

Panic surges through me, but I force myself to stay still, my breaths shallow, afraid that any sudden movement will snap the fragile thread tethering him to reason.

Then his gaze drops, and I realize with a jolt where he’s looking—my neck. My pulse pounds beneath my skin, loud and frantic, and a deep dread creeps over me. He’s drawn to it, his hunger palpable. Every instinct screams at me to run, but I won't.

“Cas…”

His brows furrow, as if searching for something he can hold on to—some reason, some thread of clarity.

I swallow hard and slip off one glove, exposing my scarred hand—the one piece of me that might still reach him, might still anchor him to what’s real.

A single tear slips down my cheek as I hold my hand out, desperation swelling in my chest. Slowly, I place it against his face, the roughness of my touch grounding us both.

“Look at me,” I whisper.

The words hang in the air, delicate and taut, like a thread tugging him toward me. His breath hitches, body going still. Then, slowly, the storm begins to break. His grip eases, his hold loosening, awareness flickering in his dark eyes.

“It’s me,” I repeat softly.

Relief washes over me as the wildness fades and the man I know surfaces again.

His gaze lightens, recognition flickering like a dying ember, until it fully ignites.

His hands fall away from my throat, and he steps back, his eyes scanning my face as if searching for something he fears finding.

Shame and confusion linger in his expression.

I shake my head softly, offering silent reassurance.

It’s okay. I’m okay.

There’s no need for him to feel this way.

I move closer, my hands resting on his chest, feeling the solid warmth beneath my touch.

His eyes drop to my hands. His gaze lingers on my scarred skin before slowly rising back to meet mine.

Something shifts in his expression, softening, and my heart twists.

I feel tears welling again, a quiet acknowledgment of the words neither of us can bring ourselves to say.

Without hesitation, he takes my hand in his, lifting it to his lips with unexpected tenderness.

He kisses each finger, one by one, the sweetness of the gesture sinking deep into me.

My breath catches as relief washes over me, filling me with emotions I can’t begin to name.

When he lowers my hand, I part my lips to speak, but before I can, he leans in, his lips capturing mine.

The kiss is tender at first, hesitant, as though we’re both treading on fragile, unfamiliar ground.

Then it deepens, his kiss turning urgent, pulling me closer while backing me into the post. His hands tangle in my hair, tugging me deeper into the kiss, his body pressing firmly into mine.

A low growl rumbles from him, vibrating through me, and I feel the hunger in him—the need to consume, to possess, coursing between us like fire.

But then, just as suddenly, he pulls back, his eyes flashing black again. I reach up instinctively, my fingers brushing his face, grounding myself in the softness of his skin.

“Casper,” I whisper, my voice trembling. The need for him to stay with me, to stay present, drowns out everything else. “You haven’t fed, have you?”

His troubled eyes search mine, and I see the battle waging within him.

I reach down to the dagger at my thigh, my fingers grazing the hilt as I pull it toward my palm.

A small cut—a sacrifice, another scar to add to the map of my survival.

But as the blade touches my skin, Casper’s hand wraps around my wrist, firm but gentle, stopping me.

His grip halts the motion with an ease that sends a pang of confusion through me. I know he needs blood—I can see the hunger he’s trying to suppress. But he’s fighting it, and I don’t understand why.

He strokes my hand tenderly, his fingers intertwining with mine.

The touch feels like a balm, soothing wounds I’ve long ignored, easing the ache I’ve carried for far too long.

For a breath, the chaos fades, replaced by something painfully pure.

He studies me briefly before lowering his lips to my forehead.

The kiss is gentle and light, but it lingers, filling the space with a warmth that burrows deep into my bones.

Slowly, he releases me, stepping back with care.

I take a shaky breath, watching as he sheaths my dagger.

Our eyes meet again, and the intensity of his gaze roots me in place.

Another tear slips down my cheek, wiped away by the pad of his thumb as he shakes his head slightly, a soft scrunch of his nose breaking the stillness in a way that feels achingly familiar.

"I would never, ever , let anyone hurt you..." His voice cracks, a solemn vow shattering what’s left of my composure. "Even yourself."

I look up at him, my heart breaking anew, and fall into him, drawn into his gravity. My soul reaches for something only he can give.

“Casper!”

Gwyn’s voice cuts through, clear as crystal.

“It’s Callum!”

Dread begins to bloom in my chest. Casper’s jaw tightens, his body rigid.

In one swift motion, he grabs a shirt and cloak, slipping them on before taking my hand and guiding me outside the tent.

The cool air stings my skin, but his grip is firm and grounding.

Outside, his gaze narrows as he spots Jason.

His jaw clenches briefly, concern radiating off him as he looks back at me, his expression weary.

“Stay with Lailah, don’t let her out of your sight.” he orders Jason, his voice steady but laced with fear.

Jason nods, stepping closer. Casper turns back to me, cupping my face gently in his hands. His eyes search mine, filled with something raw and unspoken, holding me there for a moment that feels impossibly long.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice laden with sorrow, before disappearing with Gwyn in a blur.

I stand frozen, the chaos swirling around me.

Fear claws at me, sharp and sudden, but beneath it stirs something fiercer—an unwavering resolve that refuses to be silenced.

I think of Callum, Casper, Gwyn, Jason. I think of the risks they’re taking, all because of me.

I take a steadying breath, the decision forming in my mind like steel being forged in fire.

I won’t allow anyone else to get hurt because of me.

I can’t.