Page 4 of Wicked Vows (Cursed Darkness (DarkHallow Academy) #1)

Verik

T he walls of my bedroom flow like liquid obsidian.

A spike of irritation sends a ripple through the stone, sharp barbs erupting from the surface before smoothing again as I regain control.

Frustration is an inefficient emotion. It destabilises the delicate balance of reality I maintain in this space.

The ancient text on my desk resists translation. Its script thrashes on the page, a language of pure intent that only those with demon blood can see, let alone comprehend. But the subject is worth the effort. De Vinculis Sirenum Noctis. The Binding of the Nox Siren.

The last successful ritual created the Infernal Crown, an artefact of such power, it rewrote the cosmic laws of this realm.

A power I intend to possess. Lesser beings see reality as a fixed state; I see it as clay, waiting for a master’s touch.

My blood burns with the fire of creation and destruction, a constant reminder that I am descended from the architects of this world.

The reports of Lysithea’s little display in the corridor reach me through the academy’s ambient magical currents. Bones snapping with a single note. Beautiful. Brutal. A demonstration of raw, untamed potential.

I see the design. The elegant, terrifying architecture of her power. She is not a creature. She is a component, the final, crucial piece of a working that will reshape everything.

My fingers trace the shifting runes on the page. This is not mere research; it is communion with my ancestors. They understood that true power isn’t wielded, it’s orchestrated.

There is a slight flicker in the air. A lesser student is attempting a scrying spell nearby.

The magical feedback is muddying the ambient currents.

I extend my will through the walls, a casual thought that rewrites the warding on his door.

He is now trapped in a time-loop, destined to repeat the last ten seconds for the next few hours.

The magical interference vanishes. Peace returns.

Lysithea’s power is a raw, beautiful chaos.

A primary colour waiting for an artist’s hand.

I am the architect. I will build the cage that contains her scream and transforms it into the foundation of our new reality.

The Midnight Soul Scar is a brand, it is the blueprint.

Her pain will be the mortar, her terror the keystone.

The walls of my chamber shimmer, reflecting a future of my own design. A realm perfected, and at its centre, the four of us, bound by a power that will make us gods. Her recent outburst confirms it. The component is ready. The time for observation is nearly over.

The text shifts again beneath my fingertips, responding to my growing certainty.

The binding ritual requires three bloodlines, each contributing a specific resonance to contain and channel Nox Siren power.

My demon heritage provides the structural foundation, the reality manipulation strong enough to prevent dimensional collapse when her voice reaches its full potential.

But structure alone isn’t sufficient. The ritual demands a harvester, someone capable of feeding on the terror generated by the process. Dathan’s Nightmare Sovereign bloodline makes him the perfect conduit for that role. His hunger will transform her screams into raw magical energy we can channel.

And then there’s death. The ritual requires someone who exists between life and ending, capable of anchoring souls during the transformation. Evren’s resurrection grants him that unique position. He is neither fully alive nor completely dead, the perfect bridge between states of being.

The mathematics are elegant. Three bloodlines, one target, infinite potential.

I reshape my room’s ceiling to display a three-dimensional model of the binding circle. Crystalline formations emerge from the stone, their surfaces reflecting the ritual’s geometric requirements. Each point of intersection pulses with hellfire, mapping the flow of power through the working.

Beautiful. Perfect. The kind of mathematical precision that makes reality bend to accommodate my will.

The problem is that Lysithea isn’t cooperating with the timeline we’ve established. But her recent displays suggest she’s beginning to understand her true capabilities. Understanding breeds confidence. Confidence leads to resistance.

I won’t allow resistance.

The walls change again at my command, creating a doorway that didn’t exist moments before.

The academy’s architecture bends to my will more readily than most students realise.

I step through the newly formed doorway and into the academy’s shifting hallways.

My footsteps echo against stone that ripples like water beneath my boots, the architecture responding to my intent.

The walls stretch taller as I pass, accommodating my presence with the deference due to someone of my bloodline.

A group of second-years huddle in an alcove, their whispered conversation dying as they sense my approach.

I don’t spare them a glance as I pass; they hold no interest to me, even though I’ll be the topic of their conversation for days to come.

It fits. I’m hot and everyone knows it. Not just in the magical sense, but, you know.

I grin at my vanity. I don’t give a flying fuck. I know what I am.

Lysithea is housed on the bottom floor. An interesting and rare choice for an interesting and rare creature.

She is considered dangerous. They want the creatures who pose the most threat as close to the exit to the residence building as possible.

A moment of irritation bites my arse, knowing they didn’t deem me a threat enough to house down there.

Maybe this year will change that. One year ahead of Lysithea in Lower-Fourth, I had hoped to make more of an impression in my third year.

That is the year that counts. It makes or breaks.

I seemed to have ended up doing neither, simply carrying on as the biggest arsehole I could manage without annoying myself.

Quite difficult. I loathe arsehole behaviour, so if I’m acting like one, I piss myself off. I shrug mentally. What are you going to do?

Lysithea’s door appears ahead, unmarked except for the room number etched into black stone.

But I can taste the power bleeding through her wards, sharp and electric like ozone before a storm.

The protective barriers she’s woven around her space are impressive for someone untrained in proper magical architecture.

Crude, but effective against casual intrusion.

So… not me.

I press my palm against the door, feeling the resistance of her wards push back against my touch. The magical barriers recognise the demon blood in my veins and recoil like they’ve been burned.

But architecture is my domain.

I don’t force my way through her wards. Instead, I reshape the space around them.

The wall beside her door becomes permeable at my command, its molecular structure shifting to accommodate my passage.

I step through solid stone like walking through water, emerging inside her room without triggering a single defensive spell.

The space reflects her nature perfectly.

Spartan. Controlled. Every item is placed precisely to avoid accidental magical discharge.

Scorch marks decorate the walls in abstract patterns where her voice has tested the limits of the protective enchantments.

The bioluminescent orchids on her windowsill pulse with stored starlight, their roots drinking from crystalline formations that hum with contained power.

I move to her desk, where research materials are spread in careful organisation. Books on extinct bloodlines. Historical accounts of Nox Siren capabilities. Academic papers theorising about vocal magic’s upper limits. She’s been studying herself, trying to understand what she is. How she exists.

The binding on A Complete History of Nox Sirens bears fresh scorch marks from her fingers.

I flip it open to the passage she’s bookmarked, reading the familiar lies about her bloodline’s extinction.

The academy maintains this fiction to protect their prize specimen.

They don’t want her to understand her true value until it’s too late.

I close the book and move to her wardrobe, running my fingers along the simple black dresses hanging inside. The fabric is woven with protective threads, practical choices for someone whose mere presence can trigger defensive responses. But practicality won’t save her from what’s coming.

Pulling open the drawers, I pluck up a pair of her knickers and sniff them. Black cotton. Her bras are the same. Nothing sexy or enticing. Just practical. I stuff the knickers in my pocket.

Her bed is standard double sized. The sheets smell like starlight and ozone, traces of her magical signature clinging to everything she touches regularly.

I imagine her sleeping here, touching herself, playing with her clit, thrusting her fingers inside her pussy.

It makes my cock go hard, my blood burn hotter.

A sound in the hallway makes me pause. Footsteps approach. I reshape the wall behind me, creating a doorway that leads directly into a pocket dimension within her room. The architecture of the veil bends to accommodate my will, flowing like water to create the hideaway I need.

I step through just as Lysithea’s key turns in her lock.

From my new vantage point in the pocket, I watch as she enters her room.

She freezes in her doorway, head tilted slightly as if listening to something only she can hear. Her magic ripples outwards from her feet, testing the air for disturbances.

She doesn’t find it. Not yet. But the air in the room grows heavy, charged with her unspoken question.

A low hum starts in her throat, a note pitched just below the threshold of hearing.

It’s not an attack. It’s a sonar pulse, a wave of pure magic designed to map the space around her.

The walls of my pocket dimension vibrate, resisting the probe.

My control over the architecture holds firm, but it’s an unexpected test of strength, which surprises me. The girl has got force.

She takes a slow step toward her desk, her gaze fixed on the grimoire I touched. Her fingers hover over the cover, not quite making contact, but I see the faint scorch mark my hellfire left behind. A single, almost invisible brand on the ancient leather.

Her breath hitches. She knows.

The thrill is a physical thing, a hot spike in my blood. This isn’t just a hunt anymore. It’s a conversation in a language only we understand. The language of power meeting power.

With a final, lingering look around the room, she turns away.

She pulls her dress over her head, her back to me.

She unclips her bra, and her breasts tumble free.

She keeps her knickers on for the moment, so I admire the smooth expanse of her skin, which is a blank canvas.

I picture the Midnight Soul Scar blooming across it, a constellation of power and pain etched into her flesh.

Our brand, a web of black and silver spreading from her spine.

A living blueprint of our combined will, etched onto the source.

Her shoulders are tense. She knows something is fundamentally wrong with her sanctuary.

She spins, her eyes scanning the corners of the room, her gaze passing right over the fold in reality where I stand.

The air crackles with her contained power.

She’s a loaded weapon with the safety off.

One wrong move, one loud thought, and this whole room could be atomised, probably along with me.

The thought doesn’t scare me. It excites me.

I savour the moment, the stolen intimacy, the absolute violation of her space.

Her tits bounce as she moves across to the bathroom and enters.

The shower runs, and I contemplate moving closer to watch her shower, naked and wet.

But something stops me. The anticipation of seeing her naked is one I want when she knows I’m there, looking at her, drinking her in.

I step out of the pocket dimension straight back into my room and close my eyes, visualising her, wondering what those full lips would feel like wrapped around my cock.

Wondering how wet and hot her pussy would be when I shove my cock into her.

Will she scream? Will she come all over my cock, or will she fight it?

Fight me? Both thoughts are equally arousing enough for me to unzip my pants and pull my cock out.

I wrap my fist around my length, the heat in my blood a familiar inferno. The image of her, defiant and unknowingly cornered, is seared behind my eyelids. I pull the black cotton from my pocket. Her scent clings to the fabric. A ghost of her power.

I bring the knickers to my nose and inhale deeply. A jolt, sharp and electric, shoots through me. It’s like tasting a fragment of her soul, a sample of the chaos I will soon command. I stroke myself faster, the friction a dull echo of the power I intend to wield.

My reality-warping abilities flare with my arousal. The walls of my room liquefy, swirling into impossible shapes that mirror my thoughts. Her naked form, rendered in shifting obsidian, arches in silent pleasure and agony. My future masterpiece.

I imagine her scream as the Midnight Soul Scar first burns into her skin. The sound of raw, untethered power is finally given a conduit. Us.

With a deep groan, I unload onto the stolen fabric, a down payment on a debt she doesn’t yet know she owes. A messy, visceral claim that I will return to her drawer so she knows I’m thinking about her.

With a savage smile, I clean myself up with a flick of my will. The plan is sound. The component is ready. But patience has its limits. It’s time to escalate. The hunt needs a more personal touch.