18. Seraphina
18
SERAPHINA
I hate him.
I hate the way my lips still burn, the way my pulse hasn’t settled, the way my body still trembles—not from fear, but from something worse.
Something I don’t have a name for.
I hate him for this.
For making me crave something I shouldn’t.
For making me want him.
I shove the door shut behind me, my breath coming fast, uneven. The dimly lit corridor feels too narrow, too tight, too suffocating. My hands shake, my fingers curling into fists as if I could fight the feeling crawling in my veins.
I should run.
I should find some cold, dark corner of this cursed place and drown in my own fury.
But I don’t.
Because no matter how hard I try to ignore it, my lips still taste like him.
Like heat and hunger and a war I didn’t mean to start.
I press my back against the wall, tilting my head up, squeezing my eyes shut.
"You think you can handle what happens if I let go?"
His voice still echoes inside me, dark and velvet and infuriating.
And the worst part?
I had wanted to know.
I had wanted to see what would happen if he lost control completely.
My nails bite into my palms.
Gods.
I’ve survived so much. Chains, masters, years of silence, years of belonging to someone else.
But Rylan—he is different.
Not because he owns me. Not because I am bound to his world, his will, his deadly games.
But because I don’t know if fighting it is what I want.
That terrifies me more than anything.
—
I don’t sleep.
The shadows press too close, and every time I close my eyes, I feel him again.
The way his body caged mine against the desk, his breath hot against my throat.
The way his hands—strong, unyielding—had pinned my wrists like I was something fragile.
And the way I had let him.
I don’t know what unsettles me more—the way he touched me, or the way I wanted it.
The night drags on, the hours stretching too long, too empty. I should rest, should try to forget, but my body is wired, restless.
So I do the only thing I can.
The Midnight Den is silent at this hour.
A heavy, breathless silence. The kind that hides monsters in its depths.
I keep my steps light as I navigate the dim corridors. Not sneaking—just needing space. Needing air.
Needing distance.
But no matter how far I go, I still feel him.
Rylan.
His presence lingers in the stone, in the air, in the way the torches burn lower, softer, like they know what he’s done.
What we did.
I swallow hard, forcing the memory down.
This isn’t real.
None of it is.
He is still a dark elf.
He is still my master.
And I am still just a pawn in his games.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
I exhale, pushing forward, trying to banish the feeling in my chest.
The feeling that whispers—Liar.
I don’t realize where my feet have taken me until I reach the training room.
It’s empty at this hour, dark save for the soft glow of enchanted torches lining the walls. Weapons gleam from the racks, waiting, watching.
Good.
I need something to hit.
I cross the room, grabbing a blade from the wall—a simple dagger, the weight familiar, solid.
I need to move.
I start with slow, careful motions. A drill. The kind I learned when I was young, back when I still had something to fight for.
I twist. Pivot. Strike.
The blade slices the air, sharp, perfect.
Again.
Faster.
Harder.
I move until my muscles burn, until my breath comes in sharp gasps, until the ghosts in my head shrink beneath the rhythm of steel and sweat.
I fight until the only thing left is me.
But even then—he is still there.
Lurking in the back of my mind.
Watching.
Wanting.
I curse under my breath, gripping the dagger so hard my knuckles ache.
"This means nothing."
The words sound hollow in my own head.
To believe is to give my trust.
I don’t believe because of the way he looked at me—like he was on the precipice of something deadly, something uncontrollable—wasn’t nothing.
It was everything.
And I’m clueless as what to do with it.
A sound.
Soft, distant—but I know I’m not alone.
I stiffen, turning sharply, dagger raised.
But I don’t need to see the figure in the doorway to know who it is.
The air shifts.
And then—his voice.
Low. Rough. Like he hasn’t slept either.
"You always train when you’re running from something?"
I hate that my breath stutters.
I hate that he sounds so damn calm when I know he’s just as wrecked as I am.
I force myself to straighten, gripping the dagger tighter. " I don’t run."
His lips curl slightly. "No," he murmurs. "You don’t."
He takes a step inside. The flickering torchlight catches on the tip of his silver-streaked hair, casting his emerald eyes into shadowed depths.
I hold my ground.
But I feel it.
The pull.
The thing neither of us will name.
He doesn’t move closer.
He doesn’t need to.
He’s already too close.
"You shouldn’t be here," I say, voice steady. Distant.
His gaze flickers, dragging over me slowly. Not lustful—assessing.
Like he sees more than I want him to.
"Neither should you," he says simply.
I inhale through my nose, trying to steady myself.
Trying to remember who he is.
Trying to remember who I am.
"You kissed me," I say finally, the words like a dagger unsheathed.
A long silence.
Then—soft, dangerous.
"You kissed me back."
My fingers tighten around the dagger.
I want to argue. I want to deny it.
But we both know the truth.
We are standing on the precipice of something neither of us can control.
Something that will burn us both.
I lift my chin, swallowing the war inside me. "It won’t happen again."
A beat of silence.
Then—Rylan smirks.
Slow. Dark. Unforgiving.
"Liar."
His voice is silk and steel, soft and sharp enough to cut.
And, gods help me, I hate him for it.
Or I loathe myself because he’s right.