Chapter Two
GAbrIAL LOPEZ ESTATE
Twenty Years Later
I was born for the fire—or so I’ve been told.
The hallway was colder than usual, colder in a way that seeped straight into my bones, carrying the bite of stone and something else I couldn’t name. After five years of walking this same path—every week since my fifteenth birthday—I noticed the smallest shifts.
Tonight, the air pressed heavier, the shadows stretched longer.
Bare feet slid across marble so immaculate it reflected me back in fractured pieces, the chill climbing through my skin with every step.
The runner stretched the length of the corridor in perfect alignment, edges razor-straight, its threads woven so tight they seemed meant to cut.
Even the air was scrubbed clean, faint with lemon polish and candle smoke, sterile as a hospital, sacred as a tomb.
Chandeliers burned above me, light sharp as glass, gilding the hall in brilliance that showed no mercy.
There was nowhere to hide. Every polished surface, every perfect line reminded me I didn’t belong here, not as a person, only as something kept.
My footsteps landed too loud, clumsy against the curated silence, like proof I was still human.
The ache in my soles grounded me. Pain was the only imperfection I could still claim as mine.
Pain reminded me I was still alive.
And if I was still alive, I could still run.
The robe I wore over my sheer nightgown was white and thin, damp where sweat had soaked the fabric to my skin. Not from heat. Never from heat.
The chamber waited at the end.
When I stepped inside, the candles were already lit.
Twelve, always twelve, one for each of the Circle, one for the Flame. And the thirteenth, the one that mattered most, the black-stemmed candle set in an iron holder at the center of the altar.
The timer.
The countdown.
My hope.
I shut the door behind me, the sound louder than I meant in the stillness. Then I lowered myself to the floor, knees striking stone with the same grace drilled into me since childhood. Palms flat. Eyes down.
“I give myself as flame, to burn for the one who created me.” The words scraped my throat on the way out. They always did. I said them anyway. I always said them. If I didn’t, he’d make me repeat them until the sound cracked in my throat, until the taste of blood bloomed at the back of my tongue.
There were eyes in this room, I didn’t need to see them to know. Obedience hurt less than defiance. But obedience never set anyone free.
The door behind the altar creaked open.
I didn’t look up.
Gabrial’s steps were soft. Always soft. Like his voice. He moved the way a snake might, calm, deliberate, knowing the strike would land no matter how slow it came.
“You’ve forgotten your place this week, Sable.” His tone was quiet, but quiet never meant safe. He began circling behind me. “I saw the way you looked at the younger guards. Are you thinking forbidden thoughts about those men?”
My lips stayed pressed shut. Anything I said would be wrong. Gabrial was jealous in a way that could ruin a body. The only answer that wouldn’t pour gasoline on his mood was silence. But in my head, I thought of every place beyond these walls. Places he’d never touch.
He dipped his thumb into the ash bowl. The smell curled into my nose, burned cloth, clove, and something darker I’d never identified but would carry in my nightmares for the rest of my life.
He pressed it hard to my chest, just above my heart. I flinched before I could stop myself.
“Here.” His thumb dug deeper. “This is where your fire lives. It’s mine to tend. Only mine. Understand?”
I gave the smallest nod, my gaze fixed on the blackened candle. Its flame flickered. It looked shorter than usual.
Hope stirred, foolish and fragile. Maybe this would end faster tonight. And maybe, one night soon, I’d find a way to make it end for good.
Then he reached forward and replaced it with a fresh one—longer, slower to burn.
“Tonight,” he murmured, “we don’t rush the cleansing. Tonight, we linger in the fire.”
The air left my lungs in a slow, controlled exhale. My eyes burned, but I didn’t let the tears fall.
Not even when he leaned close enough that his lips brushed my ear.
“Come, Sable. I’m in the mood for something special.”
Special meant rough. It meant he’d take every jealous thought, every imagined slight, and carve it into my body until I remembered—bone-deep—exactly who my flame belonged to.