Chapter 3 #2
The doors ease shut behind me with a sound that feels final. The dining hall is nothing like the cold corridors outside. It’s breathtaking, in that “I probably shouldn’t trust anything this beautiful” kind of way.
The ceiling arches impossibly high, its dark vault painted with constellations that shimmer faintly, like the night sky has been trapped indoors.
Chandeliers of crystal and silver hang from invisible chains, filling the room with a warm light that flickers against gold-trimmed pillars.
The air smells of spiced wine and wood smoke.
A long obsidian table runs nearly the length of the hall, yet it’s only set for two. I guess I can appreciate his confidence that I’d show.
Malrik sits at the far end, draped in shadows and civility. His dark suit is cut sharply, his posture perfect, and his expression unreadable. He doesn’t look up immediately, just swirls the deep red liquid in his glass like a man who already knows he owns the room.
I consider turning right back around, but the doors don’t budge when I try. Of course.
“Rowan,” he says finally, voice low and smooth. “You clean up well.”
“Gee, thanks,” I reply, glancing down at the black satin dress he forced upon me. Well, him or his house, but I’m hoping that’s kind of the same thing. “It was either this or searching for the blood-stained leggings I should have woken up in. Who might have taken care of that?”
His mouth curves—not quite a smile, more a polite ghost of one. “My people. And you made the correct choice.”
“I’m sure,” I mutter, sliding into the nearest chair. The table’s longer than a river, but he’s close enough that the air between us vibrates with his power. “You really like dramatic entrances, don’t you?”
“Only when they serve a purpose.” His eyes glint silver under the candlelight. “You, for instance, respond better to grandeur than authority.”
“Wow,” I say flatly. “Didn’t realize you moonlighted as my therapist and interior decorator.”
That earns me a genuine chuckle, low and rich. “Deflection. Charming. You remind me of a child trying to hide her claws after they’ve already been stained by blood.”
My fingers tighten around the edge of the table. “You kidnapped me, remember? You don’t get to analyze me.”
“I didn’t kidnap you, Rowan. I saved you—from them, from yourself.” He lifts his glass, studying me over the rim. “You came willingly.”
“Did I, though?” I should be careful with what I say, but I can’t help myself. “I’m rather certain you didn’t play fair with your offer to save me. I was half-out of my mind, and you made me think you were a good idea. Spoiler alert: you’re not.”
The faintest spark of something like amusement crosses his face. “You’ll think differently soon enough.”
He gestures toward the tabletop, where two glass plates materialize, steam curling from grilled meat and roasted vegetables that look far too normal for this nightmare castle.
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“You should eat,” he counters smoothly. “Your power burned through more than magic. You need to replenish your body.”
I cross my arms, glaring at him. “How about you stop speaking in riddles and tell me what you actually want from me?”
He sets down his glass, folding his hands. “You.”
My insides churn violently. “I’m not up for grabs.”
He tsks, almost disgustedly. I try not to be insulted, especially when he adds, “You’re practically a child, Rowan. I don’t intend to touch you, only your power. Once you fully give into your Ashmark self, you’ll hand it over to me.”
Not that I know how to do that, but I’m sure this cocky psycho does.
“What if I don’t want to?”
His smirk deepens, and he rests his chin on one hand as he leans closer to me over the table.
“Oh, you’ll want to. You should consider yourself lucky.
None who have come before you has been able to capture my attention the way you do.
I’ll see to it myself that you do exactly what’s expected of you. ”
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Yay me.” The words are dry. “Yet, all I see is a man with a god complex and bad timing. I’ve already shifted. You can’t kill me.”
“You’ll find my timing is rather impeccable,” he replies, tone soft but dangerous. “Do you know what makes you different, Rowan? What makes you frightening to the rest of the supernatural world?”
I give a heavy shrug. “Apparently they think I’m the only one capable of dismantling their world as they know it?”
His chuckle is low and indulgent, like I’ve said something adorable. “Because you strip away what others cling to most.”
I cock my head to the side. “What is that supposed to mean?”
His eyes narrow, studying me, but they don’t linger long, as if I’m a puzzle he’s already solved. “Every Ashmark is born with a singular gift—one dominant thread in the tapestry of their magic. Mine,” he gestures idly, and the candles flare brighter, “is to enhance control.”
Of course it is.
“And yours,” he continues, his smile sharpening, “is the inverse. You take control away.”
The air around us stills.
I blink. “Take it away how?”
Malrik’s gaze darkens, fascinated. “You unmake magic, Rowan. You turn the supernatural…human.”
My throat tightens. “That’s not possible.”
He leans forward, eyes gleaming silver. “It’s already happened. You simply haven’t been paying attention.”
The energy of the castle increases, vibrating under my feet, and I feel it again—something inside me, shifting and awakening.
A flash cuts through my mind violently. The intruder in my room back at NightShade. The way his body went still under my hands from a wound that barely should have taken him down, yet managed to kill him. How the power had poured out of me like a scream.
Holy shit.
That splintered chair leg hadn’t taken his life.
I did the moment he was no longer supernatural.
My stomach twists further as I remember sparring with Liz next.
Her expression was sharp with pain when my temper had slipped, and the air around us had crackled.
She’d recovered—fast, like the predator she is—but there’d been a second where she’d been truly scared.
I remember the terror in her eyes, and gods help me, I’d ignored it.
I thought I was losing control.
Instead, I was taking it.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head hard enough to rock my chair. “You’re lying. I don’t—I can’t do that.”
Malrik’s smile is patient, almost gentle. “You can, you have, and you will. It’s why they fear you, young one. Why they’ll never stop hunting you.”
The castle hums again, deeper now, the tremor crawling up my spine like recognition. Fear unfurls in my chest, cold and sharp as glass, rendering me speechless, and in that silence, one truth carves itself deep enough to bleed.
If Malrik’s right, I’m not just dangerous.
I’m the end of what they are.