The Mark
SEVRIN
Sevrin strode through the castle’s quiet corridors, the echo of his boots the only sound breaking the late-night stillness. His thoughts circled Asharin, as they always did. The longing gnawed at him, relentless.
As he turned the corner near his chambers, a stifled moan halted him.
It was raw, unrestrained, followed by a deeper, guttural sound.
His chest tightened, curiosity clashing with unease.
Then he saw them. Colsar and Asharin, pressed against the wall just outside his door, bodies entwined.
Colsar was too focused to notice anything beyond her.
Her cloak bunched at her hips, legs clamped around Colsar’s waist, liquid trailing down her thighs, glistening in the light.
Her head tipped back, mouth open as another soft cry escaped, cut short by Colsar’s lips slamming into hers, hard and possessive.
Sevrin stood rooted, a rush of heat flooding through him.
He knew watching was wrong, a line he shouldn’t cross.
But Asharin was his undoing; she always had been.
He couldn’t look away from her arched spine, her nails digging into Colsar’s back, or the way her dress had been dragged down, exposing her chest, the fabric shifting with each movement, nipples taut in the cool air.
She was stunning, painfully so. For a moment, he shut his eyes, imagining himself in Colsar’s place, feeling her shudder beneath him.
His hand slipped below his belt before he could stop it, fingers wrapping around himself as he stayed in the corridor’s shadow.
He clenched his teeth, holding back any noise, stroking to match their pace.
Each thrust from Colsar, each muted gasp from Asharin, drove him nearer to breaking.
“Colsar,” she breathed, the name a shattered plea, and Sevrin’s throat closed, his rhythm stumbling before quickening.
As her legs gripped tighter, her body trembling through a climax, he couldn’t hold on.
Release hit him, a rough exhale slipping out as he finished into his palm, legs shaking under the strain.
Panting, his focus lingered on her, sliding down her form until it caught on her ankle. A scar, shaped like an X, marked her skin, clear even in the faint light. Ice gripped him. At first, it meant nothing. Just a mark. Just a careless cut, the kind anyone might carry.
Then it didn’t. The mountain rises in his mind without warning.
Cold air. White veils. The press of silence that swallowed names and faces alike.
A spring cutting through the mountainside.
A girl whose face he never truly saw, only the outline of her, the way she moved, the way she spoke as though nothing in the world had the right to touch her.
I may forget you.
The sound of water swallowing something without resistance.
I don’t forget. I can’t.
His breath falters. He remembers the knife in her hand. The quick drag of steel across skin. The mark left behind, small and imperfect.
Help me remember. His own blood had been warm against his ankle as he mirrored it without hesitation.
The memory had never been clear. Not her face.
Not her name. Only the feeling. Only the certainty that it had mattered more than anything else he had ever been given.
He had placed it somewhere safe. Somewhere contained.
But this—
His gaze locks on the mark again, and something inside him gives way.
Colsar lowered her to the ground, pulling her cloak straight with a care that made Sevrin’s teeth grind.
Afterward, she remained there, looking up at his brother expectantly.
Sevrin felt sick, his heart hammering. The scar on her ankle.
The mountain, the girl from his childhood.
Forcing his feet to move, he retreated into the dark, slipping toward his study with his pulse hammering.
She was never supposed to be Colsar's. She was always supposed to be his. He had promised her.
And Sevrin does not break his promises.