Page 23 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Winning is habit.” I tip her chin. “As is wanting you safe.”
Her lashes lift. Emerald eyes glow in lamplight. For an instant the chamber, the vines, even the war of politics fade. Only her breath on my lips remains.
But Garrik bursts through doors, armor rattling. “Dominus,” he pants, “Asmodeus summons you to throne room. Urgent.”
I step back, release Iliana. “I will join.” Brisk, but hand lingers half second on hers before dropping.
She nods. Strength radiates, yet worry shades expression. I turn, cloak swirling, stride past Garrik. He falls in behind.
In corridor he mutters, “Nerves fray like silk threads.”
I clench fists. “We weave stronger cloth.” Yet dread coils—king summons rarely bodes reward.
Throne room yawns vast, empty save torch rows and Asmodeus seated on obsidian seat, silver eyes glinting. He waves hand; torches flare higher, painting runes on my skin scarlet. Thunder rumbles outside, reverberating in vaulted roof.
I kneel at foot of dais. “My king.”
“Rise, Varok.” His voice slides cold iron under velvet. I obey. He studies me long moments. “Council speak highly of your temperance. Yet rumors spread faster than vines.”
“I correct them at root.”
He smiles without mirth. “Roots run deep. Your attachment to the mortal grows… noteworthy.”
My pulse spikes. “She serves our purpose, Majesty. Keeps enemies guessing.”
“Does she keep you guessing?” He leans forward. “When blade hovered over her chest, you hesitated because you saw fit to test courage. Or so you claimed. I question whether courage was only lure.”
I do not flinch. “I saw potential to shift perceptions. And I was right—nobles reevaluate humans now.”
“Some reevaluate your judgment.” He drums claw. “Your lineage stands loyal for centuries. I would hate to lose such prodigy to sentiment.”
My throat tightens. “You will not.”
“Prove it.” He gestures; a guard drags forward a hunched figure—one pearl-collared human from Sarivya’s party. Chains rattle. “I command demonstration. Show council you remain my instrument. Sacrifice this one tonight, before dawn.”
Cold seeps under skin. Iliana’s plea from another night echoes: Could you kill me with precision? Yes. But today my heart slams against sternum, rebelling at useless slaughter.
Asmodeus watches. “You refuse?”
I control breath. “Majesty, Sarivya orchestrated nightshade plot. Grant me time to expose her fully. A sacrifice now feeds her narrative that I silence dissent with blood. Better to unravel her schemes through cunning.”
“Flattery of strategy,” he muses. “Very well. Postpone sacrifice.” Relief flashes—but then he smirks. “But kill soon. Perhaps your mortal hums sweetest when blood baptism looms.”
I bow, hiding fury. Guard drags trembling human away.
“Dismissed,” Asmodeus says.
I leave, storm raging under ribs. The king tightens leash. Iliana’s life remains a bargaining chip. My obsession is now a blatant weakness.
Tower corridor stands deserted when I return. Candles sputter low. I find Iliana in library, curled asleep on couch, charcoal smudged on fingers from notes. She looks small beneath glow of one dying lamp, braid fallen across cheek. Exhaustion tugs at her features, yet peace softens mouth.
I sink to floor beside couch, knees bent, elbows on cushions. I watch slow rise of her chest, feel tension leak from shoulders. She spared nights for my kingdom, risked mind for my gambit. In return I bring threat of sacrifice closer.
Her eyes flutter open, find me. Sleep-heavy voice. “The king?”
“Unconvinced.”
She sits, reaches, brushes fingertips along my jaw. The tenderness guts me. I capture her hand, press kiss to palm. Resolve ignites. I will not let Asmodeus use her.
