Page 102 of Tower of Ash and Darkness
“You’re no fun tonight,” she throws over her shoulder as she saunters out of the tent, her voice losing its edge as she disappears into the night.
Callum watches Vanessa saunter out of the tent, his shoulders rising and falling with barely contained fury. His fangs are still bared, his jaw tight, and his fists clench at his sides as though he’s resisting the urge to tear the tent apart. Slowly, he turns to face me, disgust etched into his face.
I blink, trying to clear the blur from my vision, but everything feels too heavy—the tent, the air, even my own body. My head swims, the effects of Vanessa’s bite leaving me weak, unsteady. I manage to lift my gaze to his, though my sight is still hazy, and for a breath, we simply stare at each other.
Callum’s disgust deepens as his hands flex at his sides. Without waiting for my reply, he tosses a rolled parchment at me, the impact snapping me out of my haze as it hits my chest.
“There’s nothing about how to harness the stone. Just that King Sarris might already have it.” He turns sharply, making his way toward the tent’s entrance.
I watch him go, his anger lingering in the air, but before he disappears, he pauses, looking back at me over his shoulder. I catch disgust still burning in his eyes before he slips through the flaps and vanishes into the night.
I don’t follow. I can’t. My head falls into my hands as I run my fingers through my hair, trying to steady myself. My breaths are shallow, each one an effort to pull myself back from the edge of unconsciousness. The sound of the tent flaps stirs me again, and I look up to find Gwyn kneeling beside me, her brown eyes filled with concern as she holds a bottle of blood in her hand. She places a steadying hand on my knee as she offers it to me.
I waste no time breaking the top off, letting the blood pour down my throat. The rush of warmth and strength is immediate, but it does little to calm me.
“This has to stop, Cas,” Gwyn says softly, her voice careful but firm. Her fingers brush against my cheek, her touch grounding me.
I nod wordlessly, leaning into her touch as my hand moves to cover hers. She presses a light kiss to the top of my head, her presence a fleeting comfort. As she moves toward the tent entrance, she pauses, her hand lingering on the fabric.
“Is this really about the stone?” she asks, her voice laced with hesitation. She glances back at me, her brow furrowing. “Or something more?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, stepping out into the night and leaving me alone with the weight of her words. The silence presses in again, heavier than before, as my mind begins to spiral.
This is my doing. The mess we’re in—this relentless chase, this chaos—it’s all because of me. My revenge against Clyde, the need to destroy what he took from me, has consumed me so completely that it’s left me a shell of who I am. Every bone in my body feels like it’s been infused with hatred, every scar a reminder of what he ripped away.
I lean back against the bed, closing my eyes as memories crash over me. Her laughter echoes in my mind, clear and bright, her long black hair that shone as it caught the light. Her crystal blue eyes thatsoftened when she smiled, a smile that made the world feel less cruel.
But that memory fades, replaced by another—Lailah.
Her sharp tongue, her defiant gaze, her smile that stirs something in me I thought was long dead. The ache I harbor deepens, a void I can’t fill, no matter how much blood is spilled or how many plans I set in motion. Clyde took everything from me, but it’s the thought of losing Lailah that makes it impossible to breathe.
21
LAILAH
Waking up feels different this time. Normally, Sera’s loud, vibrant energy pulls me from sleep, but today, I wake to silence. No noise, no demands, just an eerie stillness. It’s as though the world stopped turning and everyone has frozen in place. Confusion jolts me from the bed, and I move toward the door to Jason’s private chamber. But as my hand reaches for the handle, I stop. Reality sinks in, and the reason for the silence hits me.
No one had to wake me—it’s our honeymoon, after all.
A deep sigh escapes my lips, and panic begins to set in. I step toward the window and pull back the curtains, only to see the sun low on the horizon—it's already the golden hour of sunset. I glance toward my husband's room again, this time lingering a little while longer. My gaze drops to the ground, and I take slow, deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart. I know I need to quiet the chaos in my mind, so I move toward the bathing chamber to prepare myself for the night ahead.
An hour passes, and I realize just how simple it is to get ready when I’m not worried about anyone else’s pretentious expectations of how I should look. I bathe quickly, drying and styling my hair into athick, long braid. I choose a dark leather skirt with high slits and a black, satin-like top that covers my chest, creating a high-neck effect that feels like armor, both bold and empowering.
I hadn’t realized how freeing it was to dress for myself, to dress only for my own satisfaction. I smile to myself as I slide black leather gloves onto my hands, pulling them up to my elbows. I catch my reflection in the mirror and raise an eyebrow. This is not what’s expected of me at the vampire court, where showing skin is encouraged. But now that I’m a free woman, married to a human, I realize I can do whatever I want.
The only person I’m called to please is my husband.
And while I know my loyalty will always belong to my father, it's still comforting to know that I’m a married woman now, and no one—no one—can tell me what to do except for Jason. And I have some ideas about how to handle that.
As I turn to leave, something catches my eye—a small parcel resting neatly on the corner of my desk. It’s wrapped in soft black linen, tied with a crimson ribbon. I step closer, a subtle furrow forming between my brows, and lift the folded parchment resting atop.
For you, wife. From my mother’s private jewel box.
The words pull a breath from me, quiet and unsteady. I loosen the ribbon and peel the cloth away, revealing what lies within.
A shawl—no, a constellation draped in fine, sheer fabric—glitters beneath the dying light. The diamonds are like captured moonlight strung together with delicate silver thread. They shimmer softly, not with grandeur or arrogance, but with the quiet majesty of stars—distant, untouchable, eternal.
I’ve worn black diamonds. Deep garnets. Jewels with edges as cold and cutting as the court that demanded them.
