Page 59 of Tower of Ash and Darkness
The balcony. The cool air. Casper’s hand against my cheek, the moment so fragile it could have shattered with the wind. I remember the way he looked at me—like I was something he wasn’t sure he should touch, but couldn’t help himself from reaching for. And I had let him. Wanted him to.
Thenhisvoice.
My father’s.
He had been furious. Yet not at me. Not truly. His rage burned hot and unyielding, but it was Casper who bore the full brunt of it—who he fixed his gaze upon with the intensity of a beast latching onto itsprey. As if he had not just stumbled upon a stolen moment, but upon something thatbelongedto him being taken right from his grasp.
And Casper… he had not been surprised.
That was what unsettled me most.
He stood there, motionless, his face a stoic mask. Gone was the man who had touched me so gently, who had looked at me like I was something more than just a princess in a gilded cage. He had become someone else entirely. A shadow. Aghost.
And my fatherknewhim. That much was clear. Not as a stranger or a soldier or a threat, but something else. I don’t know how. I don’t knowwhy. But it’s left my thoughts tangled with frustration, as if the answers are just out of reach and everyone else already knows them. A hand lightly touches my back, and I’m spun into the arms of another partner, a tall, dark-haired vampire whose movements are as smooth as silk. He guides me effortlessly with a firm hand, keeping a respectful distance before leading me toward my next partner.
Warm, calloused fingers close over mine, and I look up to find Jason standing before me. The golden-brown of his eyes catches the light, their depths revealing on something restrained, almost careful. My stomach tightens instinctively as he pulls me closer, his movements as confident as ever.
The music shifts, slowing, and the rhythm of the dance becomes more intimate. Jason’s hand rests lightly on my waist, his touch steady, as though each movement is as calculated as his words.
“Wife,” he greets me, his tone smooth, rehearsed—a charm he wears like armor.
Yet beneath the surface, there’s a shadow, a subtle edge that unsettles me. My stomach tightens as I falter mid-step, glancing up at him. His eyes lock onto mine, their intensity unyielding, as though he’s daring me to look away.
My attention shifts to my father, seated on his throne like a marble sentinel. His chin rests on his hand, his expression inscrutable. Shadows from the torchlight play across his face, deepening the lines of authority carved into his features. Whether he’sassessing me, Jason, or both, I can’t tell, but the weight of his gaze is as oppressive as it is unreadable.
I force a playful, if half-hearted, smile and tilt my head toward Jason, letting his words linger.
“Are we past the prenuptials and onto the ten-year mark of our marriage?” My voice is caustic, the dryness of my tone clearly cutting deeper than I meant to.
Jason hesitates, just for a fraction of a moment, but it’s enough. His eyes dart to the side, and I follow his gaze. There she is—the blonde-haired girl with golden eyes, standing by the drink station. Her grip on the delicate crystal glass is so tight it looks ready to shatter. She throws back her drink with ease, her gaze locked on us like a predator sizing up its prey.
There’s no mistaking the fire in her eyes. It’s bold. Daring. A challenge.
Jason’s hand slips lower, resting on my backside. The touch is light but wrong. Warmth radiates from his fingers, but it feels foreign, almost hollow, like an imitation of affection. A tremor runs through me, the kind that starts at the base of my spine and coils around my ribs like frost. My stomach twists in response, and for the briefest moment, the smile I’ve carefully crafted falters. The girl turns quickly, her head high, but her steps are stiff and unnatural, her poise a mask as brittle as the glass she’s just abandoned. Jason guides me into another slow turn.
And that’s when the doors at the far end of the ballroom open.
A hush spreads like a ripple through the crowd. Servants enter, solemnly bearing the body of a white stag upon a raised platform draped in deep crimson velvet. Its antlers glint beneath the chandeliers and blood stains the fabric beneath its neck—a vivid reminder that beauty, in this world, is always bought in blood.
Gasps echo around the room as the guests turn to admire the rare offering. The beast is revered, mythical in its appearance. A symbol of purity. Of luck. Of fate bending for those it chooses to appear before.
Tonight, it lies broken at the center of my engagement ball.
A gift.
A message.
Awarning.
“Do you know how rare it is to see a white stag, let alone kill one?” Jason asks, his tone soft and teasing. I glance at him, startled by the change in subject.
“Rare,” I murmur cautiously.
He nods, his lips curving into an easy smile.
“Rare enough that most hunters don’t even bother looking. They’re more myth than reality—symbols of good fortune. People say they bring luck to anyone who lays eyes on them.” His gaze holds mine, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of sincerity beneath the playful tone.
I fight to keep my expression neutral.
