Page 108 of Tower of Ash and Darkness
He tilts his head, his smile deepening.
“What areyoudoing here?” he counters, his words soft, teasing.
The scar on his cheek pulls into a dimple, turning his smile into something disarming. I take a step closer to him, my eyes narrowing.
“Who were those men?” I ask, this time with force.
“Guards,” he replies, and I can hear the sincerity in his voice. “Not loyal to your father.”
Not loyal to my father. My breath catches in my throat.
“Or did you mean your newly acquired father-in-law?”
I freeze. My jaw clenches as a thousand questions flood my mind, but I don’t answer. I wait, forcing silence, hoping he’ll reveal more. He steps closer to me, his presence unsettling in the most intoxicating way. I move without thinking, my hips swaying just enough to catch the light of the moon. It’s a subtle dance, one I’ve perfected—one I know well. My father taught me the art of seduction, how to wield it as a weapon when brute force fails. And for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that Callum would prefer the brute force. But as I step closer, Callum doesn’t flinch, standing firm like he’s daring me to make the first move. He doesn’t look away. Instead, his eyes darken, and I feel the magnetic pull of his attention.
I drag the tip of my dagger across his chest, the cold metal gleaming in the torchlight. My movements are measured, as I press just enough for him to feel the threat without breaking his skin. It glides upward, tracing the line of his shirt until the blade rests at the base of his chin. He still doesn’t move. There’s no fear in him, and I can’t decide if that makes him more intriguing.
“You know who I am?” I ask, curious despite myself.
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear.
“I knowexactlywho you are, Your Grace”
His words are lethal, sending a jolt of unease through my body. But before I can react, an arrow whistles through the air, landing mere inches from us.
I gasp as Callum moves without warning, spinning me behind a thick tree trunk and pressing his body close to mine. His muscles are firm, warm against the chill of the night, and I can feel the pull between us—between the risk of the situation and the undeniablepull of his presence. His breath mixes with mine, and for an instant, everything else fades into the background.
Callum’s eyes shift from my eyes to my lips and back again, a sultry smile playing on his face.
“Maybe in another lifetime, beautiful,” he murmurs.
He pulls away, moving with deadly grace, as though he’s done this a thousand times before. He draws knives from his waist, hurling them with lethal precision. Each one hits its mark, sending the guards collapsing in a heap without a sound. It’s effortless. Smooth. A dance of violence.
I stand there, breathless, as the chaos unfolds before me. I reach out, my fingers curling into the air, and dark tendrils of magic flow from my fingertips, swirling in the night. Before Callum can throw another dagger, my tendrils are already there, wrapping around the neck of the last human guard. With a firm tug, his head is severed from his body, falling to the ground with a sickening thud.
Callum watches me, his dark eyes alight with a mixture of respect and amusement.
“Maybe I was wrong,” he says, his voice a low murmur.
I look at him, unsure of whether I’m pleased or unsettled by his words. His gaze lingers on me a moment longer before he turns back to the fallen guards. The last guard’s blood sputters from his windpipe.
As we approach the guard, his eyes lock onto mine, and a wave of hatred washes over his face, full of malice. Callum’s gaze flickers toward me. Then, with quiet ease, he retrieves the knife still lodged in the man’s chest, sliding it back into his belt, as if reclaiming a piece of unfinished business.
I kneel beside the guard and hold my fingers against his throat, feeling the faint pulse of life that still clings to him. Blood begins to trickle, warm and thick, onto my fingertips. Callum’s breath catches in his throat, a hiss escaping him at the sight of the blood.
“He’s dead.” Callum mutters, his voice tinged with disdain, as my fingers press harder against the guard’s wound.
My magic flows into his severed artery, knitting it together as theblood that once poured freely begins to slow. The guard's breath hitches, his chest rising and falling erratically as he stops gasping for air, momentarily suspended between life and death. His eyes widen in shock, a silent plea hidden behind their raw panic.
Callum steps closer, his boots silent on the dirt, his presence an unnerving calm in the chaos of the moment. I lean over the guard as his pulse weakens beneath my fingertips. I lower my face to his, my breath steady and controlled, as I lean close enough to whisper in his ear.
“Who sent you?” I murmur.
My hand moves, brushing his damp, ashen hair away from his face, revealing the streaks of blood and dirt that mark him.
Father’s lessons echo in my mind, his cold, methodical teachings on the art of torture. This isn’t my first time prolonging a death, keeping someone tethered to life just long enough to extract the answers I need. He’d always told me that a man, when faced with his end, would seek comfort in the touch of a woman. As though the warmth of her hand, the softness of her voice, would bring him peace on the edge of death. He believed that women, who bring men into this world, should be the last thing men see before they leave it.
I lean down, my lips grazing his forehead in a gesture that should feel tender, but is instead calculated and cold.
