Page 82 of Tower of Ash and Darkness
The words are scathing and final, my grip loosening as I step back. Vanessa tilts her head, studying me with mock curiosity, her confidence unshaken.
“If that’s what you want.”
She bends slightly, picking up her dress, her movements languid as she slips it back on, her eyes never leaving mine. Every motion is a calculated taunt. She turns, slowly striding toward the tent flap, exaggerating the sway of her hips. Just before leaving, she glances back over her shoulder, her lips curling into a knowing smile.
“You’ll change your mind,” she purrs.
The tent flap falls shut behind her, and silence envelops me. I lower myself onto the edge of the desk, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. Lailah’s scent still lingers in my mind, that bitter sweetness cutting through everything else, and I know there’s no escaping it.
No matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, I’ve already lost.
The silence in the tent feels oppressive, the faint sounds of the camp outside muffled by my racing thoughts. I rub my hands over my face, trying to banish the memory of Lailah's eyes, the way they burned with raw emotion. Shock, betrayal, jealousy, desire—they all tangled together in her scent, flooding my senses and stirring something deep inside me I don’t want to confront.
I stand abruptly, the tightness in my chest clawing to get out. My steps are quick and heavy as I cross the tent to a basin of water, the cold bite barely registering as I plunge my hands into it. The bloodlust still lingers, a faint hum beneath my skin, twisting with the remnants of Vanessa’s taste.
The water drips from my hands as I stare at my reflection in the small mirror propped against the far wall. My eyes are darker than usual, the hunger still simmering beneath the surface. My hair is slightly disheveled, my jaw tight, my face etched with exhaustion and frustration.
I barely recognize myself.
The sound of the tent flap opening pulls me from my thoughts. Iturn, expecting Vanessa to defy me and return, but instead, Callum steps inside, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling on me. His dark hair brushes against his forehead, framing his eyes, their rich, shadowed depths betraying his ever-present edge.
He pauses, eyes darting briefly to the tub, then back to my face, taking in the water dripping from my hands and the rigidity of my frame.
Callum tilts his head slightly, his dark gaze narrowing as he studies me.
“It’s cold,” he says, his tone low and biting. He nods toward the tub, his expression as cutting as his words. “Thought you might need to cool off.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he takes another long look around the tent before turning to leave.
“Try not to drown,” he tosses over his shoulder, the faintest trace of mockery lacing his voice as he steps out.
The tent flap swings shut behind him, leaving me again with the oppressive silence, the suffocating disquiet, and the icy water that drips from my hands. It does nothing to calm me. I strip away my shirt and unfasten my pants, letting them fall before stepping toward the wooden tub. The cold water laps at my legs as I sink in, its icy grip stealing the breath from my lungs.
The stark contrast to the heat coursing through my body is both jarring and, for a fleeting moment, welcome.
The chill wraps around me, closing in like a vise, dulling the fever that’s burned beneath my skin all night. My breathing slows, steadying with the rhythmic lap of the water against my body. I lower myself further, letting it envelop me.
The cold water does little to settle the fire crawling under my skin, but I stay submerged, letting the silence press against me like a punishment. When I finally break the surface, the chill clings to me, and the frustration claws deeper. Her scent, her expression, the way she made me feel too much too quickly—it all lingers like a ghost I can’t exorcise. I rub a hand over my damp face, inhaling deeply.
There’s no escape from her, no matter how much distance I try to create. The only way out of this is forward.
I step out of the tub, water trailing down my skin as I reach for the nearest cloth. I move to dress, each motion slow and purposeful, as if fabric might anchor me. I pull on my shirt and step out of the tent into the biting chill of the night.
Callum is there, leaning against a post, spinning his knife in his hand. He doesn’t glance my way, but the stiffness in his frame betrays him.
“You got too close to her.” Callum says, his voice low, the knife flipping once in the air before he catches it with ease.
I stop mid-step, his words digging deeper than I want to admit. My chest tightens as I exhale slowly, forcing the frustration back. He’s right.
Gods help me, he’sright—and that’s what pisses me off most.
I got too close. Let her in too far. Let myself feel too much. And now, every breath feels like punishment for a moment I never should’ve let happen. The mask I wear—detached and untouchable—slipped. I lost control. I saw Jason with her, and something inside me cracked, feral and fast. But I can’t let it show.Not again.
My jaw feathers, but I keep my voice steady.
“Were you watchingheragain, brother?”
Callum doesn’t respond immediately. His dark eyes meet mine for a second before sliding away as if the question doesn’t warrant an answer. The silence that follows stretches impossibly long. The knife moves again, smooth and unhurried, before he finally speaks.
