Tristan
She looked so small in my bed.
Too pale. Too still. Too quiet.
The usual fire that burned behind her every glance—gone. Replaced with something fragile. Mortal. I didn't like it.
I hadn't slept. Not that I needed to. The whole estate had gone silent hours ago, yet I stayed there, seated at the edge of the mattress, elbows on my knees, staring at her face like if I blinked, she'd disappear.
Her breathing was steady now—faint, but steady. A small mercy.
I reached out slowly, fingers brushing back strands of hair stuck to her cheek. They were damp with sweat. She'd screamed earlier. I could still hear it echoing in my skull. The kind of sound you don't unhear.
"Don't ever do this again," I muttered under my breath.
It wasn't a command. It wasn't even a threat. It was… something else. A confession I'd never say out loud.
I stood abruptly. I needed space. Control. Something she always managed to strip from me just by existing.
I crossed the room and grabbed a cloth and a vial of tonic from the nearby drawer. As I turned back, I stopped at the doorway and leaned against the frame, cloth in hand, watching her like a man trying to solve a riddle he didn't understand.
What the hell are you doing to me, Lyra?
Her fingers twitched.
I froze.
A soft groan slipped past her lips, and her brow furrowed. I didn't realize I was holding my breath until she blinked slowly, her gaze swimming before settling—on me.
Our eyes locked.
I looked away first.
"You're awake," I said, voice flat. Controlled. "Good."
She pushed herself up slightly, wincing as she leaned against the headboard. Her skin was still too pale. "What happened?"
"You passed out," I said, walking back toward the bed. I handed her the cloth. "You overheated. Must've been the dress."
She took the cloth without a word, dabbing her forehead, but her eyes didn't leave mine.
"I'm fine now," she murmured, though she looked anything but.
I gave a short nod and stepped back. "Don't make a habit of collapsing on me."
She raised a brow, too tired to throw barbs. "Didn't plan on it."
The silence that followed wasn't comfortable. It was heavy, filled with things neither of us were ready to say. And I hated it. I hated the ache in my chest that didn't belong there. I hated the worry, the fear—yes, fear—that had curled around my spine when I realized she was gone.
So I did what I did best.
I shut it down.
"I'll have someone bring up food," I said, already turning toward the door.
"Tristan."
I paused.
Her voice was soft. Tired. Almost... grateful. But she didn't say anything else. And I didn't turn around.
I just left.
Because if I stayed a second longer, I might've done something reckless—like reach for her hand.
---
Lyra
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
And just like that, the air shifted. Emptier. Colder.
I stared at the ceiling, the scent of his sheets still clinging to my skin. Tristan had touched me. Held me. Looked at me like something more than a political obligation. But now… it was like none of it happened.
I turned my head slowly toward the doorway.
He didn't slam it. Didn't snap. But somehow, that gentle click was worse. It meant control—his favorite weapon.
I sat up with effort, every muscle aching like I'd been dragged through fire. And in a way, I had.
The curse was changing. Escalating.
And now I knew why.
Ralpherson's words hadn't left my mind since the moment he said them.
"It wasn't natural. Your curse was made, Lyra. Engineered."
The Consuls didn't just punish my bloodline—they orchestrated it. My great-grandmother hadn't been a tragic romantic. She'd been a pawn. And now, history was repeating itself.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, trembling. Not from fear, not from weakness. From rage.
They wanted to control me. Break me. Use me.
But not this time.
---
The next few days passed in a blur of silence and staged normalcy. Tristan didn't speak of that night. I didn't ask. But something had shifted between us. Small things. Subtle.
He no longer corrected me in front of staff. He started leaving breakfast out on a tray before disappearing. And once—I caught him lingering at my door. Not entering. Just… listening.
I didn't know what to make of it.
But I didn't have long to wonder.
Because an official summons arrived, marked in silver wax.
A Consul gathering.
I stared at the envelope for a long time before opening it.
---
We arrived together, but in silence. The black car hummed beneath us, and the distance between Tristan and me on the leather seat felt both painfully close and oceans wide.
The Consul Tower loomed ahead like a polished blade.
Inside, everything was the same—opulent, cold, strategic. The moment we stepped into the chamber, all eyes turned. Curious. Measuring. Watching for cracks.
We took our seats.
My father was there, of course, ever the smiling viper. Tristan's father sat near the front, flanked by allies who smelled of power and old money. The meeting was ceremonial—an evaluation of our "cohabitation progress." A polite way of saying, Are they faking it well enough?
I let Tristan do most of the talking. He was good at that—saying just enough to appease without revealing a damn thing.
I played my part. Silent. Composed. Compliant.
Until one of the Consuls—Elias Merrow—leaned forward and asked, "Lady Lyra, are you feeling well? You look… drained."
I met his eyes with steel. "Magic has a way of draining those it wasn't meant to touch."
The room fell silent for a beat. He smiled, thin and hollow.
Touché.
---
The car ride back was quiet again. Too quiet.
"Did you have to antagonize Merrow?" Tristan asked eventually, eyes on the road.
"He antagonized me first."
"You don't want to draw attention—"
"I am attention, Tristan. You knew that when they sold me to you."
His jaw tensed. "No one sold you."
"Oh, right. It was a generous exchange of power sealed with blood and a vow."
"You think I had a choice in this?"
"You had more than I did."
That shut him up. He looked away.
So did I.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I wandered the estate, barefoot and restless, avoiding cameras and corners like a thief in my own prison. My heart felt too big for my chest, too heavy. So I ran. Not to escape. Just to breathe.
And for a moment, I did.
Until the pain came.
Worse than before. A deep, guttural kind of agony that brought me to my knees behind a hedge near the outer wall. I bit down on my hand to keep from screaming, vision swimming.
And then—
Arms around me. Familiar. Strong.
"I told you not to do this again," Tristan hissed.
But he didn't sound angry.
He sounded scared.
---
He carried me back himself. Past the guards. Past the locked doors.
Into his room.
Not mine.
He laid me on his bed like I might shatter. Sat beside me in silence. He didn't touch me again. Just watched. Like before. Eyes full of questions he didn't yet know how to ask.
I didn't speak. Couldn't.
And for once, I didn't need to.
Because for the first time in weeks…
I wasn't alone in the fire.
---
I didn't even remember falling asleep.
One second, I was staring into the dark with Tristan a breath away, and the next, I was waking up alone—his side of the bed untouched, the sheets still cold. But something lingered in the room.
Like he'd never left.
And maybe… he hadn't.
It was mid-afternoon when the knock came. One of the staff stood at the door, a young girl I didn't recognize. She held out a sealed envelope—marked with the sigil of Councilor Merrow.
Another order.
I broke the seal with slow fingers and read.
Per Council decree, as part of the sacred pre-marital rites, House Michelson and House Williams are to cohabitate fully. Effective immediately, Lady Lyra and Lord Tristan are required to sleep in the same quarters and on the same bed. Physical intimacy remains their discretion. Compliance will be monitored.
I read it twice.
Then again.
My stomach turned.
They were watching us. Still pulling strings like we were marionettes on a gilded stage.
Tristan read the letter after me, his jaw tightening with every word.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered.
"Welcome to marriage," he said dryly, tossing the letter onto the table like it was trash.
---
That night, after dinner, I rose quietly from the table. The food had no taste, my nerves crawling under my skin.
Tristan stood when I did.
He didn't say a word as he followed me.
I walked straight to the guest room I'd claimed since the beginning. My safe space. The one place I could still pretend I had a say.
I gripped the doorknob.
"Are you forgetting something?" Tristan's voice cut through the hallway like a knife.
I turned slowly. "No."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"I'm going to my room."
"No, you're not." His voice hardened. "We were given an instruction."
"I'm not doing that."
"Do you think I want to do this?" he snapped. "I don't. But we're going to follow the damn rule."
I rolled my eyes. "You're unbelievable—"
And then my feet were off the floor.
"What the hell are you—? Tristan!"
He'd thrown me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing. I pounded on his back with my fists, but it was like trying to crack stone.
"You caveman! Put me down—"
He kicked open the door to his room and strode in like a king returning from war.
"You're sleeping here now," he growled, setting me down roughly on the edge of his bed. "This is your bed. This is your room."
I glared up at him, breathless, furious, and all too aware of the way his chest rose and fell like he was barely keeping himself in check.
He turned away first.
The sound of the door clicking shut behind him echoed like a sentence.
And this time… it wasn't gentle.