The chamber smelled of wine and perfume. Not hers. His. And theirs — the scent of whatever women Lord Cederic had dragged into the bed the night before still clung to the sheets like rot.
Kara sat at the vanity, her jaw tight, fingers locked together to keep from shattering the glass bottle of rose oil before her. Her reflection looked back at her with a kind of tired fury — the same look she had worn each morning since arriving in Duskwood.
Five days. That was all it had taken for the mask to fall.
The people of Caldrith Vale had sung his praises. "Lord Cederic of Duskwood is a fine man," they'd said. "A true noble. Kind. Generous. Refined."
Lies.
The man she married was none of those things.
Behind her, the chamber doors creaked open.
She didn't turn. She didn't need to.
"I see you're sulking again, wife," came his voice — smooth, lazy, like honey over rot. "What a dull sight for a morning."
Kara turned slowly. Her eyes met his. "And yet here you are. Looking for me all the same."
Lord Cederic laughed. "You forget yourself."
"No," she said. "I remember myself perfectly. What I've forgotten is how to stomach the stench of whoredom on my marriage sheets."
His smile faded for a blink. Then returned, sharp as a blade. "You're quite the mouthful for a woman who still limps when she walks."
Her cheek flinched, just slightly. But she held his gaze. "Your violence doesn't make you a man, Cederic. Just a coward with a title."
He moved swiftly then. One step. Two. The slap came without warning — hard, open-palmed, and ringing. Her head snapped sideways. Her skin burned.
She did not cry out.
Instead, she straightened her spine, turned her head slowly back to him, and smiled — blood on her lip.
"Feeling powerful now?"
His hand twitched again, but he stopped. Instead, he grabbed a goblet from the table, drank, and tossed the rest at the fireplace.
"I'll have a guest tonight," he said coldly. "I suggest you make yourself scarce."
"I live here," Kara said, her voice icy. "It is my chamber too."
"Then perhaps I'll let her use you too." He smirked cruelly. "Might as well be useful."
He turned and left, the doors slamming behind him.
Kara sat there in silence for a long moment. The blood on her lip had begun to dry.
She stared at her reflection again. Bruised. Tired. But alive.
He would not break her.
She would survive this. Somehow.
But gods, she missed Neriah.
Not with warmth. Not with the soft ache of homesickness or sisterly fondness.
She missed her the way one misses a mirror — to see a reflection of their own ruin staring back.
She missed her with the bitter hunger of someone who had been stripped bare, hoping the other had been flayed too.
"I hope it hurts," Kara muttered under her breath, staring at the ceiling beams of her cold chamber. "I hope it bleeds."
She imagined Neriah in the Storm Lord's chamber — stiff and pale beneath him, as broken as Kara was beneath Cederic.
The thought should have horrified her.
But it didn't.
It fed something inside her — something sharp and bitter, something rotting.
Because if Neriah was suffering too, then maybe the gods hadn't singled Kara out.
If Neriah was trembling beneath a monster too, then Kara wasn't the only lamb devoured.
There had been no choice for either of them — not truly.
But bitterness was a beast that feasted on blame.
And Kara's had long grown fangs.
She imagined her sister now — her beautiful face streaked with tears, whispering prayers into a pillow, gagging on royal kisses. The image soothed her. A balm of madness over her own bruises.
They say the Storm Lord was merciless.
Good, she thought.
Let him be merciless with her.
Let her feel what it's like to be touched by hands that do not care if you bleed.
Let her know.
Let her know.
Kara's lip curled into something like a smile.
Small. Wrong.
She didn't cry that night.
*****************
The night air was soft, stilled, and thick with silence.
Neriah curled on one end of the fur-lined chaise, legs tucked beneath her — she was in the king's chamber or her chamber now, though she still struggled to think of it as such. Her fingers idled against the Rite Book that Kaelith gave her. The embroidered edge of her robe was cool against her skin. The faint scent of myrrh and rosewater lingered in the air — a gift from Gwen's overenthusiastic preparations earlier that day.
She was indeed reading the book but her mind was elsewhere...
They had moved her belongings quietly, almost reverently. The handmaidens had folded her gowns into fine cedar-lined chests, arranged her perfumes, and placed her trinkets just so. Everything had its place — in this grand, thunder-shadowed chamber of the Storm Lord himself.
It was still too vast, too much stone and darkness… but somehow, with her things scattered in the corners, it felt less like a fortress.
And more like… something else.
Home, perhaps?
She did not hear him enter at first — but she felt it. The shift in the air.
The presence.
Damon stood there — removing his dark cloak, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow behind him. His dark eyes found her instantly, as they always did.
"Riah," he greeted, voice low, rough from the cold.
She gave a slight nod, "My lord."
He arched a brow. "Still 'my lord'? After I've allowed you to conquer half my chamber?"
Her lips twitched into a smile. "You hardly put up a fight."
"That's because I was outnumbered," he said dryly, stepping toward her. "Four trunks, six perfumes, three combs, two hairbrushes, a rabbit figurine...what else?"
Neriah laughed softly. "You forgot the books."
"Gods," Damon muttered, mock horror etched on his face. "There were books too."
She smiled. He was teasing, yes — but there was something else in his gaze. Something softer.
"I meant to ask you," she began, voice gentling. "Why… why did you ask me to move here? Permanently."
His brow lifted faintly. "Is that not what husbands do?"
She gave him a look. "Yes but you are the King."
He regarded her quietly, then stepped close enough for her to feel the warmth of him.
"I want to wake up everyday and see you here," he said, tone quieter now. "I want this place — my place — to become yours too."
Her breath hitched slightly.
Neriah blinked. She looked away... suddenly finding the chamber interesting.
"Your place is very… dark," she said, eyes flicking to the towering bookshelves and the brooding black banners that hung from the stone walls.
"I like shadows," he said with a shrug. "Easier to think."
"Easier to sulk," she muttered under her breath.
He looked up, smirking. "What was that?"
"Nothing, my lord."
"Liar."
She gave him a narrow look — just as her gaze snagged on something soft, draped lazily across the high-backed reading chair near the corner.
Her underdress.
Or more accurately, the sheer ivory slip she'd worn beneath her gown the day before.
Her entire body went rigid. "Oh gods."
Damon followed her gaze. A glimmer of amusement lit in his eyes. "Ah. Yes. That."
"Why is that there?!" she half-whispered, horrified.
"You undressed in here, didn't you?" he said plainly. "It's your room now."
"But I didn't mean for my… my…"
"Delicate silken things?" he offered, teasing.
Her face turned scarlet. "Don't say it like that."
"I could say it worse."
"Damon!"
He chuckled and stood, walking past her to the chair. With a dramatic flair he plucked the garment from its perch and folded it with princely precision, then placed it neatly atop a low trunk.
"There. No harm done."
Neriah groaned into her hands. "Oh gods, just bury me."
He chuckled. "Don't tempt me. I do have a shovel somewhere."
She peeked through her fingers, cheeks glowing like a hearthstone. "I cannot believe I left that thing there."
"Why not?" he said, stretching lazily as he walked back toward the bed. "It's soft. Pretty. Like you."
"Oh gods," she hissed, burying her face.
He only grinned wider.
The night went on.
Eventually, Neriah was nestled in bed, upright against the mountain of velvet pillows, one of her books open in her lap. The candlelight beside her flickered gently, casting gold over her red hair like molten copper. She looked… ethereal.
The furs were decadently soft. The mattress itself felt like clouds and cream, and she wrapped herself in the heavy blankets like a cocoon. A small smile tugged at her lips. She hadn't realized she could feel this warm. This safe.
She turned another page — or she tried to.
That's when Damon appeared beside the bed, his boots already gone, his hair slightly tousled, and his white linen sleeping shirt hanging loosely over his broad frame. He didn't speak.
He simply lifted the blankets and slid in beside her with the practiced ease of a man who belonged exactly there.
Neriah froze.
He sank back against the pillows with a soft exhale, arms folded behind his head.
Her eyes widened. "What… what are you doing?"
Damon tilted his head toward her, amusement lighting his features. "Sleeping."
"In here?"
"Yes."
"In this bed?"
"That is a very strange question," Damon said with a smile.
She blinked again. "But… I thought… I mean, I thought you were going to sleep in your study."
He gave her a knowing smirk. "Mmhm. I did that once, I'm not doing that again, Riah."
She scowled, snatched her book up, and said stubbornly, "Well, I'm not reading anymore. You've distracted me." She pushed the book aside, sat up straighter, and cleared her throat.
"There will be rules," she said firmly.
He arched a brow.
"Yes. Rules," she continued. "This is my side of the bed. That is your side. Do not cross it. I mean it."
Damon turned his head, blinking at her like she'd just declared war on his pillow.
"A line?"
"Yes. A line. An invisible one. Right here." She dragged her finger down the middle of the bed dramatically. "You are not to breach it under any circumstances."
He stared at her, deadpan. "Not even if I'm dying?"
"Well… if you're dying… maybe."
"What if I roll in my sleep?"
"Then roll back."
He barked out a laugh. "Gods, you're adorable."
She puffed up. "I'm serious."
"I can see that," he said, his voice filled with mirth. "So if my hand accidentally crosses your sacred border—"
"It better be an accident."
"Wouldn't dream of anything else."
She huffed and lay back stiffly, folding her arms.
But her eyes — traitorous things — couldn't help flicking toward him again.
That shirt of his. Gods, it wasn't fair. White, loose, slightly open at the collar, revealing just enough of his chest to make her thoughts scramble. He looked maddeningly good in the low candlelight. His dark lashes. That faint scar near his jaw.
Is he going to look like this every night? she thought with growing panic. How was she supposed to sleep like this? Next to him?
As if he could hear her thoughts, Damon turned his head and caught her staring. Slowly, smugly, he smiled.
"I won't cross the line," he said softly.
Her breath caught. She looked away at once.
"Sleep, Riah," he murmured. "You're safe with me."