Page 14 of Ruin & Desire
Chapter ten
The Vessel of Thorns
Lucien
The moment I tear myself from her, the castle howls with me. It is proud of my restraint yet offers a chorus of anguish echoing through its ancient halls, amplifying my pain. The torches stumble and sputter, their flames flickering wildly, casting erratic shadows that stretch and coil across the stone walls. Books tumble from their shelves, spines cracking open as if the castle itself is rejecting the knowledge I allowed her to touch. The walls groan, protesting beneath the weight of my fury, like ribs splintering inside a wounded beast.
I storm into the darkness, my claws dragging sparks across the stone floor, leaving her and a trail of glowing embers behind me. My footsteps thunder through the winding corridors, the shadows warping and swirling with every stride, growing longer, deeper, as if they threaten to swallow me whole. Ihaven’tslept in days—exhaustion gnaws at my senses, sharpening my temper until every sound grates. From somewhere beyond thetorchlight, I hear the faint shuffle and hush of my servants; they retreat and hide, their voices silenced, giving me a wide berth as the echo of my fury ripples through the halls. The only sounds left are the crackle of flame and the furtive scurry of those who dare not cross my path.
Annabel’s newfound knowledge clings to me, searing hot against my skin, as persistent as the mark blazing on her wrist.It’sa tether that binds us, refusing to fade even as I try to distance myself.AndI must distance myself.
AsI slam through the maze-like passageways,arelentless storm outside battersthe windows, rain lashing the sills in furious waves. Lightning fractures the night sky, sending split-second flashes of warped shapes across the floor and walls.The roses outside shudder, their thorn-laden branches gnashing against brittle glass, desperate to break in and taste blood.The tempest that churns beyond these walls is nothing compared to the storm raging inside my chest.I’mconsumed with rage tangled irrevocably withlongingandgrief twisted tight with shame. I want to roar, let the curse erupt,andlet my agony spill and drown everything.But the castle resists,itsstone straining against my wrath, echoing my restraint.
I reach the northern wing, where the windows gape open to the night’s violence. My reflection in the glass is monstrous: horns silhouetted against the gloom, golden eyes burning with fever and exhaustion. For a moment, Ihatewhat Isee. Ihate what I have become. My claws itch to shatter the window, to erase thegrotesquething staring backat me, but I force myself to stand and watch, to remember the man I once was—the husband, the father—before the serpent, before the thorns,andbefore vengeance hollowed me out. The memory aches, raw and relentless.
Annabel’s presence lingers in the air, her scent woven through dust and roses, the echo of her voice humming insidethequietchambers. The mark on my chest pulses in rhythm with hers, binding us with pain neither of us can sever. She does notremainwhere I left her. Even as I stormedaway, she pursuedme through the winding corridors, her footsteps sure and relentless. She is not afraid; her hope shines undimmed in the darkness, daring me to believe in redemption.But she will not find me here.The castle will not allowher.
Why does she seek me, still? Why does she look at me as though hope is not a lie?I pace the cold stone tiles,myclaws scraping fresh gouges,reminders of theBeast I have become, of the violence that now defines my every movement. The castle groans above andbelow,its shadows alive with secrets I dare not face. The portraits watch from their ornateframes,theirfaces twisted in smug contempt, mocking my torment. I snarl at them, but their painted eyes do not blink, and the ghosts in the wallswhispermy failures.
Her wordsstillrepeat inside my mind.You spared me. Theystrip me rawandcrack open wounds I thoughtwerelong scarred.Her unbrokengaze, sharp as a blade,sawthrough the mask I wear,andthe cursefeeds onmy fury and shame, but beneath it all, something softer stirs.Could it bea fragile wish for redemption, a memory of the man who once carried his daughterin his arms, who believed love could conquer any darkness?
I grip the cold stone windowsill,myclawsshakingwith the effort not to collapse. If I let myself feel, I will fall apart. If I let her in, I risk everything,includingthe remnants ofwhat’sleft ofmyself,the scraps of hope Idon’tdare acknowledge. And yet for the first time since the world shattered, I wonder if the ruin inside meis not an endingbut the shadow of something waiting to be remade.I could have so easily kissed her. I could have devoured her. But Ididn’t.
The castle shudders once more, stones rattling as if yearning for the same impossible hope. I close my eyes, listeningforits heartbeat, for the echo of Annabel’s voice calling me back from the abyss. In that fleeting moment, I imagine her touch, gentle and warm, holding me together when everything else threatens to break.
Tomorrow, I know, the storm will still rage. The curse will gnash its teeth,and the castle will groan. Butperhapstherewill be a place for mercy amid the thorns.Maybethehope that trembles between usnow, sharp as a blade, can one day heal instead ofdestroy.
If I could,I would take it back. Every cruel word, every wound I inflicted.I would undo it all. Her words burn through me, reminding me of what I have lost and what I still stand to lose.
Finally reachingmybedchamber, I slam the doors shut with a force that rattles the hinges.My claws gouge the table, rippingthewood to splinters. I shouldhave torn the book from her hands, should have silenced her defiance before it took root inside me.Yet I listenedto her,and now Ican’tturn away from what she has awakened.I want her witha furyIdon’tthink I will everunderstand.I need her.
The Serpent-Crown. Its sigil coils in my mind,a serpent biting into its own crown, twisting tighter with every memory. For years I hunted it, chasing tavern whispers, barons’rings, and the ashes of villages where their shadow lingered. I spilled rivers of blood, and still the serpent slipped away,laughingandtightening its hold around my curse. Every time I struck, the thorns inside me grew, feeding on every scream, every death, deepening the curse until one day I realized I was never the hunter. I was their vessel.I am the Vessel,and she is the hunter.Only she can make or break me.
She held their scripture in her hands. She read the words that forged me. I press a claw to my chest, feeling thorns pulsebeneath my skin, roots coiling aroundbone. They whisper in my blood, reminding me I am theirs. Yet Annabel’s eyes,defiant and burning,supported her refusalto leave me. She looked at me not as a monster to fear, nor as a prince to mourn, but as something still undecided, something that could yet change.
It is unbearable. I pace, my horns scraping the beams overhead, my breath ragged and hot. “She does not understand,” I snarl into the silence, my voice echoing off the stone. “She can’t.”
Thecastledisagrees. Its walls tremble. The portraits leer,theirhollow eyes mocking my resistance. The roses hiss against the glass.She does. She sees.She sees everything.
I lash out, my claws raking the wall until the stone splits, and dust rains around me. “No!” The curse inside me thrashes, burrowing its roots deeper and feeding on my fury. And beneath it, something worse stirs, a hunger not for her screams or her pain but for her fire and her passion. I hunger for her mouth that dares to speak the truth. I hunger for her gaze that dares to see though me.
I slam both palms against the window until the glass cracks,mybreath fogging against the storm outside.“Annabel,”I whisper, her name a wound on my tongue. The roseshisslouder, rattling their thorns, jealous of the sound.
I curl into the chair atlast,myclaws slick with blood from whereI’veraked myself raw. My chest heaves,andmy body shudders, but still the mark burns in time with hers, tethering us across the castle.
I should hate her. I should crush her before herlightpoisons me.
And yet all I can see is her standing in the library, clutching the serpent’sbookandlooking at me as though I am not already lost.
And for the first time in fifteen years, I am afraid.
Not of the Serpent-Crown. Not of the curse.
But of her.
Chapter eleven
The Thorn's Edge
