Page 15 of Ruin & Desire
Annabel
The castle does not sleep, and neither do I. Every stone seems to pulse with uneasy life. The castle’s vastness presses tight around me as I breathe in the hush between storms. Shadows slip like ink along the walls of my chamber, stretching into monstrous forms that leer from the corners before dissolving back into gloom. My wrist aches, the mark searing with a feverish heat I can’t quench. Each throb pulses in time with a heartbeat that is not my own, a rhythm that tugs and binds, a silent summons I can’t ignore.
It has been several days since that night in the library. I have shared meals with Lucien.Nothing likethatfirst frighteningencounter, but something more ordinary, almost domestic. Though neither of us has spoken of the library or theSerpent’s book, our conversations are careful, strained yet polite, as if we are two strangers learning the boundaries of a fragile peace. Despite the silence, I find myself drawn ever closerto him; the bond between us pulses stronger with each passing day, shaping a connection that no words could define.
I curl under the covers, trying to block out the pulse, but sleep will not come. The air is thick, trembling with the echo of his pain,a living reminder of theconfession that shattered the fragile peace between us. I can still hear his voice, raw and broken, his words splintering against the walls. Guilt and grief hang heavy around me, as if I am caught in the undertow of all he has lost.
The bond draws me from my bed. I rise, feet bare against the icy floor, shivering as I pull on a robe. The night is colder than before, as though the castle itself has drawn a shroud around its heart. My hand seeks the scar on my wrist,and Ipress against it in vain, as if I could silence the burning.The torches lining the corridor gutter and flare as I pass, lighting my way with restless flames. Distant thunder rumbles overhead, punctuated by the low hiss of the roses against the glass and the occasional creak of ancient floorboards. The castle guides me, each step echoing in the silence, leading me away from the warmth of my chambers toward a place I have never dared to go.
Not to the comfort of the library nor the familiar terror of the South Wing. The path the castle weaves now is older, fraught with secrets left to rot beneath stone and shadow. I follow,mybreath misting in the frigid airand myheart beating wild and uncertain. The air tastes metallic, sharp as blood. With each step, it feels as if thecastleisbleeding,its ancient veins bared and open to the night.
A set ofstairs spirals downward,slickand cold beneath my feet. My fingers drag along the rough wall, catching on grooves left by centuries of sorrow. With every step, the chill deepens, until the darkness grows so thick,it muffles sound.The castle trembles, low and constant, as if something buried far belowstrains againstits chains.
At the bottom, the passage opens into a vast, arched hall. Water seeps from fractured stone, pooling in slick reflections beneath the pale glow of a single torch. The air smells of roses and mildew, of magic too old to remember hope.In the center of the chamber, atop a pedestal of black stone, stands a single rose enclosed in a glass chalice.My breathcatches asIrecognize it.It isthe very rose whose thorns had markedmewhenIfirst entered the castle, bindingmeto the curse and forever linkingmyfate tohim and his castle’shaunted halls.
Its petals are the color ofblood,itsvinespulsinglike the beat of a wounded heart. The rose glows softly, and as I draw closer, I swear it shudders in time to my own pulse.I am mesmerized by its beauty, too entranced to realize that he stands before the rose—the Beast.
When I finally look up at him, the tension in his body is visible even from behind. His massive shoulders are hunched beneath the weight of invisible chains, his horns catching and scattering the crimson light thrown by the cursed flower.His claws curl at his sideswith restless hunger. He does not turn, but I feel the crackling electricity as he senses my presence, the bond snapping taut between us—painful and inescapable.
“You should not be here.”His voice grates through the air, raw as an open wound, dangerous not only for what he could do tomebut for what he might do to himself. The words coil around me, heavy with warning, but I force my voicesteady.
“The castle led mehere.I am not here by choice,”I say, trembling but defiant. My skin prickles with the knowledge that thecastleitself wants me here, that it has guided my steps to this forbidden place.
He turns at last, and the fury in his eyes nearly stops my heart. They blaze hotter than the cursedrose,molten gold shot through with sorrow and exhaustion. His entire body trembles, as though he is locked in an endless battle with himself.“Do you have anyidea what it takes not to break you?”His voice is raspy, each word torn from him with effort.
His pain hits me like a blow. Yet I lift my chin, unwilling to retreat.“Then stop trying,”I answer, the wordsemergingmore as plea than challenge. I am not sure which of us they are meant to save.
The silence that follows is like a held breath,thickand suffocating. His claws flex as he fights the curse that rages inside him. He steps closer, each movement betraying a struggle for restraint. Every part of me screams to run, but Ican’t. I am rooted by something deeper than fear, bound by a hope I do not dare name.And besides, Idon’twant to run.
The bond between us thrums, growing hot.It’sunbearable. My wrist burns with the mark, as if lit from within, and his gaze flickersto it before returning to my face. For a moment,it seems hewants to denyourconnection, to sever the thread, but hecan’t. We are ensnared together, for better or for worse.
He swallows,hisvoice dropping to a hoarse whisper.“You think I hunger only for cruelty. But the curse… it twists everything, even this.”His breath fogs the air, his anguish so raw,I almost reach for him, wanting to comfort, to forgive, to understand. He takes another step, so close his horns cast jagged shadows across my face. His claws hover near my throat, trembling, but he does not touch me. The restraint costs him dearly; I see it in the way his musclesshakeand his eyes burn with desperation.
The air around us growstighter,electric. My pulse hammers against the brand echoing in my blood.“What is this?”I whisper, hating the tremor in my voicebutneeding to know if hope is madness or mercy.
“Damnation.”The word escapes him, shattering through the silence, ripped from the heart of his torment. For a heartbeat, allI see is the ruin inside him—a man devoured by grief, clawing at the last scraps of himself.
He wrenches himself back, reeling from the edge of something neither of us can name. His claws slash the air, and the rose in its chalice shuddersviolently,itspetals scattering embers across the stone. The entire hall groans, protesting hisagony. Somewhere above, the storm outside lashes the walls, thunder echoing the violence within.
His voice breaks,raggedand full of terror.“Leave. Before I show you how little the man inside me still matters.”The words are both warning and plea, each syllable dripping with self-loathing and the fear of what he might become if I stay.
Everything in me urgesflight. My body trembles with the instinct to run—up the winding stairsandaway from this pain, this bond, this curse. But as I turn,myheart thrashing, I know the truth in my bones.
The Beast is not afraid of breaking me.
He is terrified of what will happen if hedoesn’t.
Chapter twelve
The Breaking Point
Annabel
Days have passed and I have not seen the Beast. I believe he is avoiding me since our last encounter and I worry he may be giving in to the curse once again.
Thecastlecorridors pulse with restless energy, walls groaning and shifting as if the very stones ache with anticipation. I stumble through dimly lit halls, guided by the invisible thread of the bond. My wrist aches, the mark blazing with each step.Doorsslam shut behind me, sealing off all escape, until I find myself funneled into a chamber glowing with firelight. Shadows leap and twist across the walls, tangled with thorns that writhe likeserpents,their tips dripping crimson dew as if hungering for blood.For the first time, the vines are inside the castle walls.
The air is thick, swirling with the scent of roses and smoke and something older,an undercurrent of magic that feels like a warning. My heart quickens, matching the pulse of the mark onmy wrist, and I wonder if the castle itself is alive,feeding onthe storm inside us.
