Page 19 of Ruin & Desire
The curse doesn’t want her. It doesn’t want her hope, her defiance, or her tenderness. It doesn’t want her close to me. It only wants the hollow, the safety of her surrendering to the dark.
But her fingers are so warm. Each point of contact sears more thanhotiron ever could. The curse hisses, but itcan’tdrive her away. I can. I should. I should thrust her aside, throw up the walls I have built for fifteen years, bare my teeth,and force her from the line of fire. Cruelty would be easy. Rage would swallow her for her own good. I have done it before.
But she is looking past all of that.
Not at my horns. Not at the claws trembling with the urge to rend and flee.
She is looking at me.
“You feel this,”she whispers. There is no pleading in her voice, only certainty,soft but unyielding.
“Yes. I feel it. God help me, I feel it everywhere.”Her palm over my heart anchors me, and the thorns beneath my skin writhe in answer. The pulse of our bond surges, molten and uncontainable, threading from the mark on her wrist to the burnt brand in my chest. It beats once,twice,andresonates through every shattered piece of me as if she is coaxing somethinglong buriedto rise.
Thecastlenotices. The embers of the hearth gutter, flaring,then nearly dying, their light stuttering against the walls. The stones groan, heavy with displeasure. Outside, the roses tremble on their vines, thorns bristling as if the garden itself is warning us not to hope.
“Stop,” I say, voice torn and barely mine. I do not move her hand.
Shedoesn’tobey. Instead, she steps even closerand pressesher body to mine,not in fear, not forced, but chosen. The sensation undoes me more completely than any blade. Mydefenses splinter. My claw rises, surrendering, and with trembling restraint,I cup her faceand trail myfingersalongthe delicate curve of her cheek, not as a threat, not as an end, but as an apology. A plea.A prayer.
Her eyesflutter closed. For a single, unguarded heartbeat, I am not the monster I have been forced to become. The man within—the husband, the father, the prince—surges up through the mire, desperate for air.Lucien. The name tolls through me like thunder, shattering the careful silence I have clung to. The mirrors were right. She is waking him. The curse knows it.
The air splits with a sound like silk torn by claws. Annabel gasps as the bond flashes white-hot between us, searing away the gloom. Somewhere deep beneath thecastle, the rose,the black chalice that anchors the curse,begins to throb, its pulse echoing through the stoneandinto the marrow of the walls, the roots of the thorns in my chest.
“No,”Isay on a heavy exhale, but the roses outside shriek in protest. The glass rattles, the castle walls twist, and the fire dies in a violent gulp, plunging the room into shadow. Something ancient stirs beneath the floor,serpentine, furious,andawakened by hope it forbade.
The Serpent-Crown does not sleep. Her loveandher touchthreaten everything it has written into me. Threads of memory unravel, seams once hidden by pain now torn open. The thorns inside me lash outwardina final defense. Agony spears through measbrambles splitmyskin,dark veins crawlingalongmy chest.The cursefeeds uponviolence andfear, and it is ravenous for both.
I drop to myknees,asound ripped from me closer to a roar than a cry.Painracksmy ribs, but Annabel is beside me in an instant, her skirts whispering acrossthestone.“Lucien,”she calls, and her voice is a blade cutting through the tempest of shame and suffering.
I jerk back, animalisticreflex and terror mingling.“Don’t,”I snarl, but the word is broken, unraveling as it leaves my mouth.
The floor beneath us shudders, cracks spidering outward from the invisible roots of the black chalice far below.I feel its petalsblacken, its veins glowing sick and green. The curse is adapting. It will not surrender its vessel easily.
With all I have left,my claws carefully grip her shoulders,despite the chaos,and force her to meet my gaze. Her defiance is anemberin the darkness, refusing to be snuffed out.“Listen to me.”My breath isa raggedrasp.“If you do this,ifyou reach for me again,the curse will escalate. It will never allowmetobe human.”
Her eyes blaze, undimmed.“Then we fight it,”she says, as if it is the simplest thing in the world…as if the past fifteen years have not been soaked in blood and regret. Her faith shakes something loose in me, something that does not know how to be held together. The thorns beneath my skin writhe,uncertainand confused. For the first time since Evangeline died, I am not alone in resisting them.
The castle quiets, settling intoanuneasy silence. The roses outside are still. The ache in my chest subsides.It’sa simmer now, not a storm, and Annabel is still here, kneeling before me, unafraid.The Serpent-Crown wanted only aBeast of grief and cruelty. It did not account for a woman who would choose the man tangled inside the monster.
I brush my trembling claw across her wrist, feeling the brand there burn, andsheshivers,not in fear but in solidarity.“This will get worse,”Iwarnher. I have no illusions left. The cost of hope is alwayspain.
She lifts her chin, the torchlight glinting in her eyes.“Then so will I.”
For the first time in fifteen years, something in my chestfeelsless like thorns,rawandaching, butmorealive. Hope is a dangerous thing. It feels like war. But as she leans into my touch,I’mconsumed with knowingI may not have to fight it alone.
We kneel together in the aftermath,ourbreathsmingling,the castle poised in a delicate truce. Above, the storm prowls the ramparts, and below, the black chalice pulses with warning. But Annabel’s handremainsovermy heart.It’sfragile, fierce,andmore powerful than any curse.
And this time, when the thorns remember pain, they will also remember her.We have not won. There willbe more to come.And when it does, we will be ready,foritwillrememberus.
Chapter seventeen
Between Shadows and Storm
Annabel
The castle remains restless. Its stones vibrate with secrets, every hallway echoing with the hush of something about to break. I move through its corridors, lamplight flickering and shadows shifting as if the entire place is holding its breath. Each arch and faded tapestry is so familiar, I could walk them blind, but tonight, the air feels different—charged, expectant, as though dawn will bring more than just light.
It’sbeen several days sinceI’veseen Lucien. His absence presses against my chest, a second heartbeat thumping anxious rhythms, feeding my resolve. After our last encounter, Iworryforhim. He said it would get worse. He said wehaven’twonand it would come back. Has it come back already for him? Have I lost him? In the meantime,I’vetried to fill the hours with small comforts. Erik has brought me books, their pages offering fleeting distraction fromthe uncertainty.I’veattended meals in the great hall, but Lucien’sseatremainsempty,his absence felt in every quiet moment and each glance toward the doorway. The castle feels colder and quieter without him; even the company of others cannot silence the ache of worry growing with each day he is gone.
