Chapter 3

The curtain Vane pointed to was a heavy sweep of midnight-blue velvet that looked like it had been woven from the sky itself. When Elara pulled it back, she didn't find a bedroom; she found a sanctuary of cold, terrifying luxury. The air here was thicker, smelling of old parchment and the sharp, metallic scent of winter air.

At the center of the room sat a bed carved from what looked like black obsidian, its pillars rising into the shadows like the jagged spires of a cathedral. The sheets were silk so dark they seemed to swallow the dim light—and the floor was covered in a rug of white fur that felt unsettlingly like human hair beneath her bare feet.

"Strip," Vane’s voice drifted from the other side of the curtain, calm and detached, as if he were ordering a glass of water.

Elara stood frozen in the center of the room. Her heart was a frantic bird trapped in her ribs. "I... I won't," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The contract said I was a consort, not a... a whore."

The sound of his footsteps was rhythmic and slow. The curtain was swept aside, and Vane stepped in. He had removed his charcoal blazer, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the tops of the black, living ink tattoos that coiled around his throat. He looked more human in his shirtsleeves, but infinitely more dangerous. The predatory grace of his movements was undeniable.

"A whore is paid for her time, Elara," he said, walking toward her with a deliberate slowness that made her want to scream. "You gave your time away for free. You traded it for a pulse in a dying girl’s chest. Do not mistake your sacrifice for a business transaction."

He stopped inches from her. He was so tall that he blocked out the light from the office behind him.

"The clothes you are wearing are a reminder of a woman who no longer exists," he said, his voice dropping to a low, vibrational hum. "That Elara Vance died in a basement. The woman in this room belongs to the Seventh Circle. My circle. And I do not allow my possessions to wear the rags of the poor."

He reached out, his long, cold fingers grazing the zipper at the back of her dress. Elara flinched, but she didn't pull away. She couldn't. The brand on her neck was humming again—not painful this time, but a heavy, hypnotic warmth that seemed to turn her bones to lead.

"If you do not remove them," Vane whispered, his breath ghosting over her ear, "I will tear them from you. And I suspect you’d prefer to keep your dignity for at least the first few hours."

With shaking hands, Elara reached back and lowered the zipper. The dress fell to the floor in a pool of cheap cotton. She stood before him in her simple lace underwear, feeling small and exposed under his steel-grey gaze. She expected him to touch her, to claim the prize he had bought, but he simply looked at her with the clinical detachment of an appraiser.

"Better," he murmured. He walked to a wardrobe of dark wood and pulled out a garment that looked like it was made of liquid smoke—a sheer, floor-length nightgown of black silk. He tossed it onto the bed. "Put that on. Then get in."

Elara scrambled to put the gown on. The silk was freezing against her skin, clinging to her curves in a way that made her feel even more naked than before. She climbed into the massive bed, pulling the heavy silk duvet up to her chin.

Vane, meanwhile, moved to the edge of the bed and sat down. He didn't lie down. He sat with his back to her, looking out at the jagged horizon through the floor-to-ceiling glass.

"Why are you doing this?" Elara asked, her voice small in the vastness of the room. "You’re a Duke of the Seventh Circle. You could have anyone. Any demon, any human beauty. Why me? Why a girl with nothing but a dying sister and a name that’s been dragged through the mud?"

Vane remained still for a long time. The only sound in the room was the crackle of the green-flamed fire.

"Because you were the only one who didn't ask for power," he said finally. He turned his head, his profile sharp and silver in the moonlight. "Everyone who summons me wants a throne. They want wealth. They want the blood of their enemies. But you? you offered your soul for someone else’s breath. That kind of purity is... rare. And in my world, rarity is the only thing that holds value."

He shifted, lying down on top of the covers, still fully dressed in his trousers and shirt. He didn't touch her, but he was close enough that she could feel the unnatural chill of his body.

"Close your eyes, Elara," he commanded. "The first night is always the hardest. The shadows will try to talk to you. Do not listen. They are hungry, and you are new."

"Will they hurt me?" she asked, her eyes wide as she stared at the shifting darkness of the ceiling.

"Not while you are in this bed," Vane said, his voice dropping into a sleep-heavy rasp. "They know who I am. And they know that you are mine. Even the hungriest ghost wouldn't dare steal a bite from my table."

Elara tried to stay awake. She wanted to watch him, to find a weakness, to understand the monster who had saved her sister and stolen her life. But the warmth of the brand on her neck was spreading, a comfortable, heavy fog that drifted into her brain. Her eyelids felt like they were weighted with stones.

Just as she was drifting off, she felt a cold hand settle over hers on top of the duvet. His fingers were long and slender, locking with hers in a grip that was surprisingly firm.

"Remember, Elara," he whispered into the dark. "Rule number four: You do not dream of the past. You only dream of me."

Elara woke up to the sound of screaming.

She bolted upright, the black silk nightgown sliding off her shoulder. The room was flooded with a pale, grey light the morning of the Veil. Vane was gone. The side of the bed where he had been lying was cold, the sheets perfectly smooth as if no one had ever been there.

******

The screaming was coming from the hallway.

Elara didn't think. She threw back the covers and ran to the door. She burst out into the corridor, her bare feet silent on the marble.

At the end of the hall, near the grand staircase, a woman was kneeling on the floor. She was beautiful, with hair like spun gold and a dress of shimmering white, but her face was twisted in agony. Standing over her was Marcus, the glassy-eyed butler. He held a silver bowl, and he was slowly pouring a thick, black liquid onto the woman’s hands.

"Stop it!" Elara shouted, running toward them. "What are you doing to her?"

Marcus didn't even look at her. "The guest attempted to steal a silver spoon from the Master’s table," he said in his hollow, drone-like voice. "The penalty for theft in the Obsidian Manor is the Loss of Touch."

The black liquid was hardening on the woman’s hands like hot wax, turning her skin to the color of soot. The woman looked up at Elara, her eyes pleading. "Please," she choked out. "Help me."

"Marcus, let her go!" Elara reached out to grab the bowl, but a hand caught her wrist mid-air.

***********

It was Vane. He appeared from the shadows of the staircase as if he had stepped out of the wall itself. He was wearing a fresh suit, this one a deep navy that looked almost black. His grip on her wrist was like a band of iron.

"Do not interfere with the household staff, Elara," he said coldly.

"She’s in pain! She just took a spoon!"

"She took a piece of my history," Vane corrected, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp anger. He looked down at the kneeling woman. "She is a minor duchess from the Third Circle. She knew the rules. She thought she was fast enough to break them. She was wrong."

He looked back at Elara, his gaze softening just a fraction, but it was a cruel kind of softness. "You are soft, little bird. It’s a human failing. But you are no longer in a world where mercy is a virtue."

He turned to Marcus. "Finish it."

The woman gave one final, piercing scream as the black liquid covered her wrists. Then, she vanished—dissolving into a cloud of white petals that scattered across the floor.

Elara felt sick. She pulled her wrist away from Vane, her chest heaving. "You killed her over a spoon?"

"I didn't kill her. I evicted her," Vane said, brushing a stray petal off his sleeve. "She will spend the next fifty years in the Grey Wastes without the ability to feel anything with her hands. A fitting punishment for a thief."

He stepped closer to Elara, his shadow falling over her. "Now, go back to your room. You have a visitor arriving in an hour."

"A visitor? Who?"

Vane leaned in, his lips curving into a smile that made Elara’s blood run cold.

*********

“Your sister, Elara. I told you she was healthy. I didn't say she was safe. It seems the bank didn't just take your house they sold her debt to someone much, much worse than me. And if you want to keep her alive for the next twenty-four hours, you’re going to have to do something for me that involves a very different kind of contract."