Thorns and Temptation

Isadora:

After class, Loralie chirped something about the pool—something ridiculous involving “fresh air,” “clearing energy,” and “recharging by sunlight," all the wholesome things a golden siren needs. I nodded politely, trying not to roll my eyes, while clutching my newly gifted belladonna plant like it might anchor me to reality.

“I’m going to drop this off,” I said, tilting the small black pot toward her.

She beamed, tossed her hair, and flitted down the path into the mist like some unbothered woodland sprite. I, however, preferred the shade—the hush of it all.

The corridors were blessedly quiet. No giggles. No squeaking shoes. No thrum of magic from careless first-years tossing spells into the air like confetti. Just the groan of old floorboards and the occasional whisper of wind pressing against ancient stained glass. Perfect.

My room was hidden in the north wing—unfashionable, forgotten. Faded wallpaper curling at the corners, a warped mirror haunted by echoes of past residents, and a chandelier that swayed and flickered whenever it rained. Home, in the way that thorn-covered ruins might be to crows.

I stepped inside, set the belladonna on the windowsill, and adjusted its angle to catch the dim light through the frosted panes. The leaves shimmered—dark green, poisonous, and beautiful. I found myself staring at it longer than I meant to. How could something so deadly look like a lullaby in plant form?

Then—

The door.

I reached for it, ready to shut out the world, when a shoe jammed in the frame.

A very expensive shoe.

Black leather, fine stitching, carved with a subtle crest I didn’t recognize.

My pulse stuttered.

And then he stepped inside.

Kai Rosewood.

He didn’t simply enter a room. He occupied it—like moonlight over still water or a predator stepping into a clearing. He moved with the ease of someone who had never been told no, who had never had to ask permission for anything. The air shifted around him, bending to accommodate his presence.

Tall, lean, dangerous. His hair was a tangled masterpiece of gold and silver, like flowing foil ink that had forgotten to dry. His features were all edges and allure—cheekbones carved like old marble, lips made for promises and threats, and eyes that… gods, those eyes.

Stormlight and secrets cast into opal. So seductive and mysterious you just wanted to get lost in them.

He shut the door behind him.

Click.

“Hello, little raven,” he said, voice dipped in something low and unholy.

My spine straightened. “Did anyone teach you about knocking?”

He smiled, slow and maddening. “Did anyone teach you how to glower that seductively, or is it natural?”

I didn’t dignify that with an answer. I crossed my arms, drawing my energy tight, shielding myself. But he was already inside—physically and otherwise.

His gaze swept the room—so obviously unimpressed it bordered on insulting. He prowled closer, slow, deliberate, like a fox crossing snow. His every movement was a study in restraint and hunger, as if he could devastate me in an instant but chose not to—yet.

“You’re not like the others,” he murmured, circling me like I was a spell he hadn’t yet deciphered. “Not powerless. Just... asleep.”

My jaw tightened. “Thank you for your unsolicited analysis. You can go now.”

He didn’t move. In fact, he stepped closer.

“I could,” he said softly. “But I don’t want to.”

His voice was velvet and wine and teeth.

We were nose to nose. Breath to breath. My skin buzzed—not with fear. Something far worse. Something far more traitorous. Something that coiled in my belly and bloomed heat in my spine.

I tried to ignore the way my heart pounded. Tried to pretend the sharp line of his jaw and the scent of petrichor on his skin weren’t dizzying. But he was there, all of him—beauty and danger incarnate—and I felt it. Every inch.

“You think I’m going to fall for whatever this is?” I said, low.

He smiled—more shadow than sunlight.

“No,” he said. “I know you won’t. That’s why it’s fun.”

Definitely has the attitude of a spoiled fae.

He stepped even closer, so close I could see the faint mark beneath his left eye—some kind of fae rune. Binding or protection or vanity. I didn’t know. I hated that I wanted to know.

“Do you make a habit of stalking girls in their rooms?” I asked, voice dry as old parchment.

“Only the interesting ones.” He looked at me like he was already undressing the layers beneath my words, the unspoken things. “And I’m not stalking. I’m visiting. There’s a difference.”

“Uninvited.”

“That’s what makes it exciting.”

He reached out—slowly, deliberately—and brushed a strand of hair off my shoulder. It wasn’t even a real touch, not really. Just the ghost of one. A suggestion. A promise.

My entire body reacted anyway.

I stepped back—not far enough.

“Why me?” I asked, hating the crack in my voice.

He tilted his head. “Because you smell like magic no one’s touched yet. Because you carry shadows like they’re velvet. Because you’re pretending to sleep when you’ve already started to wake.”

I stared at him. “And you think you’re the one who’s going to wake me?”

“I don’t think,” he said. “I know.”

I should have laughed. Thrown him out. Shoved the belladonna down his entitled throat for good measure. But instead, I stood still, pulsing with the uncomfortable truth that part of me wanted him to stay. Wanted him to press further, to peel me open and see what rotted or bloomed underneath.

I hated that part.

I wanted to smother it.

He turned away without warning, walking toward the window where my belladonna sat.

“Lovely plant,” he said, trailing a finger along a leaf. “Poisonous. Pretty. A perfect match for its owner.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Yet.”

He looked back at me then, something different in his gaze—something that sent a chill down my spine. A flicker of something older. Hungrier. He wasn’t just a pretty fae with a silver tongue. No, Kai Rosewood was something else. Something carved out of old forest and deep, dark wells. He wore charm like a costume, but I wasn’t fooled.

Not completely.

He turned again, walked to the door, and rested one hand on the handle.

“Careful, Isadora,” he said without looking at me. “You keep looking at monsters like that... they might look back.”

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut with quiet finality.

And I stood there, skin humming, breath shallow, heart pounding in a rhythm I didn’t recognize. I looked down at my arms. Goosebumps.

Damn him.

I hated how much I didn’t hate it.

Outside, the corridor remained still. But I knew—I knew—he was still out there. Watching. Smiling. Waiting for the next move.

He’d sunk claws into something already fraying in me, and I’d let him.

Only for a moment. Just one moment.

But that was how the worst spells began.

Just a single breath of enchantment.

Just a single look back.