Caelum - The Morning After

The moonless sky has long since bled into morning, soft light outside tinged lilac and pale gold, seeping in through the gauzy curtains.

I don't sleep, not in the way mortals do, but I've stayed still all night, perched like a fucking gargoyle in the wingback chair across from her bed. Watching.

Waiting, because she hasn't moved an inch.

Her chest rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm, but not once did she stir. Not to shift position, not to murmur in sleep, not even a single twitch. It's unnatural. She should be kicking in dreams, grinding her teeth, mumbling curses under her breath. That's her baseline. That's my girl.

But this? This stillness? It gnaws at me.

I've seen creatures lie that still before, but they were corpses.

The thought sparks a rare flicker of unease in my chest, foreign and offensive. I rise without a sound and tear open a Rift in the far corner of the room. A healer. I need someone I trust, one of the old ones who's seen things most haven't lived to whisper about.

Time bends at my will, so it's seconds for me to move and organise what I need, but when I return, she's awake.

Sat upright on the edge of the bed, legs dangling, bare toes brushing the rug. Her spine curls slightly as she yawns, dragging one arm overhead in a sleepy stretch that nearly kills me.

Hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with sleep.

She looks divine. A beautiful songbird I should cage, my prize, I could create a gilded trap right now, just for her, line it with velvet and silk, chain her with rubies, and she'd sing just for me.

Her lashes flutter as she blinks, head tilting slightly toward me. She's not startled, that's the first wrong thing.

"Where are we?" she asks, voice hoarse from disuse. Like gravel and honey. Like sin.

I cross the room and stop just shy of her knees. Her scent reaches me, warm skin, sleep, and something sharper.

Something mine.

"You're safe," I say softly. I reach out and brush a stray curl from her temple. "That's all you need to know right now."

She doesn't pull back, just nods, slow and docile.

And now I'm certain, something is very, very wrong.

In the short time I've observed her, it has been obvious that she has a pattern. What I expected when she was was screaming, cursing, demanding to be taken home, being told to fuck myself and at least on thing flying through the room. 

Right now, an outsider would look and say she's obedient. Which she is the complete opposite of her true nature. Either she's playing, or she's sick...I will get that healer here after all, just in case.

I extend a hand, palm up.

“Come. You must be starving.”

She slips her hand into mine without hesitation. Her fingers are warm, soft, a little shaky, the touch jolts something feral in my chest. A silent, gnashing thing that wants to drag her back to bed and keep her there until the docility is earned, not performed.

I say nothing, instead lead her out.

We take the east corridor, the windows spilling golden morning light across the polished stone floors. She walks beside me, slightly behind, her steps light but too careful, like she’s trying not to leave a footprint.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye.

She’s dressed in the clothes from my other house. Both fit her too well, hug every sinful curve and line of her luscious body. I chose them, had them tailored before she arrived, somehow they look dull against her when she's this quiet.

Even the boots are laced neatly. Her hair’s still tangled from sleep, and she hasn’t touched her face, but this is a version of her I haven’t met.

She’s playing a part, hiding, all her fight has gone.

And I don’t like that I don’t know why.

The breakfast nook is a small, private room, intimate by design. A round table set in front of floor-to-ceiling glass, overlooking the lower gardens, where the veil ripples faintly at the edges.

A decanter of orange juice sweats in the centre, flanked by a pyramid of sliced fruit, pancakes stacked high, butter melting into syrup.

She hesitates at the threshold. Her eyes scan the room, is she counting exits?

“Sit,” I murmur, pulling out her chair.

She does. Quietly. Obediently. Again.

I take the seat across from her, my own plate untouched save for a cup of steaming tea, black and bitter. I haven’t eaten properly in days and I won’t, not in front of her yet, she’s not ready to see that part of me.

She reaches for a fork, picks it up without making a single sound, cuts the thinnest slice of pancake and pushes it between her teeth. Chew, chew, chew. Swallow. Then the same again.

She says,

“Thank you.”

No sarcastic bite back about her mouldy bread tasting better, or accusing me of poisoning her. No jumping across the table, going for my eyeball with the fork.

Perfectly polite, perfectly wrong and I’m certain, totally fucking fake.