Chapter 4: A Dream of Shadows

The day dragged on inside the room Damon had called hers. Hours passed in suffocating silence, broken only by the faint creak of wood and the occasional knock from a servant who entered briefly to deliver food or replace the pitcher of water. Bliss had tried to force herself to eat, but every bite tasted of captivity. Even the sweetness of fruit felt bitter when swallowed under the watchful eyes of strangers who said nothing and left quickly, as though fearing to linger too long in her presence.

She moved restlessly, pacing from the bed to the vanity, from the vanity to the window, from the window back again. The walls seemed to close in, their shadows stretching and bending until she felt the house breathing with her, mocking her silence. Each time she tried the door, she found it locked, the handle unyielding. Damon had not trusted her after their encounter in the hall. She was confined now, not with ropes or chains, but with a lock and his command.

Exhaustion eventually pressed down on her body. She curled onto the bed, her eyes fluttering closed. Sleep came unevenly, dragging her into a dream that felt more like memory than invention.

She stood in a garden, the air filled with music that rose and fell like distant waves. Lights glimmered in the trees, lanterns strung high above, swaying gently in a summer breeze. She wore white, the fabric soft against her skin, the skirt brushing against rose bushes that lined the path. Voices surrounded her, warm and filled with celebration, though none of the faces turned toward her. They were blurred, as if hidden behind frosted glass.

Then a hand slipped into hers. She looked up, but the man’s face dissolved into shadow, features indistinct yet familiar. His grip was warm, steady, possessive. He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear. “You belong to me,” he whispered.

Her heart pounded. The music grew louder, clashing with the words, distorting into a harsh hum. The lanterns flickered and died, one after another, until darkness swallowed the garden. The hand tightened, no longer gentle but binding. She tried to pull away, but the shadowed man’s grip was iron.

She woke with a gasp, her body drenched in sweat, her throat burning with the scream that had never escaped. She sat upright, clutching the sheets to her chest. The room was dim again, the light outside fading into evening. The curtains swayed faintly as though stirred by a hidden breeze, though the windows were shut.

Bliss pressed her hand to her throat, her silent voice echoing in her mind. The dream had felt too real. It had been a memory. She was certain of it. The white dress, the music, the hand that claimed her. She shivered, fear and defiance warring within her.

The handle of the door rattled. She stiffened, her eyes darting toward it. The door opened, and Damon entered, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud. His gaze swept over her quickly, catching the dampness on her skin, the trembling of her hands.

“You dreamed,” he said, his voice low, though it was not a question.

Bliss turned her face away, unwilling to let him see the terror that lingered in her eyes.

He moved closer, stopping at the edge of the bed. His posture was steady, but there was a sharpness to his expression. “Dreams are not always kind,” he murmured. “But they are reminders. Pieces of yourself returning.”

Her breath caught. He knew. He knew what she had seen. She met his gaze again, her eyes burning with the demand for answers. He leaned closer, close enough that she could see the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the tension etched at the corners of his mouth.

“You are not ready for the whole truth,” he said softly. “It would break you in this state. Trust me, Bliss. Let me protect you until you are strong enough to remember everything on your own.”

Her silence was heavy, filled with refusal. She shook her head, clutching the sheets tighter. She wanted the truth now, wanted to tear through the veils of secrecy, even if it shattered her.

He studied her, his jaw tightening, and for a moment anger flickered in his eyes. Then he straightened, regaining his composure. “You will hate me for holding back, but one day you will understand.”

He turned to the vanity, his gaze settling on the dried flower she had found earlier. He picked it up delicately, rolling the brittle petals between his fingers. His voice lowered. “You kept this once. It mattered to you.”

He set it back down with care, then faced her again. “Rest. Eat. Listen to your dreams. They will guide you, even when I cannot.”

He left with the same quiet authority, the door locking once more behind him.

Bliss sat frozen, her breath uneven. She turned to the flower, her hand trembling as she touched it again. A fragment of memory returned—her hand holding a bouquet, laughter echoing around her, the promise of belonging whispered into her ear. She pressed her fingers harder against the brittle stem, anger rising.

This was no protection. This was control. He was not saving her. He was keeping her caged, feeding her fragments of herself when it suited him.

She stood, moving to the window again. The forest loomed beyond the courtyard, its dark canopy stretching wide. The thought of escape flared, wild and desperate. Yet the height of the walls and the shadows of the trees told her it would not be simple.

Still, the vow she had made to herself returned. Her silence would not be obedience.

She touched her throat, feeling the ache of words unsaid. One day her voice would return. When it did, she would speak the truth he tried to bury. She would demand answers.

For now, she would endure. She would gather every fragment the dreams gave her, every whisper from the halls, every slip in his composure.

And when the moment came, she would not be his bride.

She would be free.