Sin and Silk

The silence pressed against her.

Heavy. Smothering. Wrong.

Ariel sat still, hands clenched into fists in her lap.

The veil draped over her face was thick—so thick that it swallowed all light, all sight.

She couldn't see.

She couldn't move.

She could only listen.

A slow, exhale. Not hers. His.

Measured. Steady.

Too steady.

She felt it then—a presence. Vast. Smoldering. Watching.

Her pulse pounded against her ribs.

The Celestial Prince.

He had to be.

Ariel had prepared for coldness. For distance.

But this...

This was something else entirely.

Heat coiled around her like smoke, thick and all-consuming.

And then—he laughed.

Low. Dark.

A sound that curled through the air like a blade sliding free of its sheath.

Ariel stiffened.

Something was wrong.

This wasn't the cold indifference she had braced herself for.

This was amusement.

Mockery.

A predator enjoying the moment.

"Ah… my bride."

His voice was rich—too rich. Sin wrapped in silk.

Ariel swallowed hard.

His bride.

A presence moved around her, slowly. The soft brush of fabric, the whisper of rings clicking against skin.

He was circling her.

Leisurely.

Like he was savoring this.

"Are you nervous, little dove?"

Ariel willed herself to steady.

"Are you not going to—" she hesitated, "—lift my veil?"

A hum. Thoughtful. Mocking.

"Why rush? I quite like the mystery."

Warmth ghosted near her. Too close.

Not touching. But there.

Lingering. Hovering.

A feather-light brush at the edge of the veil. Taunting. Testing.

"I wonder…" he mused, dangerously slow, "did you think yourself lucky?"

Her breath hitched.

No.

No, no, no.

"You thought you had won," he murmured, his voice curling around her like a whispered curse.

"You thought you had stolen a prince."

The way he said it—with such amusement, such certainty—made something in her stomach turn to ice.

He knew.

Somehow, he knew.

The heat near her shifted.

She felt his fingers lift, close to her face.

The air crackled.

And then—he pulled the veil away.

Ariel's world imploded.

The veil fell like a dying petal.

The room came into focus.

And her heart stopped.

This was not the Celestial Palace.

The air was thick with something ancient. Unholy.

Towering obsidian pillars stretched into a vast ceiling carved with living constellations.

The walls shimmered with blackened gold, veins of molten fire pulsing like a breathing entity.

And then—

She saw him.

Her lungs refused to work.

He stood before her.

Tall. Impossibly tall.

Not just handsome.

Not just breathtaking.

Terrifying.

His features were too perfect—as if sculpted by something unnatural. Sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, lips that curved in a smirk not quite human.

And his eyes—

Gods above.

They were fire.

Not gold. Not blue.

Living, shifting flames.

Flickering. Writhing. Drinking her in with dangerous amusement.

Ariel's breath hitched.

"No…"

Her voice was barely a whisper.

Her mind screamed for denial.

But the truth was staring her in the face.

He was not the Celestial Prince.

And yet—

His lips parted, voice mocking, indulgent.

"You thought you were marrying the Celestial Prince?"

Ariel couldn't move.

He took a step closer.

"You did."

Her stomach plummeted.

The Devil chuckled.

His hand lifted—slow, deliberate.

A single finger, brushing against her cheek. Tilting her chin.

Forcing her to look.

"I just happened to be the fallen one."

The breath fled from her lungs.

No. No, no, no.

"You… this… this isn't real."

A smirk.

"It is."

She trembled. Shook her head.

Her mind rebelled—this was a dream, an illusion, a mistake—

"I must say," he murmured, voice deep with satisfaction, "you look far more beautiful up close."

His thumb traced the curve of her jaw.

Slow. Savoring.

Her skin burned beneath his touch.

She should pull away.

She should run.

But she couldn't.

Because her body wouldn't move.

His voice curled around her ears, dark silk and unspoken promises.

"What's wrong, little dove?"

Ariel's lips parted, but no words came.

He chuckled.

Low. Velvety. Amused.

Then, slowly—mockingly gently—

His fingertips trailed down her throat.

A feather-light touch. Barely there.

His fingers lifted to her forehead.

His smirk deepened.

Then, almost gently—mockingly gentle—he cups her chin between his thumb and forefinger,

tilts her head up slightly, and drags his thumb over her lower lip—slowly, teasingly.

Then, he simply whispers "Sleep."

Her eyelids grow unbearably heavy, her breath catches.

A rush of exhaustion slammed into her like a wave.

She gasped fighting it.

But her vision blurred.

Her body swayed.

A strong arm caught her before she fell.

The last thing she saw—

His smirk.

The last thing she heard—

A whisper.

"I'll see you soon, little dove."