Chapter 8: The Devil’s Mark

The early morning light filtered weakly through the dark curtains, casting a pale glow over the room. Hazel awoke to the eerie silence, her body stiff from the unfamiliarity of the bed and the tense atmosphere that lingered from the night before. The remnants of her dreams clung to her like a heavy fog—dreams of shadows, of powerful eyes watching her from the darkness, and of the unyielding grip of a hand that both terrified and mesmerized her.

Her heart still raced from the memory of Azrael's words—the coldness in his voice, the finality in the way he had claimed her. She could still feel the faint pressure of his fingers on her chin, his touch leaving an icy trail of unease behind. Hazel couldn't escape the feeling that this was no mere marriage, no simple union of two kingdoms. This was something far darker, and she was caught in its web.

As she shifted in bed, the soft rustle of the sheets sounded unnervingly loud in the stillness. The bed, though luxurious, felt too large for just one person—too empty on her side. Azrael had hardly spoken to her since their wedding night, his presence a constant reminder of the prison she had willingly walked into. She had hoped for some form of reassurance, some sign that this marriage wasn't as hopeless as it seemed, but there was none.

Hazel sat up slowly, her legs dangling over the edge of the bed. The room, though opulent, felt cold, the shadows pressing in from every corner. The strange scent of incense still lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp metallic tang of the night's tension. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched, that the walls themselves held secrets she couldn't even begin to fathom.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps—heavy and deliberate. Azrael entered the room, his dark figure framed in the doorway. He was dressed in black, as always, his long, lean form casting a shadow that seemed to stretch across the entire room. His presence was commanding, suffocating. There was no mistaking the power he wielded, not just in the kingdom, but over her.

"You're awake," Azrael observed, his voice low and emotionless, like the sound of distant thunder. He didn't approach her immediately, instead pausing in the doorway, watching her with those intense, unnerving eyes.

Hazel said nothing, her gaze flicking briefly to the bed and then to the floor, where the faint outline of his boots had left a mark in the plush carpet. Her breath caught in her throat, her nerves tight with the knowledge that, somehow, he was always aware of her. Always watching.

He stepped forward then, his movements fluid and purposeful, like a predator circling its prey. There was a coldness to him that she couldn't ignore—an air of inevitability in the way he moved. As if everything in his world was predetermined, and she was merely a part of his design.

"Get dressed," he commanded, his tone sharp, though there was no anger in it, only an indifference that sent a chill down her spine.

Hazel blinked at him, momentarily thrown by the simplicity of the order. She had expected a demand, some other sinister threat, but instead, his command felt almost like an afterthought, an instruction to be obeyed without question.

Without waiting for a response, Azrael moved toward a large wardrobe at the far end of the room. He opened the doors with a swift motion, revealing a collection of elaborate gowns and heavy fabrics—clothes that, while beautiful, seemed foreign to her, like they belonged to someone else. She felt a pang of regret for the simplicity of the life she had left behind. A life that now felt like a distant memory, one she could never return to.

"Choose one," he said over his shoulder, his eyes still not meeting hers. He seemed unfazed by her silence, as though her opinion mattered little in the grand scheme of things.

Hazel slowly stood from the bed, her knees weak beneath her. She approached the wardrobe cautiously, her fingers brushing against the silks and velvets that hung within. None of these dresses felt like hers. None of them felt like they belonged to the girl who had once dreamed of freedom. She had never chosen anything for herself, never had the chance to decide what her life would be like. Now, even her clothes were decided for her.

As she picked a gown from the collection, her mind wandered back to the night before. She had barely slept, her thoughts consumed by Azrael's cryptic words and the heavy presence of his darkness. The fear of the unknown was suffocating, but what troubled her more was the strange, inexplicable pull she felt toward him—something she didn't want to acknowledge, something that scared her even more than his power.

When she turned back to him, Azrael was watching her intently, his gaze fixed on the dress she had chosen. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if evaluating her every movement. Hazel shivered under his scrutiny, the sensation of being constantly observed never leaving her.

"Put it on," he ordered, his voice low and commanding, with an undercurrent of something darker. Hazel couldn't help the way her body tensed at his words, but she nodded, moving toward a mirror on the far wall of the room.

As she began to disrobe, she felt his eyes on her, like a constant weight on her shoulders. But it wasn't just his gaze that unsettled her. There was something more—something lurking beneath the surface, a power that seemed to hum in the air around them.

Just as she finished dressing, she felt a strange, sudden heat spread across her skin. Her body stiffened, and she instinctively reached for her neck, feeling a strange, burning sensation. It was as though something was marking her, etching itself into her very flesh. She winced in pain, her fingers brushing against the spot where the heat was most intense.

Azrael watched her from the doorway, his gaze unreadable. His lips curled into a slight, knowing smile, and for a moment, Hazel wondered if he had known what was happening to her all along.

"What is this?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her hand trembling as she touched the spot on her neck. The sensation was fading, but the mark it left behind remained, a faint, tingling warmth beneath her skin.

Azrael took a step toward her, his expression darkening as he approached. He didn't answer immediately, instead reaching out to gently trace his fingers over the same spot on her neck. Hazel flinched at the contact, but Azrael's touch was strangely soothing, as though the burning sensation followed the path of his fingers.

"It is the mark of the Devil," he said softly, his voice low and almost intimate. "A gift—a curse. It binds you to me."

Hazel's breath caught in her throat. A mark. The Devil's mark.

A sudden realization hit her like a wave. She was no longer just a princess. She was something else entirely, something tied to Azrael in a way she couldn't understand. Her heart pounded in her chest, the weight of the curse she had unwittingly accepted sinking in.

"Now you belong to me," Azrael whispered, his voice a mere breath against her ear. "Forever."