At first, there was silence in the carriage.
The kind of silence that pressed against her ribs, thick and unmoving. Outside, hooves clattered in steady rhythm, muffled by fog. But inside—inside the velvet-draped box where Aurelia sat across from the masked demon—everything held its breath.
Tenebrarum didn't speak.
He sat still—too still. Elegant, composed. Cloaked in shadows like something carved from stone and silk. Close. Much too close.
Aurelia glanced at him through her lashes. His mask gleamed faintly in the golden carriage light, the lower half of his face visible in profile. Relaxed. Almost amused. As if her discomfort was a symphony he had orchestrated.
She curled her hands in her lap.
Then, her voice cracked through the silence like a fragile reed bending under weight.
"The bruises... they are gone"
It came out sharper than she meant. Too loud in the hush between them.
He laughed.
A low, indulgent sound that sent a chill down her spine. He wasn't startled. If anything, it was as if he'd been waiting—aching—for her to ask.
"You noticed," he murmured, his gaze resting lazily on the window. "I wondered how long it would take for you fool to notice."
The word fool rang repeatedly in her ears but she just let it go.
"Did you…" she faltered, "…take them out?"
The mask turned toward her. Light caught the edge like polished ivory.
"I told you," he said quietly, "I hate marks on my purchase."
Her breath snagged.
Purchase.
The word landed like iron on silk—soft in sound, brutal in meaning.
She stared at him, heart beginning to throb with something bitter and wordless. He didn't elaborate. Just leaned back, his silence louder than speech.
"But they were real," she whispered, eyes narrowing. "I remember. Last night—"
"They were real," he agreed. "Now they're not."
She swallowed hard.
"Did you use magic? Or… some power?"
His eyes—hidden though they were—felt like they pierced straight through her.
"Would you rather prefer I lie?" he asked.
Her throat tightened. "No…"
He leaned forward slightly, and though his tone never rose, something shifted—darker now. Less distant.
"I don't mark what's mine unless I intend to destroy it."
Something cold skated along her spine. She turned to the window—fog pressed against the glass like breath, pale and endless.
The silence stretched again, broken only by the hum of wheels and the slow twisting knot of hunger in her belly. She hadn't eaten since morning, and now, watching the clouded blur outside, her thoughts drifted.
To stories.
To food she'd only ever heard described by gossiping cooks and caravan traders. Spira—an ancient delicacy from a land she'd never see. Honeyed spirals that melted on the tongue like dreams. Like clouds.
Her stomach clenched.
"Hungry?" he asked, voice cutting through the quiet like a blade in silk.
She didn't answer.
There was a flick of fingers. And then—like conjured smoke—a silver dish appeared between them, nestled in his hand. Steam curled above a golden pastry spiral—spira, impossibly real.
Her breath hitched. "How did you—?"
"You forget what I own," he said smoothly.
She flinched again.
Tenebrarum plucked a piece of the pastry with elegant fingers. Not careful. Not cruel. Possessive.
"I love watching my things suffer , but you'll die if I keep you hungry for long."
The way he said things made her entire body go still.
"I can feed myself," she muttered, instinct bristling.
"No," he said, quiet and final. "You'll eat it how I give it."
He raised the spiral delicately to her lips.
"Open!" he commanded.
She hesitated. But her lips parted.
He slid the bite between them with deliberate slowness. His gloved fingers grazed her mouth—lingering just a heartbeat too long.
"Good rabbit," he said.
The words stung. Not for their cruelty—but for their softness. A softness meant only to brand.
She burned with something she couldn't name.
Another bite.
His fingers again touched her lips—this time firmer. Her chest tightened. Her skin flushed. A rush of heat curled low in her belly. She didn't know whether it was shame or something darker.
Then he paused.
One final bite pressed lightly against her lips… but he didn't let go.
Instead, his fingers brushed her lower lip—slower this time, with precision.
Something dangerous coiled in her chest.
He stared at her mouth—his head tilted, unreadable behind the mask.
She couldn't breathe.
Then, abruptly, he pulled back. His fingers withdrew. The moment snapped like a silk thread under strain.
"Enough," he muttered. But his voice was lower now. Rougher.
Finally, she whispered, her breath shaky.
He passed the plate to her at last. For the first time, she felt the tiniest flicker of relief—like a prisoner offered water between chains.
She picked at the pastry slowly.
She didn't dare meet his gaze.
But he watched.
Every movement, every bite—he studied as if committing it to memory. Not with hunger, exactly.
Something else.
Something colder. Deeper. Like it was controlled.
---After eating, the warmth in her chest began to ebb into something softer, lazier. Her body, once tense and on guard, grew limp with sleep. She fought it—fought the fog tugging at her mind—but her vision blurred, her breath deepened, and the battle was lost.
Her head tilted.
And gently, it fell against his shoulder.
The moment was so quiet, even the carriage wheels seemed to hush in reverence. Tenebrarum's posture froze. He felt her breath brush faintly against the fabric of his coat. Her hair, scented faintly of wild almond and smoke, spilt over his sleeve like a dark river.
She had fallen asleep.
On him.
Or maybe it was the dizziness, he told himself. Maybe her body didn't know who it leaned on. Maybe she would recoil if she woke and realised what her cheek had chosen to rest against.
But he didn't move. Not at first.
His masked face tilted slightly, gaze heavy, unreadable. He stared down at her—at the flutter of her lashes against her cheek, the calm line of her mouth, the way sleep made her seem smaller, softer, too fragile for the fate she now belonged to.
He had every intention to push her off. To keep the barrier firm. Cold. Untouched.
But something in her beauty weakened him.
Even with her violet eyes closed, he saw it—the glow beneath her skin, like something ancient and holy. He could feel her warmth through the layers between them, and the strange pulse of it echoed through his ribs.
His hand hovered near her head—tense fingers twitching once—then slowly, slowly, he lowered it onto the back of the seat instead.
He would let her rest. But only this once. And only because—even in sleep—her body had chosen him.
---
To be continued...