Ashes in the hall

The cold air of the hallway struck him like a slap.

But it wasn't enough.

Nothing was.

Adam didn't stop walking until the gilded hum of music faded behind walls of carved stone, until polished marble gave way to the raw bones of the Sangré Marée estate, a forgotten wing, ancient and unpolished, where glamour hadn't bothered to linger.

Here, the estate breathed differently.

Cracked stone, dark corridors, and a faint trace of iron in the air like old blood.

This was the part of the house that remembered things.

Much like him.

He braced his hands against the wall, fingers splayed wide, chest rising and falling like restraint had become a physical act.

Her laugh echoed in his skull.

Not cruel. Not calculated.

Worse.

Genuine.

And it hadn't been for him.

She had smiled for another man. Tilted her head back. Let out a sound that once belonged to him—in another life, another world. One where they weren't pretending.

Then she'd danced with him like muscle memory. Like instinct.

Like their bodies remembered the past even if their mouths never spoke it.

She didn't even know what she was doing to him.

Or maybe she did.

Maybe that was the most dangerous part.

⸻

He looked down at his hands.

They were trembling—barely. But enough.

The control he'd buried lifetimes mastering was fracturing now, cracking at the seams like stone under flame.

Because when she laughed, his monster stirred.

When she said his name, it echoed like an invocation.

And when she touched him like she still belonged—

He wanted to burn the world to keep her.

⸻

He stumbled back from the wall, dragging a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Not at this event.

Not with him.

Not in that dress that impossible silver, liquid, and light, clinging to her skin like it had been stitched by moonlight just to test him.

She walked like Devana hadn't fallen. Like the stars still bowed to her. Like she had never been buried, never been hunted, never been cursed.

She was supposed to be shattered.

Forgotten.

Contained.

Instead, Rosaline Ainsworth walked into a ballroom of ancient predators and became the flame they couldn't bear to swallow.

And Adam?

He was just another man standing too close to the fire.

⸻

He felt it before he understood it.

The sole pendant between them had pulsed—once—when she touched him.

Not her magic.

Theirs.

The storm tethered between their bloodlines, their pasts, and their unfinished war.

He'd been a fool to believe he could stand beside her and not bleed for it.

And then that laugh… that moment with Nathan…

He saw something in her face that hadn't been there in two thousand years.

Ease.

And he hated it.

Not because it was wrong.

But because it didn't belong to him.

⸻

Behind him, a door creaked softly.

No perfume. No words. No announcement.

Just presence.

Familiar as breath. Steady as fate.

He didn't turn.

He didn't need to.

Her heartbeat reached him first—clearer than the violins in the ballroom, louder than the voice in his own head.

The music had faded.

But she was still here.

And he didn't know whether to beg her to leave—

Or beg her to stay.

Rosaline moved like moonlight. Not in sound, but in gravity. The world shifted when she entered a room, when she walked into a space where silence had claimed its throne.

She said nothing at first.

Neither did he.

For a long breath, they stood there—two shadows carved from memory and regret, the air between them brimming with what neither had the courage to say yet.

Then, quietly:

"You left."

Her voice was soft. But not unsure.

He closed his eyes.

"I had to."

She moved closer. Just a step. The sound of her heels brushing stone was the loudest thing in the corridor.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I was going to kiss you," Adam said, voice barely above a whisper. "In front of everyone. And I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop."

Rosaline didn't speak.

Her silence wasn't cold. It was listening.

Processing.

Waiting.

He turned to face her.

The candlelight behind her crowned her in soft gold, but it was the silver of her eyes that held him—unforgiving, unshaken, unafraid.

"I can't be near you," he said. "Not like that. Not when I want things I shouldn't."

She tilted her head slightly. "Things like… me?"

Adam's control splintered further.

"No," he said. "Not you. Not just you."

He stepped closer, voice low and shaking now. "I want you angry. I want you mine. I want you marked and claimed and unfucking-apologetic about who you are."

His hand hovered near her jaw but didn't touch.

"I want you powerful and terrifying and untouchable, except when I touch you."

The candle near them flickered violently, as if reacting to the storm gathering between their bodies.

Rosaline didn't back away.

She never did.

But her voice was calm when she asked, "Then why do you keep pushing me away?"

Adam let out a breath that sounded like surrender.

"Because every time I get close to you…" He paused, eyes dropping to her mouth before rising again, raw and open. "I lose everything I know."

Rosaline's expression softened, just barely. But it was enough to wreck him.

She stepped into the space he'd left between them—barely an inch now.

"You're not the only one afraid of what this means," she said quietly. "But I'm done letting fear dictate who I am."

The words landed with a weight neither of them could ignore.

Adam didn't reach for her.

He didn't have to.

Because this time she reached for him.

They stood there like that facing each other, held together by things unsaid. Grief. Guilt. Longing.

No touch. No kiss. Just presence.

And in its own way, that intimacy burned hotter than anything that had come before.

Eventually, she stepped back.

Just one step.

Enough to remind them both that the moment was over.

"I should return," she murmured, turning slightly toward the light.

Adam gave a quiet nod. "I'll follow. In a minute."

She didn't wait for him to change his mind.

She walked away first.

Each click of her heels against stone sounded final, decisive, and still somehow aching.

Adam watched her go until her silver disappeared into the corridor light.

And then, only then, did he breathe again.

⸻

Back in the ballroom, the energy had shifted.

Couples moved in rhythm beneath floating chandeliers. Laughter curled at the edges of the air like perfume.

Rosaline entered alone, the image of poise.

And that was when he approached.

⸻

He moved like smoke—unhurried, practiced, and meant to be seen only when he chose.

"Miss Ainsworth," came the velvet voice beside her. "We haven't been formally introduced."

She turned.

Lucien Vael stood there, flawless in a dark emerald coat, lined in shadow-stitched embroidery. His hair was midnight black, his smile a polished weapon. And his eyes…

His eyes studied her like a riddle already half-solved.

He extended a gloved hand. "Lucien Vael. Associate of House Belgrave. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Rosaline accepted the hand but not the charm.

"Rosaline," she said coolly.

"Ah," Lucien mused, his gaze dipping momentarily to the pendant at her back, just visible through the open back of her gown. "So it is true."

Before she could ask, another presence entered.

She felt it like a shift in pressure.

Adam.

He had returned, and he'd seen.

His eyes locked on Lucien, then on her hand still caught in the introduction.

Rosaline felt his stare like frost beneath her skin.

Lucien turned slightly, not looking back. "Oh," he said idly. "Did I step on someone's claim?"

Rosaline pulled her hand away, slow and deliberate. "Not at all. I don't belong to anyone."

Lucien's grin widened just enough to show teeth.

Adam's jaw locked.

The ballroom seemed to breathe with them.

Lucien's smirk lingered like a blade unsheathed but not yet swung. Rosaline's chin lifted, her hand no longer in his. And across the room, Adam hadn't moved—but his stare was sharp enough to draw blood.

Then the music faltered. Not stopped. Shifted.

It was like someone had tilted the rhythm of the night just a hair off center.

From the far end of the ballroom, cloaked in an entourage of gliding silks and shadowed nobility, the host arrived.

His presence didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Power preceded him like scent.

Aurelian Marceau, Lord of Sangré Marée, moved with the grace of a man older than myth and more dangerous than rumor. His white hair was tied back with a silver clasp, and his coat shimmered like starlight stitched in bone thread.

He approached slowly but deliberately—eyes sweeping the trio like a collector appraising volatile relics.

"Ah," he said smoothly, his voice soft yet somehow absolute. "My honored guests seem… tangled."

Lucien inclined his head, still smirking. "Only in introductions, my lord."

Aurelian's pale eyes slid to Adam, unreadable. "I trust no further introductions are required between old acquaintances."

Adam's jaw ticked. "None."

"And Miss Ainsworth and Mr. Black." Aurelian turned to Rosaline and Adam, his smile warm but razor-thin. "You continue to exceed expectations. Though I do hope you'll forgive me for offering a gentle reminder."

Adam met his gaze with cool poise. "Which is?"

The host leaned in just slightly—close enough that only the three of them heard.

"No bloodshed under my roof. No power plays at my table. What you are," he added with a faint, knowing look toward the pendant on her back, "is not yet public knowledge. I suggest you enjoy the illusion of peace… while it lasts."

A flicker of something unreadable passed across his face before he stepped back and smiled again, louder this time.

"Now," he said lightly, voice rising just enough for nearby ears to catch, "shall we return to civility? Or must I start handing out assigned corners like a frustrated schoolmaster?"

A few nobles chuckled. Tension broke slightly.

Lucien gave a mock bow. "Of course, my lord."

Adam said nothing, but the look he gave the host was far from amused.

Rosaline, for her part, offered a graceful nod and turned away with Nathan.

This time, no one stopped her. Not Lucien nor Adam.

And the host simply watched her go, eyes gleaming beneath the candlelight like a man who had just moved a piece on a very old, very dangerous board.