THE FIRST TRIAL
713 Words
Then he turned to her—his eyes blazing crimson in the dark.
Something churned inside him.
Rage.
His mind warred between acceptance and rejection—between hope and the memory of a thousand betrayals.
*“It’s a trap,”* he snarled inwardly. *“The gods sent her. Again.”*
He’d fallen for this illusion too many times. Every time he dared to hope… the universe punished him with dust. And this time? That golden light—too vivid. Too perfect.
Too suspicious.
Not the first. Never the first. Faces that mirrored *hers*. Auras that echoed *hers*. Smiles that mimicked *hers*. Each one lured him deeper into the same abyss. The gods had turned his eternity into a cruel game, replaying her ghost in mortal shells just to watch him break.
He drew a deep breath.
Stepping out of the car, he walked to her side and yanked open the passenger door. With brutal precision, he seized a fistful of Lana’s hair at the roots—
yanking her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“Don’t hide,” he growled, his voice a blade wrapped in thunder. “I will see you. I will feel you. And I will know… whether you’re an illusion… or just a foolish little prey who dared to resemble *her*.”
His fingers slid down—not with reverence, but with the cold intent of a judge—locking around her throat. His thumb pressed against her trachea, just enough to steal her breath.
Lana gasped—eyes wide, body rigid. She clawed weakly at his hand, lungs burning for air.
Atticus didn’t care.
His gaze dropped to the zipper of her dress—the cold metal barrier between her flesh and his judgment.
In one swift motion, he ripped it down.
***Zzzip!***
He tore it open like shredding the final veil between truth and curse.
The dress slumped off her shoulders—yanked down, exposing her trembling skin, her heaving chest, and the shame burning in her eyes.
Lana instinctively covered herself—but Atticus seized her wrists, twisted them behind her back, forcing her to arch slightly over the seat.
“Don’t you dare hide,” he hissed, his breath scorching against her ear. “If you truly *are* her… your body won’t tremble. But if you’re a trap…”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a guttural snarl.
“…you’ll turn to dust before dawn.”
He released her wrists—not to grant freedom,
but to shove her shoulders back against the seat, leaving her bare, exposed, helpless.
His eyes swept over her—not with desire, but with the icy scrutiny of an executioner weighing a condemned soul.
Every curve. Every shiver. Every choked breath—he recorded it. Tested it. Judged it.
“You’re trembling,” he said flatly. “Anastase never trembled.”
Lana stared back—tears pooling, but she bit her lip hard, refusing to sob.
Because crying meant surrender.
And she wasn’t ready to surrender yet.
“Please… stop…” Her voice cracked, drenched in despair.
The plea only made Atticus smirk—revealing teeth too sharp, too white, fangs glinting like ivory daggers. Lana’s breath hitched, imagining those teeth tearing into her flesh.
This was no lover’s smile.
It was a predator’s grin—born not of lust, but of buried fury. The kind that blooms when prey finally shows its weakness. Atticus savored every ragged gasp, every flinch of fear, every drop of her crumbling defiance.
His eyes blazed—red embers doused in oil, ready to ignite, ready to incinerate anything that dared mimic the one hope he’d been forbidden to keep.
“Good,” he murmured, voice rough as stone dragged over bone. “Be afraid. Because tonight… I won’t be gentle. You’ll pay for your insolence.”
To him, she wasn’t a woman—she was an insult. A cheap imitation that needed to be erased.
“Put your clothes back on,” he sneered, the smirk deepening. “Unless you want every creature in this palace to feast their eyes—and more—on your pathetic body.”
With trembling hands, Lana fumbled to pull her dress up and zip it back into place.
- Writer
