The Palace of Monsters
1357 Words
Aria woke to silence.
Not the soft silence of dawn in a sleeping home. Not the peaceful quiet that followed a storm.
This silence watched.
Her eyes opened slowly to a ceiling painted with silver constellations that seemed to move when she stared too long. Moonlight spilled through towering arched windows dressed in sheer black curtains, turning the room into a dream carved from shadows and frost.
For several seconds, she didn’t move.
Her body lay sunk inside a bed so vast it could have belonged to royalty. Layers of dark velvet and pale fur covered her like clouds. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, winter air, and something darker she couldn’t name.
The room itself was breathtaking in a cold, unsettling way.
Stone walls rose high around her, lined with ancient carvings of wolves bowing beneath crescent moons. Massive pillars framed the corners, each etched with claw marks that looked less decorative and more earned. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, but instead of warm light, it held pale blue flames dancing inside glass.
A fireplace crackled nearby, yet the flames burned silver.
Opposite the bed stood a carved wardrobe taller than most rooms. Beside it, a long mirror with black iron framing reflected her pale face back at her.
She barely recognized herself.
Her dark hair was tangled. Her lips colorless. Shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes. She looked like a ghost wearing Aria Vale’s face.
What happened?
The thought came weakly, like it had to travel through fog to reach her.
Something about music.
Flowers.
A ring.
Her chest tightened sharply.
Then nothing.
Only emptiness.
Aria sat up too fast, gripping the blankets as dizziness rolled through her. She wore soft sleep shorts and a thin top she did not own. The fabric clung to her skin, light and unfamiliar.
Who changed me?
A strange panic rose—but even that felt muted beneath the heavier feeling lodged inside her chest.
Need.
For what, she didn’t know.
For whom, she couldn’t remember.
She pressed a hand against her heart.
It ached with a restless pull, as though something important stood just out of reach. Like forgetting a name you should know. Like hearing footsteps in another room and wanting desperately to follow.
The room was beautiful.
The room was wrong.
Aria climbed out of bed.
The marble floor was freezing beneath her bare feet, yet warmth lingered in the air, as if someone had only recently been there. She crossed to the door and hesitated before touching the iron handle.
Something in her whispered not to open it.
She did anyway.
The corridor beyond stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with moonlit windows and black banners stitched with silver wolves. Candle sconces burned with the same eerie blue fire. Their flames did not flicker.
No guards.
No servants.
No sound.
An entire palace emptied.
The emptiness felt deliberate.
Aria stepped into the hall.
Her footsteps echoed too loudly, swallowed and returned by stone walls that seemed to lean inward. Portraits lined the corridor—stern men and women crowned in silver, all with the same sharp eyes, all watching her pass.
The further she walked, the stronger the ache in her chest became.
Need.
Hunger.
A pull.
It guided her through turning hallways, down a sweeping staircase of black marble, across a grand hall where moonlight poured over long tables left untouched.
Still no one.
No voices.
No life.
The palace felt like a beautiful tomb.
Then she smelled it.
Warmth.
Butter.
Smoke.
Something rich and savory that curled through the empty halls like a hand around her throat.
Her body reacted before her mind did.
Every nerve sharpened. Her pulse stumbled. Her feet moved faster.
Kitchen.
There was someone in the kitchen.
Aria slowed as she neared the doorway, suddenly aware of her own breathing. She stepped closer on silent feet and peeked inside.
The kitchen was enormous, lined with polished copper, black stone counters, hanging herbs, and rows of knives gleaming beneath lantern light. A fire roared in an open stove large enough to roast a beast.
And standing before it—
Him.
The man from the ballroom.
Except now he wore nothing but low black boxers slung dangerously on narrow hips.
Aria forgot how to blink.
His back faced her, broad enough to block half the stove. Muscles shifted beneath bronzed skin with every movement—shoulders carved sharp and powerful, spine tapering into a narrow waist, each line of his body precise and unfair. Faint scars crossed his skin like old stories. Dark hair fell loosely at the nape of his neck.
He moved with lazy confidence, one hand stirring a pan, the other braced on the counter.
The scent rolling off him was worse than the food.
Wild. Warm. Addictive.
It slid through her body like heat.
Her gaze betrayed her completely.
Down the width of his shoulders.
Across the hard planes of his back.
To the deep grooves above his hips.
To the way every motion flexed something sinful.
A laugh bubbled dangerously in her throat at the absurdity of it all.
She was trapped in a haunted palace, half-dressed, memory fractured, admiring a shirtless stranger cooking breakfast.
“Enjoying the view?”
His voice was low, rough, amused.
Aria jumped.
He hadn’t turned around.
“I—” she began, then coughed instead.
He smiled faintly, attention still on the stove. “Thought so.”
Her face heated.
“I’m just looking around,” she said quickly. “I don’t know what happened. I was at my wedding and…”
The pan handle bent in his grip.
A deep growl rumbled through the room.
The sound was not human.
Her chest tightened again.
“Where’s Lucian?” she asked, confusion rising sharper now. “What is this place?”
He went still.
Then he turned.
Those eyes.
Gold burned where normal eyes should have been.
Before she could step back, he moved.
One blink.
One breath.
And suddenly she was sitting on the kitchen counter.
A startled gasp left her as his body pressed between her knees, one hand braced beside her hip, the other at the small of her back. His forehead rested against hers, warm and solid and devastatingly close.
Aria should have shoved him.
Should have screamed.
Should have slapped him across that arrogant face.
Instead, her body betrayed her in ways that felt criminal.
His scent wrapped around her, drowning thought. Her pulse pounded. Every breath she took tasted like winter forests and danger.
She wanted more.
No.
No, she didn’t.
Lucian.
She was engaged.
Wasn’t she?
But the harder she reached for that thought, the more it slipped.
The man before her inhaled slowly, as if breathing her in.
His lashes lowered.
His thumb brushed once against her waist.
Heat shot through her.
Her hands rose of their own accord, fingertips touching the ridges of muscle along his back. Hard. Warm. Real.
He shuddered.
Her own reaction startled her more.
What happened?
Where was Lucian?
Who was this man?
Why did touching him feel like remembering something ancient?
Then awareness crashed in.
She was wearing tiny sleep shorts and a top that barely covered her chest.
His body was nearly bare.
She was straddling a counter while letting a stranger breathe against her mouth.
Her brain screamed at her to push him away.
But every nerve in her body dragged him closer.
His hand slid more firmly around her waist.
His gaze dropped to her lips.
Then rose again, dark and hungry.
He leaned in.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His mouth brushed the air a whisper away from hers.
And memory struck like lightning.
Blood on white marble.
Her mother on the stairs.
Her brothers falling.
Her father collapsing.
Lucian’s neck in his hand.
The c***k.
The corpse.
Golden eyes.
Hello, Mate.
Aria’s breath tore from her lungs.
“No!”
She shoved him with everything she had.
He stepped back instantly, more startled than hurt.
She scrambled off the counter, shaking violently.
“You,” she whispered, horror flooding every inch of her. “You killed them.”
The room went deathly still.
- Writer
