Chapter 3•1 The Unwilling Bride
867 Words
The rift closed with a soft whisper of displaced air.
General Aldric stood in the yard of his cottage, alone now, surrounded by nothing but the fading echo of soldiers' boots and the dying glow of golden torches. The soldiers had vanished with their lord. The yard was empty. The night was silent.
His sword hung loose in his hand.
He had not raised it. He had not fought. What was the point? He was old. Outnumbered. And Varek... Varek was not a boy anymore. He was a lord. A king in all but name. And he had taken Sheraya.
Aldric's legs gave way.
He sank to his knees in the dirt, his sword clattering beside him. His chest heaved. His hands shook. He had known this day would come. He had seen it in his dreams for years—the silver-blue eyes, the dark hair, the hand reaching for his daughter. He had hoped he was wrong. He had prayed he was wrong.
He was not wrong.
He pressed his palms into the cold ground and hung his head.
Sheraya. Nola.
He had seen Nola slip through the rift. He had seen her disappear into the darkness after her sister. Both of them. Gone.
He was alone.
The cottage behind him was warm and quiet. The fire still crackled in the hearth. The bowls were still stacked on the shelf. Everything was exactly as they had left it.
But his daughters were gone.
Aldric pushed himself to his feet. His knees ached. His back ached. He was too old for this. But he had no choice.
He would go to the Fae lands. He would walk into the Belak Castle. He would demand his daughters back.
Even if it killed him.
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Sheraya woke to darkness and the scent of him.
Leather. Woodsmoke. Something dark and masculine that clung to the pillows beneath her head and the blankets pulled up to her chin.
She sat up quickly, her heart pounding.
This was not her room. This was not her bed.
The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across the walls. The room was large—larger than any she had ever seen. The walls were paneled in dark wood, hung with tapestries of crimson and gold. A massive bed dominated the center, its posts carved with twisting vines and phoenixes. The sheets were black silk. The pillows were soft and deep.
And everything smelled like him.
Sheraya's stomach turned.
She pushed the blankets aside and stood. Her boots were gone. Her gray dress had been replaced with a white nightgown—soft, expensive, clearly not hers.
She did not remember changing.
She did not remember anything after Varek had pressed his fingers to her temple.
She crossed to the window. The glass was cold beneath her palms. Outside, she could see the castle grounds—gardens, pathways, guards patrolling in the distance. The sky was dark, scattered with stars.
She had no idea where she was. No idea how far she was from home.
She knew nothing.
That was the worst part. The not knowing. The helplessness.
She had spent her whole life being useful. Healing. Fixing. Making things better. And now she could do nothing. She was trapped. Powerless. In his bed. In his room.
She turned away from the window and looked at the tray of food on the table by the fire. Bread. Cheese. Soup. Water.
Her stomach growled.
She ignored it.
She would not eat his food. She would not accept his hospitality. She was not a guest. She was a prisoner.
She sat on the edge of the bed—his bed—and pulled her knees to her chest. The fire crackled. The shadows danced.
She did not sleep. The door opened at midnight.
Varek stepped into the room. His boots made no sound on the thick rugs. His shadow stretched across the floor, long and dark in the firelight.
Sheraya was sitting on the edge of the bed, awake, watching him.
He stopped.
"You are not sleeping," he said.
"You took my boots," she said. "And my dress."
"They were unsuitable. Unbecoming of my bride."
"I am not your bride."
"You will be."
Sheraya's hands curled into fists. "You cannot keep me here forever."
"I can." He walked toward the fireplace, his movements slow, deliberate. "This is my castle. My lands. My rules."
Sheraya stood. "This is your bedchamber."
"Yes."
"You brought me to your bedchamber."
"Yes."
Her voice shook. "Why?"
Varek turned to face her. The firelight caught his face—sharp cheekbones, dark shadows beneath his eyes. He looked tired. Haunted.
"Because the council expects me to choose someone," he said. "Because you are the only one who has ever made me feel anything since..." He stopped. His jaw tightened. "Because I wanted to."
Sheraya stared at him. "That is not an answer."
"It is the only one I have."
He walked to the door.
"Sleep," he said. "We will talk in the morning."
He left.
The door closed behind him.
Sheraya stood in the middle of his room, surrounded by his scent, his things, his presence.
She had never felt so trapped.
- Writer
