Chapter 7 — You Were Mine Before
815 Words
I dreamed of fire.
Not flames—candles. Hundreds of them, flickering softly inside a vast, dark room. Their light reflected off stone walls carved with symbols I didn’t recognize but somehow knew.
I stood barefoot in the center, wearing a dress that wasn’t mine.
And someone was kneeling before me.
“Say it again,” a voice pleaded. Not cold this time. Not cruel.
Broken.
“I choose you,” I whispered.
The candles went out all at once.
I woke gasping, clutching my chest.
Morning light filtered weakly through the curtains, but the room felt wrong—too heavy, like the dream hadn’t ended, only thinned.
“You remember,” he said.
I sat up so fast the room spun. He stood near the window, solid enough now that the outline of his shoulders blocked the light. His eyes were darker today, less amused.
More intent.
“That was just a dream,” I said.
He tilted his head slightly. “Was it?”
My wrist burned. The sigil pulsed faintly beneath my skin.
“I don’t believe in past lives,” I said.
“You don’t have to,” he replied. “You lived one.”
I swung my legs off the bed, heart pounding. “Stop messing with my head.”
He moved closer. Not gliding this time—walking. The floor didn’t creak, but the air reacted, rippling around him like water disturbed by stone.
“You stood in a chamber beneath this house,” he said quietly. “You spoke vows by candlelight. You chose me knowing what I was.”
My throat tightened. “I’ve never been here before.”
“Yes,” he said. “You have.”
He stopped an arm’s length away. The cold was sharper now, focused.
“You weren’t afraid of me then,” he continued. “You were furious with the world for trying to take me from you.”
“That’s impossible.”
“You cut your palm and pressed it to mine,” he said softly. “You bound us.”
My breath stuttered.
The image flared in my mind—blood, candlelight, his hands trembling as they closed around mine.
I shook my head violently. “Stop.”
“You told me,” he went on, voice tightening, “that even death wouldn’t unmake what we were.”
Something twisted painfully in my chest.
“And then?” I whispered despite myself.
His jaw clenched.
“They killed me.”
The word dropped like a stone between us.
“For what I was,” he said. “For loving you. For refusing to let you go.”
“I didn’t let them,” I said instinctively.
He looked at me sharply.
“You screamed,” he said. “You fought. You begged.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“You died too,” he added quietly. “Not that night. Later. Alone.”
My knees weakened. I sat back on the bed, shaking.
“This is insane,” I whispered. “You’re lying.”
“If I were lying,” he said calmly, “the mark wouldn’t recognize me.”
He lifted his hand.
The sigil on my wrist flared icy white, pain blooming sharply enough to steal my breath. I cried out, clutching my arm.
“Stop it!” I gasped.
He dropped his hand instantly. The pain faded, leaving behind a throbbing ache.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said firmly. “I never did. That was always my curse.”
I stared at him, chest heaving. “Then why do I feel like you’re trapping me?”
“Because you don’t remember choosing the cage,” he replied.
He crouched in front of me, bringing his eyes level with mine.
“I waited,” he said quietly. “Centuries. I watched you be born again and again.”
My stomach dropped. “That’s not love.”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s devotion.”
I looked away, tears blurring my vision. “I don’t want this.”
A long pause.
Then—softer than I expected:
“I know.”
I looked back at him.
“Then let me go.”
For the first time since I’d met him, uncertainty flickered across his face.
“I can’t,” he admitted. “Not anymore.”
He stood.
“But I won’t force you,” he added. “Not yet.”
The room lightened slightly as he stepped back, his form already beginning to fade.
“Rest,” he said. “You’ll need strength for what’s coming.”
“For what?” I demanded.
His eyes lingered on me, dark and aching.
“Remembering.”
He vanished.
I sat there long after he was gone, staring at my wrist, my chest tight with grief that didn’t feel like mine—
And yet felt devastatingly familiar.
- Writer
