Chapter 6

The manor never truly slept. Its silence was too heavy, too deliberate—every creak of wood, every brush of wind seemed like a secret spoken aloud. Lilith had begun to sense it now, the way shadows seemed to move just a breath slower than they should, as if someone lingered within them.

That night, she woke with the strange, unmistakable feeling of being seen.

The candle she had left burning had long since guttered out. Her chamber was painted only in moonlight, silver spilling through the tall windows. Lilith’s breath slowed, steady as she forced her body to remain still, her lashes lowered to slits. She had lived in noble courts long enough to know when to feign sleep.

And she was not alone.

The weight of eyes pressed on her skin, sharp and unrelenting. Not the gaze of a servant— it was too heavy, too knowing. She felt it trace the curve of her cheek, linger at her lips, move down to where the blankets gathered at her waist. Her pulse roared in her ears.

She almost dared to look—almost—but then the shadows shifted. From the corner of her vision, she caught the faintest silhouette, tall and unmoving near the hearth. He didn’t move closer. He simply watched.

Her chest rose and fell evenly, though her heart thundered. A strange ache pulled at her—fear tangled with something she should not have felt. The same contradiction that haunted her since their wedding night: dread and… longing.

Minutes—perhaps hours—slipped by until the figure moved at last. Slowly, deliberately, he turned away, his shadow sliding across the wall. A soft click of the door broke the stillness, and she was alone again.

Lilith sat upright the moment he was gone, her fingers clutching the covers tight to her chest. Her breath came out fast now, it was uncontrolled.

Her husband had been here. Watching.

She pressed trembling fingers to her temple, whispering to herself. “Why?”

The next morning, when the maid came to drew back the curtains, she found Lilith already seated by the window, sleepless, her eyes tinted with a shade of red. The maid bowed, hesitant.

“My lady, you look pale. Shall I fetch the physician?”

“No,” Lilith said quickly, too quickly. Her voice softened after a beat.

“No. That will not be necessary.”

Her eyes lingered on the grounds beyond—the barracks where her husband drilled his men until their bones screamed, the dark west wing where shadows moved like a second heartbeat. He had made her invisible in daylight. Yet at night, he crossed her threshold as though unable to stay away.

If he thought she would tremble in silence, he was mistaken.

That evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, Lilith ordered the lamps in her chamber to be lit bright and her door to be left unlatched. She sat before her dressing mirror, her hair loose about her shoulders, her hands folded calmly on her lap.

If he would come, let him come. This time, she would not pretend to be asleep. This time, she would face him.

Lilith waited.

The hours passed slowly, each tick of the clock sharpening the ache of anticipation. She did not move from her seat before the mirror, her figure cloaked in lamplight, her hair cascading in loose waves down her back. She felt exposed, vulnerable even—but that was the point. If he would only see her in shadows, then let him see her fully under the light.

When the door at last whispered open, her breath caught.

He stood there, tall and broad, the flicker of lamplight catching against the steel of his mask. He hadn’t expected her to be awake—that much was clear in the way his body stiffened, in the quiet hiss of breath that escaped him.

Their eyes met in the mirror. Hers steady, unwavering. His, dark and burning, caught between restraint and hunger.

“I was told,” Lilith said softly, her reflection holding him, “that my husband keeps to his wing. That he values distance more than duty. And yet here you stand again.”

He didn’t answer. He rarely did. But his silence was louder than any words. His gloved hand clenched at his side, his chest rising and falling as though each breath warred against him.

Lilith’s gaze dropped briefly to her own lap, then lifted back to the mirror—her tone quiet, but laced with challenge.

“Do you come only to haunt me, my lord? Or do you come because you cannot stay away from your newly wedded wife?”

Something broke in him then—just a fracture, a slip—but enough.

His steps carried him closer towards her, slow, deliberate, each one a surrender he could not seem to stop. The room seemed to shrink until his presence loomed behind her chair, heat radiating through the cold steel of his mask.

In the mirror, she saw his hand lift—hesitate—then hover inches from her hair. His fingers curled, restrained by chains of discipline he could barely keep intact.

“You should not tempt me,” his voice rasped, low and hoarse, as if dragged from a throat unused to such confessions.

Lilith’s lips parted, her heart drumming against her ribs, but she did not look away. “And yet you are tempted, My lord.”

His hand trembled. He lowered it at last, brushing the faintest strand of her hair between his fingers. The touch was feather-light, reverent, as though he feared she would shatter beneath him. His masked reflection bent nearer, his breath fanning against her temple.

“You don’t understand…” he whispered, almost broken.

“I have fought battles that left men screaming for mercy. I have faced emperors and traitors without flinching. But you—” His voice cracked, the last word strangled by the weight of it.

“You undo me.”

Lilith’s pulse roared, but her voice stayed calm, her courage steady even in the storm of his nearness. “Then stop hiding,” she said, her reflection meeting his with quiet defiance.

“If I am to be undone by you, then let it be in the light, not shadows.”

For a heartbeat, the world held still. His mask hovered inches from her cheek, his restraint balanced on the edge of ruin. He wanted to claim her, to press his mouth against her skin, to tear away every rule he had built between them—he wanted it so fiercely that it burned.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

His hand lingered a moment longer in her hair, then fell away, his body retreating a step though his gaze never left hers.

“Careful, Lilith,” he murmured, voice hoarse, with warning and plea togetherly entwined.

“I am not a man who knows how to love gently.”

And then, as swiftly as he had come, he was gone—vanishing into the corridor, leaving the lamplight flickering wildly in his wake.

Lilith sat frozen, her breath ragged, her hands trembling against her lap. Her mirror still held his shadow, even when the room no longer did.