Chapter 7

The manor was beginning to feel like a labyrinth of shadows and silence. Lilith walked its halls by day with the composure of a dutiful wife, but inside, restlessness gnawed at her. She had glimpsed the man behind the mask, even if only for a heartbeat, and that glimpse had kindled a fire she could no longer ignore.

It was dusk when her wandering carried her into the western gardens. They lay unkempt, half-wild, far removed from the polished beauty of the main courtyards.

Yet here, amidst tangled ivy and flowers that refused to die even in neglect, Lilith felt something… alive. She bent over a pale bloom, brushing its soft petals, when a presence stilled her.

She didn’t need to turn. She felt him.

Her chin lifted, and sure enough, there he was—half-hidden among the ivy-shadowed arches. The Duke of Dreadborne, who stood Silent. Watching.

Her breath trembled, but her spine stayed straight. She inclined her head, her words mouthed just enough to reach him.

“Even shadows bloom,” she murmured.

For the first time, she saw him falter. His hands flexed at his sides, his jaw tightening as though her words struck deeper than she intended. For a moment she thought he might step closer—but then, with the suddenness of mist burned away by sunlight, he was gone.

Yet the memory of his gaze lingered like a hand upon her skin.

Later that night, Lilith found herself wandering the corridors with a candle in her hand. The manor seemed endless in the dark, its silence so thick it pressed against her chest. The small flame quivered as she turned a corner—and froze.

He was there.

Not hidden this time, but standing openly, the mask catching the light of her candle. He said nothing, but the heat of his stare pinned her at a place.

Lilith’s pulse raced. She forced her voice steady.

“Did you follow me, my lord?”

His chest rose sharply, then fell. “No.” His voice rasped like stone grinding against stone. After a pause, softer—almost broken: “I followed the light.”

The words struck her deeper than she expected. She swallowed, fingers tightening around the candlestick.

He stepped forward, each movement deliberate, controlled, until he loomed just close enough that the flame’s glow painted his mask in gold.

She felt the air thicken, heavy with everything he would not say. Slowly, he reached out—not to her, but to the trembling candle. His gloved hand brushed hers as he steadied it, his touch feather-light, unbearably restrained.

The flame steadied instantly.

But Lilith’s heart did not. Her breath came uneven as his hand lingered for one moment too long before retreating. His eyes lingered too, dragging over her face with a hunger that belied his silence.

Then, like always, he turned and disappeared into shadow, leaving her candle burning more steadily than her composure.

By morning, she convinced herself it had been a fever dream, the kind the lonely conjure in the dead of night. But her resolve finally faltered when she entered the portrait gallery.

The room was vast, lined with portraits of grim-faced Royal ancestors. At the far end, a massive mirror reflected her small figure back at her. She paused before it, tilting her head at her reflection—the pale silk of her gown, her loose hair, her weary eyes that betrayed sleepless nights.

But she was not alone.

In the mirror, he appeared. A towering shadow leaning against a pillar, silent, watching.

Her breath caught, but she did not turn. She let the mirror hold them both, her gaze meeting his in the glass.

“Do you always hide in shadows, my lord?” she asked softly. Her tone carried no anger, only a quiet steadiness.

He did not answer immediately. His eyes moved slowly over her reflection—her throat, her shoulders, the curve of her waist. The heat in his gaze made her knees weaken.

Finally, his voice came, raw and uneven.

“The shadows keep me from burning.”

Her chest tightened. She lifted her chin in the mirror, her voice trembling only slightly.

“Then come into the light. If you burn, let it be before me—not alone in the dark.”

For one suspended moment, she thought he would. His body leaned forward, a fraction of distance collapsing. Her breath caught, ready, waiting.

But restraint won again. His jaw tightened, his hand clenched at his side, and he turned sharply away. Without another word, he disappeared down the corridor.

Lilith remained before the mirror, her own reflection staring back at her with wide, breathless eyes. But what unsettled her most was not his retreat. It was the truth she had seen unguarded in his gaze.

Magnus Asher Dreadborne was not made of stone as he pretended. He was a man aflame, barely contained. And sooner or later, fire would consume its cage.

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