MistNovel - Read Web Novel Stories & Fiction Online

Trixie woke to silence so complete it felt suffocating. The air itself seemed heavy, pressing in on her, a luxurious weight designed to mute all sound, all struggle. The chamber was vast, gothic in its grandeur, all soaring ceilings and stained glass windows that filtered the grey morning light into fractured shadows. A four-poster bed, draped in black velvet, dominated the space. The mattress beneath her was impossibly soft, the linens cool against her skin. She was wearing a nightgown she did not recognize, made of silk so fine it felt like water.
She sat up slowly, her head spinning. The memories crashed back. The altar. The ritual. Kai's voice, dripping with ambition. The snarl of that ancient, lethal voice. Azrael's hand closing around Kai's throat, and then the dagger, and then blood.
Trixie scrambled from the bed and stumbled toward the nearest window. Her hands were clean. Her body, under the nightgown, showed no marks or bruises. Whatever had happened on that altar, it had not been to her. Not yet.
She tried the door. Locked. Of course it was locked. She pulled harder, throwing her shoulder against the heavy oak, but it did not budge. No amount of leverage would move it. The frame did not even rattle.
Trixie moved to the windows next. They were tall, arched at the top like cathedral glass, but when she pressed her palms against them, she felt a faint hum of magic beneath her skin. A ward. Not that she could have jumped anyway. The drop to the ground below was at least four stories.
A soft knock interrupted her rising panic. Before she could respond, the door swung inward. Azrael stood in the frame, silhouetted against the candlelit hallway beyond. He was dressed in dark trousers and a shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. In the morning light filtering through the windows, she could see him more clearly than before: the sharp lines of his face, the way his dark hair fell past his shoulders, the unnerving intelligence in those shifting eyes.
He was beautiful in the way a predator is beautiful.
"You are awake," he said. It was not a question.
Trixie's jaw clenched. "Where am I?"
"My chambers." He stepped inside, and the air seemed to compress around him. "You slept for sixteen hours. The drugs in your blood required time to metabolize."
"Drugs?" She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly very aware of the inadequacy of the silk nightgown. "Because you kidnapped me?"
"Because you were marked as a sacrifice." His voice was devoid of emotion. "The sedatives were necessary to prevent you from causing yourself injury during transport."
"Transport?" Trixie laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "You mean dragging my unconscious body through your creepy mansion?"
For a moment, something flickered across his face. Not anger, but something closer to amusement. He moved deeper into the chamber, and Trixie instinctively stepped back, putting the bed between them.
"You will remain here," he said. "This is your quarters now. This is your new reality. Fighting it will only exhaust you."
"My reality?" Her voice rose. "My reality is that I was kidnapped and nearly murdered by my boyfriend and his family of actual demons. My reality is that you seem to own me now. My reality is that I am locked in a tower like a fairy tale, except there is no prince coming to save me because you are the monster."
Something cold flashed in his gaze. He crossed the remaining distance to the bed in two strides, and Trixie found herself backed against the far post, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"You will not speak to me with that tone," he said quietly. The softness of his voice was somehow more terrifying than a shout. "You will not run from me again. You will not attempt to breach the wards on these windows. You will eat when food is brought to you. You will sleep in this bed. You will do exactly as I instruct you, or I will make you wish you had died on that altar."
Trixie's breath came in short, sharp gasps. She wanted to scream at him, to rail against the unfairness of her situation, but the absolute certainty in his eyes held her frozen. He was not making an idle threat. He was stating a simple, absolute fact.
"Do you understand?" he asked.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
"Say it."
"I understand," she whispered.
He studied her for a long moment, his attention traveling slowly from her face down to her bare feet and back up again. The assessment was clinical, almost dispassionate, but it made her skin crawl nonetheless.
"Your defiance is noted," he said finally. "It is even somewhat refreshing. Most humans in your position either weep or beg. You, at least, have spine." He turned toward the door. "There is a bathing chamber through that door. Your clothing from last night has been cleaned and is in the wardrobe. A meal will be brought to you within the hour."
"Why?" she asked. The question escaped before she could think better of it.
He paused at the threshold. When he turned back, she saw something in his expression that made her mouth go dry. It was the same look a collector might wear when appraising a valuable artifact.
"Because," he said softly, "you are far too precious to waste on a simple hunger."
He left before she could ask what he meant. The door locked behind him with a soft, definitive click.
Trixie sank onto the edge of the bed, her legs no longer willing to hold her. She wrapped her arms around her middle and forced herself to breathe. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. In. Out. In. She was alive. That was something. That was something, at least.
But as the morning light shifted across the chamber, casting new shadows through the stained glass, she could not shake the sensation of being watched. Nor could she shake the memory of his final words, whispered with the casual certainty of someone accustomed to absolute obedience.
You are far too precious to waste on a simple hunger.
What did that mean? What did he want from her? And more terrifying still, she realized she had no way of finding out except by being exactly where he wanted her. Locked in this tower, in his chambers, waiting for him to visit her again. The thought made her pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with fear.