***Cadiz***
I woke up around noon feeling awful. My whole body ached, the sheets were twisted around me, and Raizel was gone. Only his scent lingered in the air, sharp and cold, reminding me of everything that had happened. I stared at the ceiling, trying to breathe normally and ignore the tight feeling in my chest.
For a while I lay there, trying to tell myself it had all been a dream. Some weird fever dream brought on by loneliness. But when I moved, reality hit me hard. My muscles hurt, my back was sore, and I could still feel heat in my chest, proof that it had all been real. No matter how much Raizel or I might want to pretend it didn't happen, the evidence was carved into my skin.
I got up slowly, every movement feeling heavier than it should. My clothes were scattered on the floor, torn and wrinkled. I gathered them up carefully, folding what I could, setting aside what was ruined. The simple task helped calm me down. Having something organized made me feel a little more in control.
When I finally left my room, the hallways were busy with servants going about their work. They moved quickly and quietly, carrying trays and linens and papers. They bowed as always, but something felt different. None of them met my eyes for more than a second. Their politeness felt too careful, like they were afraid of something.
I told myself I was imagining it, but I knew better. Nothing escaped their notice in this place. Not with the visible hickey on my neck that I couldn't hide. As I walked through the fortress, each bow felt sharper, each turned away gaze heavier. I started to feel like everyone had been warned not to look at me too long.
Without really thinking about it, I headed toward the great hall. Maybe I hoped to find him, to get even the briefest look of recognition. Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that he was real, that last night hadn't just swallowed him whole.
And there he was.
Raizel stood at the far end of the hall, his posture as rigid as always. His voice was low and steady as he talked with the steward. I couldn't hear the words, but they were clipped and full of authority. His shoulders were straight, his stance perfect, every movement deliberate. He looked like he'd been carved from ice, cold and untouchable.
I stopped, my breath catching in my throat. If last night had affected him the way it had affected me, there was no sign of it. No trace of that storm remained. He was back to being the lord of Ravenshollow, the cold man I'd married. His pale eyes flicked in my direction for a second, and I thought he might say something. Anything. Instead, he turned back to the steward, dismissing me completely.
The rejection was quick and brutal. My heart clenched, though I kept my face calm. I didn't want anyone to see how much that had hurt. I walked past him, keeping my steps steady, but inside I felt like his coldness had reached into me and frozen something until it cracked.
Meals were no better. At the long table, he sat in his usual spot, calm and unmovable, talking only to his officers and advisors. His tone was firm, his words measured, his face unreadable. To me, there was nothing. No recognition, not even a polite glance. The silence between us grew like a wall, visible to everyone watching though no one dared mention it. Not saying anything was louder than a thousand insults.
I wanted to demand answers. To stand in front of him and force the questions out. Why was he pretending it never happened? Why was he turning me into a ghost after what we'd shared? But the words stayed stuck in my chest. I bit down on them until my tongue felt raw. To speak would mean exposing myself, shining light on something he was determined to keep buried.
By evening, his silence was crushing me. I couldn't sit at that table anymore, pretending to be fine while the cold crept deeper. I excused myself with a nod and let my feet carry me through the fortress. The keep was full of people, but I'd never felt so alone. Servants passed me in the hallways, but they didn't linger. Their bows were quick, their voices polite but thin, and they always retreated fast, like my presence might contaminate them.
Maybe they had noticed. Maybe the storm in his room hadn't been as quiet as I thought. The idea made my stomach twist. If they knew, if they were whispering about it, then I wasn't just unwanted but also pitied. Or worse, judged.
Eventually, I found myself at the library. The doors creaked as I pushed them open, and the smell of old books and ink greeted me. The quiet between the shelves was soothing after all the noise in my head. I pulled a random book, though the words blurred when I tried to read. My mind wouldn't stay still. It kept circling back to the night before.
The heat of his touch. The roughness of his hands. The way his control had shattered until all that was left was hunger. The sound of my own voice, weak and desperate, calling his name. And then the ending. His sudden withdrawal. His cold words. "This doesn't change anything. It can never happen again."
Shame. That's what I'd seen in his face. Not indifference, not hatred, but shame. He'd looked at me like I was proof of his weakness, a reminder of control lost. In his silence, I was nothing more than evidence of his failure. A mistake that couldn't be talked about.
The thought hollowed me out. I'd never been truly wanted before. My family had tolerated me. The empire had marked me as worthless. Even this marriage was just a duty, an arrangement for politics. But last night, for one burning moment, I had been seen. Needed. Wanted, even if only because his rut demanded it. For the first time in my life, I had been exactly what someone needed.
And now I was thrown away, left to carry the memory alone. That hurt worse than being rejected or ignored. To be set on fire and then tossed into the cold was cruel in a way I hadn't expected.
The candle next to me flickered, its flame bending as shadows stretched across the floor. I shut the book with a hollow thud, unable to pretend to read anymore. My chest ached with a slow, bruising pain that wouldn't go away. The quiet of the library pressed close, and for the first time since coming to Ravenshollow, I wished for noise. Any sound that might drown out the echo of his words in my head.
I wanted to hate him. I wanted to take my anger and sharpen it into a weapon, to use it against the man who had pulled me close only to push me away. To curse him for making me feel, even briefly, that I mattered. But the truth wouldn't bend. I had gone to him, against his warning, against my own survival instincts. I had opened that door. I had crossed the line. And beneath his coldness, I'd glimpsed something I couldn't unsee. Not indifference, but self hatred. Not hatred for me, but for himself.
He carried shame like a weight around his neck. He wouldn't let himself see me as anything but a mistake, because to do otherwise would mean admitting he had wanted me. And that was the one thing he couldn't allow.
The knowledge didn't make me feel better. It only made the gap between us wider. I was trapped on one side, holding onto the fragile memory of what I'd felt, while he stayed on the other, locked in ice of his own making.
Finally, I went back to my room. Someone had lit the fire while I was gone, and the flames painted the stone walls in restless orange light. The bed looked huge and empty, its sheets freshly made as if to erase any trace of the night before. I sat on its edge, staring into the fire, watching the wood crack and burn. Each spark whispered the same truth, over and over, until it sank deep into me.
I was used.
And now I was alone.