FROM THE VERY moment nightfall had struck, it had left in its midst a castle with corridors dark as death and just as sinister. It was not the architecture, nor the artwork adorning the walls, that made it so, but rather something that ran deeper—if the palace, for instance, had been a hissing beast, its veins would have been filled with a malevolent bane that struck the frigid heart at the core, poisoning every fissure and crevasse. However, to date, it remained nothing but a slab of stone stained with blood and wasted riches, and encrusted with rubies and vice. Echoes of the innumerable ghastly injustices that had been dealt within the ramparts twined with the souls of all those who had perished there, among them being the soul of a young man who was dead in every manner of speaking but in flesh.

       Normally, Maarit would be experiencing an apprehension simply for traipsing through the dusky corridors on a night such as this; instead, she found herself embracing the shadows, for they ate away the flush as it crept onto her face. For the most part, she couldn't see Theodoracius through the thick blanket of obscurity, though his fingers were interlaced with hers. Every few seconds, however, she and Theodoracius would pass a window, and a moonlight waterfall would come cascading through the glass pane, shedding light on them.

In the silvery glow, he was both a horror and a wonder to look upon all at once. At times, he appeared too glorious to be anything more than a phantasm; at others, he was a soldier ravaged so thoroughly in battle that he himself had become the evil he fought. The scars that sullied his chest—only partially concealed by his shirt—were a mere preview of the wreckage that his father had caused.

Yet the cicatrices were what gave him a paradoxical beauty that he alone knew how to wear.

When they stumbled upon a wooden pair of double doors, Theodoracius turned to face them, his hand slipping away from hers momentarily. He turned the knob, threw them open and led Maarit inside. Before she even had the opportunity to allow her eyes to explore the splendour of his bedroom, he was crowding her against the nearest wall, and her senses became engulfed—all she could see and feel and smell was him.

       Up close, she watched the way the hard set of his jaw softened and the sharp planes of his face dulled, as they did for her alone. The irises of his eyes, aureate glister breaking through the gloom, barely contained the blown pupils trapped within them. The floor swayed beneath her feet as though the entire world was quavering with her.

       His arms slid up the wall to bracket her head and as he did so, he moved closer until his chest was pressed firmly against hers. Through the layers of fabric between them, Maarit could feel that the staccato of his heartbeat was just as erratic as her own. Desire pooled in her stomach, causing her insides to writhe; she needed something to hold onto, so she fisted one hand into his shirt and inhaled the air that he exhaled. Her other hand moved up to his face, fingers curling over his cheek, combing in a soft arc. Almost instantly, his eyelids fluttered and closed halfway. He leaned into her touch like he was starving for it.

       A breathless whisper poured suddenly from his mouth, entwining its beguiling tendrils around her heart. "How can this be real?" he asked Maarit, nudging his nose against her temple, dragging his lips languidly from the shell of her ear to her jaw. He seemed to have returned to his previous hesitance, his mouth hovering above hers but never meeting it. "I must be dreaming," he sighed, his breath hitching in his throat as he ground the last word out. He pulled back just enough to cast her a weary gaze through eyes three oceans deep. "Hell, I am dreaming. I hope I never wake up."

"It is real," Maarit murmured back, releasing his shirt to weave her fingers into his hair.

"Then," he began, pausing to dip his head into the curve of her collarbone, "tell me to stop." His lips chased goosebumps down her neck and pressed supernovae into her bronze skin. "You should—tell me—to stop," he repeated, punctuating his words with new kisses on her throat, each one gradually becoming more insistent.

"No," she said firmly, just as she had when he'd tried to walk away after kissing her for the first time. A sigh tipped from her open mouth.

"Why not?" he prompted without ceasing his ministrations. His lips sewed self-deprecation into her skin. "Why not, Maarit? You know—everything. My past. My transgressions. I am damaged. I have miles upon miles of scars. I am all that is evil, and I am ugly as sin. I am darkness. I'll never deserve you."

When his teeth grazed her pulse gently, Maarit thought of the many ways he could already have hurt her. She had already allowed herself to be so vulnerable with him. If he was the monster that everyone had claimed him to be, he could have closed his teeth around her pulse so that the last thing she'd ever see before dropping would be her blood staining his lips. He could have been rough and forceful. He could have taken everything for himself the way a man raised with riches, accustomed to getting what he wanted, would have.

       But his touches were tender, his words genuine. It dawned on her how, with nothing but the press of mouths and bodies, he had become so malleable beneath her hands.

       "You're wrong," she told him, her heart and her mouth betraying her mind. "I am not, nor have I ever been, afraid of the dark."

And that—

That was when she felt it first.

When the words so easily escaped her throat and rolled off her tongue, when she realized how utterly unravelled she had become—that was when she felt the first pang of wrong.

But it hardly mattered, because it lasted for only a split second, before he was leaning forward again.

       The moment of reluctance was rapidly replaced with the same lust from prior; Maarit wound her hands around his neck and drew him closer. With a roll of her jaw, she worked his mouth open and he responded enthusiastically, pressing their hips together.

       Theodoracius pulled back with a muted sigh. "I love you," he hummed, his thumb skimming her bottom lip.

       Maarit's heart fluttered in her chest. In an attempt to tame the wild bird caged within her ribs, she slanted her mouth to his once more. His hands were already fumbling with her dress, but she stopped him. "You first," she said, and she tore his shirt the rest of the way open, buttons flying across the room. He tilted his head at her, curiosity—or perhaps wonder—widening his eyes. "I hope that didn't upset you," she declared, words tainted with smugness. "I know how much you love your fine clothing."

       He shook his head a few times, his eyebrows pulling together. "Nothing compared to you," he responded fondly before reaching for her dress once more. As soon as she slipped out of it, he lifted her into his arms, urging her to wrap her bare legs around his waist.

The pair stumbled over to the king's bed, hands grappling at anything in an attempt to get closer. When he fell onto his bed, she was on top of him, straddling his lap. He ran his hands over her body, taking in the sight of her.

"I want you to call me by my name," he said lowly, his lips grazing her earlobe as they curled over the words. "I want to hear you say it. Please, Maarit. Say my name."

       It was true, she had never called him by his name—in fact, she had never called him anything.

"Theodoracius," she murmured, testing the name out on her tongue. It sounded somewhat foreign to her. She looked at him to gauge his reaction, a sudden self-consciousness inexplicably swelling inside her—but he was closing his eyes and panting hard, as though she had somehow just given him pleasure, so she moaned out, this time slightly louder, "Theo."

"I've never heard you say it. It's been years—years since I've heard it said with affection. But never like that. Never—never with such fervour. Oh God, I love that." He faltered, his mouth hot on hers. "God, Maarit. Say it again."

In a fraction of a second, he grabbed hold of her thighs and flipped them over so that he was looming over her. Anxious swirls braided together in her stomach as he situated himself between her knees. Then his mouth latched onto her neck, his tongue darting out to taste her skin between kisses. She knew he would stop if she asked him to, but her body was betraying her and quaking with the need to be closer to him. She chanted his name like it was holy, like it was a benediction.

       And then something strange happened.

       In the haze of agitation and passion, her eyes darted down to her wrist, and she saw it for the first time in a while.

For weeks, she had gotten so accustomed to it being there that she hadn't truly seen it.

The onyx of the bracelet made from Sorcerer's Tenebrium, coiled around her frail wrist.

       The truth of the matter was that he was still restraining her—still holding her back from reaching her full potential. Her free will was merely an illusion. No matter what, she was still a prisoner in this castle, just as the rest of the dead souls were.

Being with him—giving herself over to him—was not a testimony to her strength. If anything, it was weak.

Foolish, she told herself. I have allowed myself to forget all that he has done to me and to others. He is broken, and I have allowed that to justify his actions. But it doesn't. His brokenness does not enable him to break anything in his path.

And then she remembered everything.

How he treated his servants, starving them even though he had more than enough food for them.

How he framed an innocent boy for the previous king's murder and sentenced him to death.

Keion, Keion, Keion.

Wrong. This is wrong, she thought as he kissed his way down her chest. Every part of her ached for his touch. But he is not a saint. I may whisper his name like a prayer, but he is unholy. He is not a saint, and nothing less than a saint should ever put his hands on my body again.

There was blood in the king's wake. Everywhere he had trod, he left blood of others. When contrasted with his father, he was good, but alone he was not. And the love of a witch he had imprisoned would not cleanse him of his transgressions.

       Love is weak, she told herself. Love is weakness and nothing more. I loved my parents and that made me weak. That made me vulnerable to despair when they abandoned me.

I cannot love a man who takes away my liberty, who seeks to dim my brilliance.

       She ran her fingers over the scars on his chest. Gritting her teeth, she shoved aside the sympathy and affection blossoming inside her.

Be strong, Maarit.

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to relax. The image formed clearly in her mind; even as Theodoracius's hands and mouth continued to roam her body, she refused to break focus.

Suddenly, her fingers were curled over something cold. It send a shuddering chill down her spine. She heard the sound of it piercing flesh, followed by a choking sound. Slowly, Maarit coaxed her eyes open, and the first thing she saw was his bare abdomen, and the spatter of vermilion.

The dagger of trust was buried in his side.

His trust of her.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

I am very sorry. Don't hate me.

At this point, you could definitely analyze what exactly went wrong, but I promise it'll all make more sense soon if you're confused. But remember, everything in this book happened for a reason... The murders, the rape... Don't forget any of that stuff.