Seraphina Devereaux.
A name soaked in silk and scandal.
Aveline still couldn't say it aloud without her mouth trembling.
It had been three days since she woke up in this gilded prison of a palace—three days of pretending to be the cruel, calculating fiancée of a man the world feared. And in those three days, she'd realized something terrifying:
The story she remembered wasn't quite the story she was now living.
In the book, Seraphina was power-hungry, manipulative, and cold—a perfect foil to the brutal king she was meant to marry. But this Seraphina—the one Aveline had been forced to become—was more complicated.
She wasn't just feared.
She was watched.
Closely.
Obsessively.
By him.
Lucian Duskbane.
Even his name was a warning.
She'd only seen him a few times since that first terrifying morning. But those moments lingered like cigarette smoke—dark, sharp, and impossible to forget.
The way his gaze clung to her like armor.
The way he touched her like she already belonged to him.
And the way he never smiled.
Ever.
No warmth. No affection.
Just cold possession wrapped in royal silk.
She sat now by the window of her chambers, the golden sun drenching her lap in warmth she didn't feel. Outside, the garden looked like a dream. Inside, she couldn't breathe.
"Milady," came a voice from the doorway.
Her head snapped up. A maid—young, pretty, eyes filled with something between fear and pity.
"The king requests your presence in the throne room."
Not invites.
Requests.
Seraphina nodded slowly, hiding the tightening in her throat. "Of course."
The maid lingered. "Do you… wish for help dressing?"
She glanced down at her soft lavender gown, already tailored to perfection. Her fingers curled around the fabric. "No. I'll go like this."
There was nothing she could wear that would shield her from him.
The throne room was a cathedral of cruelty.
All marble and obsidian. High arches, stained glass, and a black velvet carpet that looked like spilled ink against the white stone.
Guards lined the edges—silent, watchful. None looked her in the eye.
Lucian sat alone at the far end.
The throne wasn't grand. It didn't need to be. His presence was the power in the room. He wore a simple black tunic, gloves off, fingers laced beneath his chin as she approached.
"Seraphina," he murmured, voice echoing across the cold floor.
She curtsied, heart pounding like a trapped bird's. "Your Majesty."
He studied her for a long time. The silence stretched too long, too sharp.
"You've been avoiding me."
She swallowed. "I wasn't—"
"Lying," he said, his voice almost bored, "doesn't suit you. Not anymore."
Her jaw tensed.
Lucian rose slowly, descending the steps of the dais one by one. Each movement was fluid, deliberate, like a lion circling prey. When he reached her, he didn't touch her. Not yet.
"You're different," he said quietly. "Since your fall."
Fall?
Aveline blinked.
Oh. He meant Seraphina's recent 'accident'—the one that nearly killed her. The one that must've been the moment she took over this body.
"Yes," she whispered. "I… see things more clearly now."
Lucian's hand rose to her cheek, brushing hair behind her ear. His touch was gentle, but his eyes… they burned.
"I prefer you this way," he said. "Softer. Quieter. But if it's an act…" He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of her ear. "I'll know."
She held her breath as he stepped back, fingers lingering on her jaw.
"Walk with me."
The palace gardens were a sharp contrast to the man beside her.
Bright blooms. Sun-warmed marble paths. The scent of lilies in the air.
Lucian said nothing as they walked. Just paced beside her, tall and silent, until they reached a hidden alcove shaded by willow trees.
He finally stopped, turning to face her. "Do you remember," he asked, "the first time you came here with me?"
Aveline shook her head. "No."
His eyes narrowed, like he was tasting a lie.
"You were furious," he said softly. "You slapped me."
Her stomach dropped.
"You said I was a monster. That you'd never marry me. And then you ran." He paused. "I caught you before you reached the gates."
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"You screamed so beautifully."
Her blood ran cold.
He stepped closer, trapping her between his body and the stone wall behind her. One hand braced near her head. The other gripped her waist—not tightly. Just enough to remind her she wasn't going anywhere.
"I wonder," he said, "if you've changed… or if you're simply playing a longer game."
"I'm not playing," she said, barely a whisper.
Lucian's hand moved, brushing her collarbone.
"You tremble when I touch you," he murmured.
"I'm afraid."
His eyes met hers. "Good."
And then—he kissed her.
Hard. Claiming. Like punishment and pleasure rolled into one.
Aveline gasped against his mouth, trying not to panic. His grip on her waist tightened. But it wasn't cruel.
It was worse.
It was possessive.
When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged.
"You are mine," he said. "And no one—no one—takes what is mine."
Back in her chambers, she scrubbed her lips with the back of her hand until they stung.
She couldn't run.
Not yet.
Not when she didn't know the new rules of this twisted game.
But one thing was certain.
Lucian Duskbane wasn't the villain in a story anymore.
He was real.
And he was obsessed.