Chapter 7 A Prison of Silk and Silvers
The door closed with an almost deafening finality, the soft click ringing in the cavernous space of the dining hall like the slamming of iron bars. Aria stood frozen, her breath uneven, her mind struggling to process what had just happened. Lady Evelyne’s words still clung to the air like smoke, curling around her thoughts, wrapping tightly around her lungs like a vice, making it impossible to draw in a steady breath.
"Be careful of him."
Aria didn’t need the warning. She had known, from the moment Kieran Vale had laid his golden eyes upon her, that he was not a man to be trusted. He was not someone who simply wanted—he was someone who took, who claimed, who saw the world as something that bent to his will rather than something he had to earn. But the way Evelyne had spoken, the quiet urgency in her voice, the weight in her gaze as she’d delivered her cryptic warning—it had unsettled Aria in a way she was unwilling to admit.
She exhaled slowly, unclenching her hands from the fabric of her gown, only now realizing how tightly she had been gripping it. The fine silk wrinkled under her fingers, a stark contrast to the callouses on her palms, a reminder of the life she had lived before being dragged into this gilded nightmare. The gown felt wrong on her, foreign against her skin. It was too smooth, too delicate, too obviously not hers. She had spent her entire life in rough, scratchy fabrics, garments meant to endure hard labor, not ones designed for women who were meant to be seen rather than touched by suffering.
The realization made something ugly twist in her chest.
She didn’t belong here.
She didn’t belong anywhere anymore.
A sharp knock on the door made her flinch, her heartbeat leaping into her throat. Before she could even gather her thoughts, the doors were pushed open—not hesitantly, not with respect, but with the kind of confidence only a man who ruled the world could possess.
Kieran.
The air in the room shifted instantly, the very walls seeming to bow beneath the force of his presence. He moved with the quiet, unshakable authority of a man who had never had to question whether he would be obeyed, his broad shoulders framed by the deep black of his tailored coat, gold embroidery curling along the cuffs like the delicate veins of a deadly flower. His golden eyes found her immediately, locking onto her with an intensity that made her breath hitch, but she refused to look away.
"Still here, I see," he mused, his voice smooth, rich, deceptively soft.
Aria forced herself to straighten, to lift her chin despite the shiver that ran down her spine at the sheer weight of his gaze. "Not by choice," she replied, her voice steady despite the rapid hammering of her heart.
Something flickered in his expression—something unreadable, something dangerous—but it was gone before she could grasp it. He stepped further into the room, the heavy doors closing behind him with a muted thud, sealing them inside together.
"You are always so quick to fight," he murmured, amusement curling at the edges of his tone, though there was something else beneath it, something she couldn’t quite name. "It is both admirable and foolish."
Her fingers twitched at her sides, but she did not let her mask crack. "Forgive me if I do not find my captivity amusing, Your Majesty," she said, the title sharp, a blade hidden beneath layers of false respect.
Kieran’s lips curved slightly, though it was not a smile—not truly. It was something more sinister, something laced with amusement but devoid of warmth. He tilted his head slightly, watching her in a way that made her feel as though she were a puzzle he was attempting to solve, a challenge he had yet to overcome.
"Captivity," he echoed, as though tasting the word, weighing it on his tongue. He took another step forward, slow and deliberate, his movements like the quiet prowl of a predator. "Is that what you believe this is?"
Aria’s pulse thrummed in her throat.
"You locked the door," she said simply, refusing to let herself shrink beneath the weight of him. "You dictate where I go, what I wear, what I eat. What else would you call it?"
Kieran’s gaze darkened, though not in anger—no, this was something else, something deeper. He stepped closer still, closing the distance between them with effortless grace, until there was barely a breath of space between them. Aria willed herself to remain still, to meet his gaze head-on despite the way her body screamed at her to move, to flee.
"You mistake my protection for imprisonment," he said quietly, his voice a low murmur that curled around her like smoke. "This world is not kind to those who do not belong to it. You think you were safe before? You were nothing more than prey among wolves, living at the mercy of those who could snuff you out without a second thought."
Her breath caught, anger flaring in her chest. "And now?" she demanded. "Now I am simply your prey instead?"
Kieran exhaled, though it was not a sigh—it was something heavier, something edged with frustration. His golden eyes burned into hers, but there was no cruelty in them. Only something far more unsettling.
Possession.
"You are mine," he said, his voice quiet but absolute. "And I do not let what is mine be harmed."
Aria’s stomach twisted violently, a mixture of anger and something she refused to name twisting inside her, burning beneath her skin. She wanted to fight, to snarl, to shove him away and scream that she was not his, that she would never be his, but the words lodged in her throat, tangled with something too raw, too vulnerable to let loose.
Kieran watched her for a long moment before exhaling, stepping back—not because he feared her, not because she had won whatever silent battle had waged between them in that moment, but because he chose to.
And that, more than anything, made her blood boil.
He turned away then, walking toward the fireplace at the far end of the room, his movements fluid, controlled. He reached for a glass of deep red wine that had been placed on the mantle, lifting it to his lips before speaking again.
"You will need to grow accustomed to this life, Aria," he said, his tone casual, though she knew there was nothing casual about his words. "Fighting me will do you no good."
Aria clenched her fists at her sides. "And if I refuse?"
Kieran glanced at her over his shoulder, his golden gaze burning with something ancient, something immovable. "Then you will lose," he said simply.
The words settled between them like a promise.
A warning.
Aria’s jaw tightened, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
She did not know how, and she did not know when, but she would find a way to prove him wrong.
Because she refused to lose.
Not to him.
Not to anyone.