Chapter 5 The Poisoned Veil

Silas Virelli

They say fire burns and ice bites.

But poison?

Poison lingers.

I watched her step into my wing like a queen too curious for her own safety. Barefoot. Chin raised. Jaw tight. Raven Moretti. Or should I say... the girl who made Kael Nox sweat, made Aemrys Thorne fall silent, and made Theron Castell's smirk freeze for a full ten seconds.

But me?

I only smiled.

Because I'd been waiting.

And I don't wait for many.

She didn't know it yet, but this was the most dangerous wing of all-not because of guns or scars or swords.

But because I use words.

And words-well, words are venom.

The moment the door closed behind her, she crossed her arms and tilted her head.

"This place smells like lies."

I grinned. "Good nose. It's tobacco, leather, and unspoken sins. Take a seat, sweetheart."

She didn't move. That was the first test. I love a woman who resists commands. They taste better when they finally kneel.

"Not your sweetheart," she said.

"Not yet," I corrected. "But we've got seven days. Seven temptations. Seven games."

She finally sat, but not where I pointed. On my favorite velvet chaise. Legs crossed like a dagger.

A slow ache spread beneath my ribs.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Unlike Kael's arctic isolation or Aemrys' gym-from-hell, my wing was decadent.

Velvet drapes. Mirrors on ceilings. Whiskey in decanters. Books that could kill you softly with their truths. My quarters were designed to confuse the senses-because when people feel pleasure, they forget to be cautious.

She didn't forget.

She watched me. Measured me.

I poured wine. Red, of course. From a vineyard I blackmailed into existence.

She didn't drink.

"Afraid I'll slip something in it?"

"No. I'm afraid you won't."

I laughed. "Careful. You're speaking my love language."

I started small.

Games.

The first night, I challenged her to chess. Not just a game, but with stakes.

"Win," I told her, "and I'll answer one question truthfully. Lose-and you do the same."

She agreed too easily. Which told me she was confident.

Or reckless.

She played like a blade. Sharp, fast, unexpected.

She won the first round.

"Who do you hate the most in this house?" she asked.

I leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

"Myself."

The breath hitched in her throat. Beautiful.

Second round. I won.

"Tell me something you dream about," I said.

She stared straight at the board.

"Dragging my father's killer through broken glass and salt."

My cock twitched.

She was intoxicating.

By the third night, I escalated.

Not with knives.

With truths.

I left a box on her bed. Inside: a black envelope. And a mirror.

The note read: Look closer.

She did.

And saw what I wanted her to see-herself.

But behind her reflection: the edges of a secret door. One that doesn't exist. One that led nowhere but deeper into her paranoia.

She stormed into my study.

"What the hell is this?"

I looked up lazily. "Your reflection. Pretty, isn't it?"

"You're playing with my mind."

I stood, walked around her. Close. Closer.

"I'm revealing it," I whispered.

On the fourth day, I poisoned her.

Not lethally. Just enough to blur the edges. I told her the tea was laced with violet root-hallucinogenic in small doses. Truthfully? I'd added nothing.

But the mind does what it's told.

She spent the afternoon walking the halls, whispering to ghosts I never planted.

By nightfall, she curled up in the library, staring at a single book on the floor.

I sat beside her.

"What do you see?" I asked.

She answered without looking.

"Fire. A boy. Alone. And a cage made of silk."

I stilled.

That wasn't her hallucination.

That was mine.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

She finally looked at me. "Because you wear it in your smile. Every time you laugh, something inside you screams."

I kissed her.

I had to.

Her mouth tasted like war.

She kissed me back.

And for a breath, I forgot the poison.

Day five. She didn't speak to me.

She wandered my wing in silence, but not ignorance. I watched her read my files. Decode the Latin scrawled on my walls. Piece together the names of the girls I saved-and failed to.

She found the folder.

Miriam.

The one I couldn't save.

She didn't confront me. She just left it on my pillow. Open. No accusations. No pity.

That night, I lit a cigarette and watched her sleep.

Then I whispered a name I hadn't said in years.

"You're not her, Raven. But if you die too, I won't come back from it."

Day six, she challenged me.

Not to chess.

To trust.

We sat on the floor, backs against the bookshelf. She held a knife. Passed it to me.

"Ask a question," she said. "If I lie, cut me."

I stared at the blade.

"Do you want to kill me?"

"No."

I passed it back.

She asked: "Do you care if I live?"

I hesitated.

She handed me the knife.

I didn't use it.

Instead, I touched her cheek. Pressed my forehead to hers.

"Yes," I said. "Too much."

The final night, she knocked on my door.

Wearing black. Silk. Nothing else.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"To say goodbye," she said. "And to ask for something."

"What?"

"Make me forget, for one night, that the world is dying."

I swallowed.

Then I kissed her again. Slower. Deeper.

We didn't fuck.

We broke.

Together.

Every touch was war. Every moan was a sin. Every scar I found on her skin, I kissed like prayer.

And when she whispered my name, I almost told her the truth:

That if she stayed one more night, I'd never let her leave.

But morning came.

And she was gone.

All that remained was the chess board.

Checkmate.

My king lay on its side.