The invitation came wrapped in black silk. No name. No address. Only an embossed sigil curled around a blooming rose, sealed in deep crimson wax. It smelled of danger. Of something ancient and unspoken.
Nadira turned it over in her palm, cautious but unable to resist. The seal, etched with a serpent eating its own tail, pulsed beneath her touch. It didn’t crack or break—it yielded, parting like it had been waiting only for her. This wasn’t a message. It was a summon.
Her apartment, wrapped in velvet shadows and flickering incense, held its breath. Outside, the city whispered in the voice of rain, its gray skin pulsing with traffic and secrets. Inside, she stood still. The card inside was smooth and cold, the ink sharper than it had any right to be.
> "Come dressed in black. Midnight. Leave your name behind."
That was all. No host. No location.
The moment her fingers touched the card, her body remembered something her mind hadn’t lived yet.
She should have thrown it in the fire.
Instead, by 11:52 PM, she was stepping out of a cab onto a gravel drive lined with hedges sharp as razors. Her lips were painted red blood. Her gown was black satin, backless. Her pulse fluttered—not from fear, but anticipation.
The iron gates before her opened soundlessly. Beyond them rose a structure carved from shadow and moonlight. Stone spires pierced the sky like blades. The estate wasn’t on any map she knew. And yet it felt inevitable.
No one greeted her.
No guards. No staff.
The front doors opened of their own accord. And Nadira, heels clicking against marble veined in silver, stepped into a cathedral of shadows.
Music floated through the air—elegant strings, violins coaxing delicate melodies into the space—but beneath it, there was something else. Something tribal, ancient, crawling under her skin like memory.
She moved through it, unsure how she belonged but too enthralled to care.
The ballroom was unlike anything she’d imagined. Guests dressed in velvet, lace, leather. Masks covered half their faces, but none could conceal the raw hunger in their eyes. Champagne shimmered in crystal flutes. Laughter sliced the air like shattered glass. Bodies danced, pressed close, swayed with sin and suggestion. Whispers slithered across her skin like silk ropes.
And then she saw him.
Sitting. On a throne carved into the very wall, as though the building had grown around him. Like it existed for him.
Reathlie.
The name wasn’t spoken. It just arrived, curling in her mind like smoke and steel. She didn’t know how she knew it. But it was his.
He wore no mask. He didn’t need one.
His face was sculpted like a punishment from the gods—high cheekbones, a jaw carved in stone, lips that didn’t smile but dared you to crave them anyway. His eyes were black opals—impenetrable, endless. Power didn’t cling to him. It bent to him.
Nadira could have turned around. Could have left. But her feet had a will of their own, heels echoing like heartbeats. Her hips swayed with a rhythm she didn’t invent. And his eyes followed every step like he was already imagining her without the dress.
"You're late," he said, voice a curl of smoke that wrapped around her spine.
"I wasn't aware I was invited," she replied.
"You weren't," he said. "You were chosen."
He rose from the throne. His height was less physical, more...inevitable. Like standing too close to a storm. The air changed.
"Do you know what this place is?" he asked.
"A game," she purred, lifting her chin. "And I play very well."
A smirk ghosted over his mouth.
"Well then," he said, offering his hand, "Let’s begin."
When her fingers slid into his, the chandelier above dimmed. The music slowed. The marble beneath them glowed—sigils from the invitation flickering like coals beneath her heels. The walls whispered, soft and inhuman.
He led her through the revelry.
Past velvet curtains that quivered with moans behind them. Past golden chalices held by hands far too pale. Past shadows that moved when no one else did.
They stopped before a mirror. Unlike the others, this one didn’t reflect. It rippled. Alive.
Inside the glass, another version of them writhed. She was beneath him, moaning. Writhing. Being claimed. And claiming back.
“Do you see it?” he asked, breath suddenly at her ear.
“I can see you fantasize too easily.”
“Not a fantasy,” he growled. “A promise.”
Then he pinned her.
Not violently. Not cruelly. Just...inevitably.
One hand on her jaw, his grip commanding without pain. The other slid down her waist, grazing the slit of her gown, fingers brushing the inside of her thigh.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, breath fire against her lips.
“No.”
“Then tell me what you want."
Her eyes glinted. Bold. Defiant.
“What makes you think I’ll beg?”
His smile was slow. Lethal.
“Because little brats like you always do. And when I break you... I’ll break you my way.”
The world behind them moved. Music. Laughter. Sin. But all she felt was him—his body, the tension, the closeness like a blade at her throat. Her hand slid to his chest, nails dragging over silk.
“If you think I’ll be easy to own—”
“I don’t want easy.” His voice was a growl against her mouth. “I want you. And everything you fight to have.”
She was sure he’d kiss her.
Instead, he pulled back.
Left her there—panting, flushed, furious, and soaked in wanting.
"Midnight," he said, turning away. "Your games end then. Be ready."
The crowd parted for him. Not with courtesy—with obedience. Like waves answering the moon.
Nadira stood alone.
Breath unsteady. Skin too hot. Heart too loud. She wasn’t just aroused. She was curious. About the man with no name. The sigil beneath her skin. The mirror that showed what hadn’t happened—yet.
And what would happen…
When midnight came.
