The Witch’s Vow

Damien arrived in the bedroom well past midnight.

Elira was already in bed, her silk nightgown clinging to her as she lay against the pillows, eyes half-closed. She didn't acknowledge him when he entered, but she felt his presence—the quiet authority, the storm that always seemed to follow him.

He loosened his tie and sat at the edge of the bed, exhaling slowly.

"You're quiet," he noted.

She finally opened her eyes, turning to look at him. "Should I not be?"

Damien studied her, his expression unreadable. "You were watching everything tonight. Listening."

Elira smiled lazily. "Wasn't that the point?"

His gaze darkened slightly. "You weren't just observing for my sake, were you?"

She let silence be her answer.

Damien wasn't a fool. He was a man who built his empire on reading people, on predicting their moves before they made them.

And Elira—his wife, the woman he had chosen—was becoming more of a mystery to him than he had expected.

He reached for her wrist, fingers brushing over her skin in a touch that was more curious than affectionate.

"You don't seem intimidated by any of this," he said.

"By wealth?" she asked, amused.

"By power," he corrected.

Elira let out a soft breath, shifting closer. "I grew up with nothing, Damien. I had to learn very early that power isn't something you're given." She leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "It's something you take."

His grip on her wrist tightened, not in anger, but in something deeper. Something intrigued.

"You surprise me," he murmured.

Her smile was slow. "Good."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, softly, he traced his thumb over the inside of her palm.

"You looked beautiful tonight," he said, almost absentmindedly.

Elira tilted her head. "Flattery, Mr. Rothwell?"

"Observation."

His voice was smooth, but there was something in his eyes—something unguarded.

Elira had seen many men hunger for her, had seen them try to possess her.

But Damien's gaze was different. It was not possession.

It was fascination.

A dangerous thing.

For both of them.

The Uninvited GuestThe clock had barely struck three when Elira awoke to something wrong.

A ripple in the air. A shift in the unseen.

Magic.

She sat up slowly, careful not to disturb Damien beside her. The room was dark, the city lights casting faint patterns on the walls.

Then—

A whisper.

Low, urgent.

"Elira…"

She turned, eyes narrowing.

At first, she saw nothing.

Then, in the shadows by the window, a figure stepped through the veil of reality itself.

A woman.

Draped in black, her face obscured by a hood, her presence humming with ancient power.

Elira exhaled sharply. "You should not be here."

The woman's voice was a breath in the dark. "And yet, here I am."

Elira glanced at Damien. He hadn't stirred. Her magic had ensured that.

She rose from the bed, crossing the room with quiet steps. "If they sent you, you can tell them I'm done with them."

The woman tilted her head. "Are you?"

Elira's jaw clenched. "I made my choice."

The hooded figure took a step closer. "You are a witch, Elira. No matter how much silk and gold they drape on you, you cannot change what you are."

"I never said I would."

"Then why are you playing house with a mortal?"

Elira's fingers curled slightly, magic thrumming just beneath her skin.

"You wouldn't understand," she said.

The woman's lips curled in a slow, knowing smile. "No. But they will."

A sharp wind blew through the room, though the windows were shut.

And just like that—

The figure was gone.

But her message remained.

They were watching her.

Waiting.

And soon, she would have to decide which world she truly belonged to.