Selene awoke drenched in sweat, petals scattered across her bed. Her hands smelled of moss. Her legs... trembled.
That morning, Kael watched her from the end of the long breakfast table. He didn't eat. He only drank something thick and dark from a black crystal chalice.
"The garden marks what it wants," he said, eyes never leaving her.
"And what does it want from me?"
He tilted his head. "To open you."
That day, she cataloged flowers that opened only in shadow, vines that curled like fingers. When she touched one violet bloom, it hissed and retreated — until Kael laid his hand beside hers. Then it unfolded like silk.
By dusk, she was breathless. Dirt under her nails, sunless bruises blooming on her thighs from kneeling so long.
Kael found her at the garden’s heart: a black stone altar smothered in crimson moss. He said nothing. Only reached out, brushing soil from her collarbone with fingers that lingered too long.
