The Balcony

The Balcony

The guest room was beautiful—but Aroha barely noticed.

The silence pressed too heavy against her ears.

She changed into soft, oversized clothes—sweatpants, a loose top—finally able to breathe.

No heels. No makeup. No strangers watching her like a bride in a glass case.

She brushed her hair back and walked barefoot to the balcony, drawn to the cool air like it might take the night off her skin.

And then she froze.

He was already there.

Zadkiel Rylend.

Leaning against the far edge of the stone railing, sleeves rolled up, cigarette resting between his fingers—glowing like a silent threat in the dark.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t dare speak.

The moonlight painted him in silver and shadow—

sharp jaw, loosened tie, a storm bottled behind cold control.

His voice came low.

“I wondered if you'd find me here.”

Aroha stepped forward, arms folded across her chest—not in defiance. In defense.

“This is… the guest balcony,” she said softly.

He smirked, not looking at her. “Nothing in this house is ever just ‘guest,’ little kitten. Not anymore.”

She exhaled, heart fluttering in her ribs. “You should go.”

He turned slowly, eyes meeting hers—intense, unreadable, and cruelly calm.

“I should,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “But I don’t take orders. You’ll learn that.”

She swallowed, gaze faltering for a moment.

“I’m not used to this. To being… owned.”

His eyes burned darker at that word.

“You’re not owned,” he said quietly.

“Not yet.”

Aroha stepped toward the edge of the balcony, standing beside him but leaving space—

space that felt both too wide and too thin.

“You really hate my brother that much?” she whispered.

He looked at her now—really looked at her.

And for a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Almost regret.

Almost.

“No,” he said simply.

“I hate what he took from me.”

Silence stretched.

The wind played with her hair.

And the cigarette burned low.

She dared to glance up at him.

“Am I part of your revenge?”

His lips curved. Slowly. Darkly.

And without touching her, without moving closer, he whispered—

> “No, Aroha. You're the reward.”

Her breath caught.

He dropped the cigarette. Crushed it with his heel.

And walked away.

Leaving her in the cold night air—

with his words burning hotter than the smoke he left behind.

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The Morning Claim

Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the Rylend mansion, spilling golden warmth over polished marble and silent hallways.

Aroha stepped carefully down the grand staircase, her fingers brushing the railing.

She was dressed in a pale blue outfit, soft and simple. A quiet contrast to the overwhelming place she’d been thrown into.

Zadkiel’s mother, Evelyn Rylend, greeted her at the base of the stairs with a warm, open smile.

“Oh, darling. You’re up early. I hoped you’d join me for tea before the rest of the house woke up.”

Aroha nodded shyly, heart still unsure.

Evelyn’s energy was gentle—too gentle for a house built by power and fear.

They walked through the vast mansion, Evelyn pointing toward portraits, stairways, doors Aroha hadn’t dared open.

“This wing here will be yours after the wedding. Unless, of course, Zadkiel insists you stay in his room. He’s… territorial that way.”

Aroha blushed, cheeks heating. “O-oh.”

Evelyn chuckled softly. “Don’t be nervous. He might be cold to the world, but he was always a fiercely loyal boy. When he chooses something, he never lets it go.”

Aroha smiled awkwardly, nodding—pretending she didn’t feel the gravity in those words.

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Later that morning, the dining hall buzzed softly with the presence of both families.

Long oak table. Crystal glasses. Silverware that sparkled.

Zadkiel’s father spoke to Aroha’s mother about property deals.

Her father, ever polite, listened to Evelyn praise the upcoming wedding.

Zadkiel?

Silent. Controlled.

Seated right beside her.

Aroha sat up straight, eyes focused on the plate in front of her.

She reached for her water glass with both hands—just to keep them from shaking.

And then—

she felt it.

Fingers.

Warm. Slow.

Sliding under the table, brushing just above her knee.

She froze.

The tablecloth hid everything.

The others kept talking, laughing, passing fruit and butter like nothing was wrong.

But under the table?

His hand was on her thigh.

Not forceful.

Not rushed.

Just there.

Claiming.

Her breath stilled.

She didn’t dare look at him.

But she could feel his eyes on her—like heat crawling up her neck.

He moved his thumb slightly.

A slow, wicked circle.

And then—he leaned in just enough to speak, his voice low and deadly soft.

> “Don’t make a sound, little kitten.

Or I’ll move higher.”

Her heart pounded so loud she thought everyone could hear it.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just clutched her fork a little tighter—while his hand stayed there, unbothered, controlling her silence like he’d already trained her.

The others kept laughing.

But she was drowning in him.

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