Chapter 5 – The Lesson

The morning came without sunlight.

Seraphine woke to the sound of bells chiming softly somewhere deep in the mansion. Her room was dim, lit only by the embers in the fireplace. The black rose was still on the table beside her bed, its petals impossibly fresh. She had dreamed of it—its thorns biting into her palm, his voice in her ear, whispering mine, mine, mine.

She pushed the covers away, her chest heaving. It was just a dream. Yet her skin still burned.

The door opened.

A woman entered—tall, elegant, draped in dark silks. Her mask was white porcelain, painted with crimson roses.

“Get dressed,” she said, her tone clipped, rehearsed. “Your lesson begins.”

A gown was laid across the bed—deep crimson velvet, its neckline scandalously low, its fabric soft as a lover’s touch. Seraphine’s cheeks flamed.

“I’m not wearing this.”

The woman’s gaze hardened. “You will.”

When Seraphine refused, the woman sighed, snapped her fingers, and two masked guards entered. Their presence was enough to remind Seraphine she had no choice. With shaking hands, she put the gown on, hating how it clung to her curves, hating how it made her feel like an ornament in someone else’s garden.

The woman fastened a black choker around her neck. A rose-shaped clasp pressed against her throat, cold as iron. “This marks you,” she said. “Not yet his, but claimed. You will wear it until he removes it.”

Seraphine wanted to rip it off. But she didn’t dare.

The guards escorted her down a spiral staircase into the mansion’s heart. The air grew heavier with each step, perfumed with roses and smoke. Finally, the doors opened into another grand hall.

This one was different.

The walls were lined with mirrors. Dozens of them, gilded and towering, reflecting her from every angle. In the center stood a single velvet chair, high-backed, throne-like.

And in that chair, waiting, sat the Thorn King.

His mask gleamed like black steel forged from night itself. His gloved hands rested lazily on the chair’s arms, but his gaze was sharp, unblinking, and fixed solely on her.

“Come forward,” he commanded.

Seraphine’s legs stiffened, but the guards behind her nudged her into the room. Each step echoed, her reflection following her in endless mirrors. She hated that her body trembled, that her throat tightened as she drew closer.

When she reached the center, he rose.

Tall. Imposing. A shadow draped in thorns.

“Turn,” he said.

Her brows furrowed. “What?”

“Turn. Let me see you.”

Her heart pounded. “No.”

His silence was heavy, dangerous. Then he moved closer, circling her slowly. In the mirrors, his figure prowled around her, a predator examining his prey.

“You resist,” he said softly, his voice curling around her like smoke. “But you wear my color. You wear my mark.” His gloved finger brushed the choker at her throat. “You wear me.”

She flinched at the contact, fury rising. “I didn’t choose this.”

He leaned down, his lips dangerously close to her ear. “Choice is an illusion. What matters is what burns inside you when I look at you.”

Her breath hitched, her knees weakening. She wanted to scream that he was wrong, but her body betrayed her with its trembling, with the heat crawling up her neck.

He stepped back, studying her with cold satisfaction.

“Lesson one,” he said. “A flower may fight, but she learns that the thorns do not break. They bind. They remind.”

He reached into his coat and drew out a dagger—slim, silver, its hilt carved with roses. Her breath caught.

He lifted the blade, not to harm, but to trail the flat of it down her arm, slow, deliberate, leaving goosebumps in its path. The cold steel was intimate, terrifying.

Seraphine’s heart raced. She forced herself not to move, not to give him the satisfaction of fear.

The dagger’s tip stopped at her wrist. He pressed lightly, not enough to cut, but enough to remind her how easy it would be.

“Lesson two,” he murmured, eyes burning into hers. “Pain and beauty are lovers. One does not exist without the other.”

Her lips parted, breath shallow. She hated the way her body responded—the way her pulse leapt, the way fire coiled low in her belly.

He tilted his head, as if reading every thought. “You feel it, don’t you? The pull. The hunger. The truth you refuse to admit.”

She snapped her head away. “You’re wrong.”

His hand caught her chin, forcing her to face him. His voice dropped, dangerous and intimate.

“I am never wrong about what’s mine.”

The dagger clattered to the floor. His gloved hand slid from her chin to her throat, resting lightly against the choker. Not squeezing. Just claiming.

Her heart thundered, her breath shallow, every nerve alive under his touch.

“You’ll learn, little flower,” he whispered. “Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. You’ll beg me to keep you in this garden, and you’ll thank me for every thorn.”

He released her abruptly, stepping back into the shadows.

The guards appeared, ready to take her away, but his voice stopped them.

“Leave her. She stays here tonight.”

Seraphine’s stomach twisted. Her gaze flicked to the mirrors—dozens of reflections staring back at her. Trapped. Seen. Owned.

And though every part of her soul screamed to resist, a dangerous truth pulsed inside her with every beat of her heart:

She wasn’t sure if she hated his touch—or craved it.

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