Lilith Blackthorn never believed in fairy tales. Not the soft ones with sugar-spun princesses and shining knights. Her world was built on blood and rust, old superstitions whispered by the dying, and the kind of dark that didn't vanish with sunrise.
The villagers feared the forest that circled their tiny hamlet like a patient beast. They spoke of it with trembling lips—of voices in the trees, lights that danced where they shouldn't, beasts with eyes like coals. And above all, they spoke of him. The Dark One. The Sorcerer in Black. The monster who stole hearts, lives, and worse.
Lilith called it nonsense.
Because believing meant surrendering power.
And power was the only thing that kept her alive.
She lived alone on the edge of the village, in a crumbling stone house claimed by vines. Her parents had vanished when she was twelve—some said they fled debts, others claimed the forest swallowed them. Either way, Lilith learned young that no one would save her. So she saved herself.
Each morning, she braved the mist-wrapped woods to gather herbs. She traded with the village apothecary, earning just enough silver to buy bread and lamp oil. The villagers gave her wary glances, muttering that she was too bold, too reckless for her own good. A girl with tangled midnight hair, storm-gray eyes, and a stare that challenged the world.
But tonight, everything changed.
---
She'd gone deeper into the forest than usual. Her basket was half full of wolfsbane and blackthorn berries, hands scratched red. Twilight was folding itself over the world, and the usual night-chill crawled across her skin.
She should have turned back.
Instead, something lured her onward—a faint glow pulsing between the ancient oaks. Curious, defiant, Lilith pushed toward it. Her boots sank into moss. Twigs cracked beneath her feet, sharp as breaking bones. The air grew colder. Too cold.
Then she saw him.
A man stood alone in a clearing bathed in ghostly light. Tall, cloaked in black that seemed spun from shadows themselves. Even the night bent around him. His face was half-hidden by inky hair, but what she could see was impossibly, cruelly beautiful. Pale skin. Dark, cruel mouth. Eyes that glowed an eerie crimson, watching her like a wolf watching its next meal.
A sharp thrill—part fear, part something dangerously close to wonder—coiled through her.
He tilted his head, studying her with amused disdain. "How intriguing," he murmured, voice like velvet wrapping a dagger. "A little mortal who dares walk into my circle."
Her breath snagged.
My circle?
She glanced down and her heart lurched. Strange symbols burned faintly on the ground around her, forming a perfect ring. She hadn't noticed crossing into it.
Lilith lifted her chin. "I didn't mean to trespass. I'll go."
He laughed softly—dark music. "Ah, but you already have. And I find myself… unwilling to let you leave just yet."
With a lazy gesture, the symbols flared to life, lines of scarlet fire linking one to another until the circle shone like spilled blood. The forest seemed to vanish. It was just them now, suspended in a cocoon of otherworldly power.
Panic clawed at her throat. She lunged for the edge—but slammed into an invisible wall that sparked with magic. Pain blossomed across her palms.
"Don't," he purred, stepping closer. "I detest desperation. Though I do find your defiance… delicious."
---
Lilith whirled to face him, baring her teeth. "What do you want?"
His gaze roved over her, slow and hungry. "What indeed? I was merely weaving a small spell when you stumbled into it. Fate has a cruel sense of humor. Or perhaps… generous."
She shivered as he circled her, like a predator savoring the scent of prey. The air around him seemed to hum, thick with power that teased across her skin like ghostly fingers.
"You stink of mortality," he breathed, leaning close. "Of warm blood, fragile bones. Of dreams you dare not even whisper. Tell me, little thorn—what is it you fear most?"
Her jaw clenched. "Nothing."
Another dark laugh. "Liar."
His hand lifted, cool knuckles brushing her cheek. Lightning sizzled through her veins, scorching and addictive. She jerked away, only for his fingers to tangle in her hair, forcing her to look up at him.
"You have a spine, I'll give you that." His smile was edged with cruelty. "Most humans would be on their knees by now, weeping or begging."
"I'm not most humans."
"No. You are not."
---
Without warning, he pressed his palm to her chest. Magic surged through her—a dizzying tide that stole her breath. Symbols bloomed across her skin in flickering ink, coiling up her neck and curling around her throat like a lover's hand.
Lilith gasped, clutching at the marks. "What… what did you do to me?"
"Bound you," he said simply, eyes aglow with dark delight. "To me. To this place. To my will. You stepped into my circle, little thorn, and now the thorns cut both ways."
Rage flared. She swung at him—only to find her fist frozen inches from his smirking face. Her body refused to obey.
His mouth brushed her ear, whisper soft. "Your fight is exquisite. But understand this: you are mine now. Try to run, and I will find you. Try to resist, and I will break you. Or perhaps… you will come to crave the breaking."
Her heart thundered, equal parts terror and a twisted ache she refused to name.
---
Then it was gone.
The symbols on the ground dimmed. The oppressive magic lifted. Lilith staggered back, sucking in gulps of cold air. When she looked up, he was gone—vanished like mist under sun.
But the marks remained on her skin, faint dark tendrils that burned cold.
She stumbled from the clearing, half-running until she crashed through the treeline and saw the lights of her village. Only then did she sink to her knees, hugging herself.
Mine.
The echo of his voice rippled through her bones.
---
That night, sleep was a fragile stranger. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt phantom hands tracing the marks on her throat. Heat coiled low in her belly, unwelcome and maddening.
When dawn came, she stood before her cracked mirror and peeled away her nightshirt. The marks twined down her collarbone, across her ribs—faint but unmistakable.
Her fingers trembled. "No," she whispered. "I won't let you own me."
---
When Lilith finally crawled into bed, the lamp flickering low on her nightstand, she tried to convince herself it was a nightmare. That the man with crimson eyes was nothing more than a story her grandmother might've whispered by candlelight.
But the faint burning under her skin told another tale.
The marks seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat, delicate lines coiling tighter each time she tried to forget.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
This isn't real. You're imagining it. You're tired, half-mad from fear…
A low voice curled through the dark.
> "Mine…"
Lilith bolted upright, heart lurching. The room was empty. The wooden beams of her ceiling were just as rough and splintered as always. The moth-eaten curtains still swayed with the night breeze.
But her breath misted, as if winter had crept into her veins.
---
She didn't sleep at all.
By dawn, she was pacing. Her reflection watched her from the old warped mirror, eyes wide and shadowed. She pressed a trembling hand to her throat.
> "I won't let you win," she whispered.
The mirror didn't mock her. But deep in her chest, something did. A dark, wicked curl of anticipation.
---
Days passed.
She tried to live as she always had. Trudged to the village, traded bundles of herbs, ignored the wary stares of neighbors who muttered "witch-blood" under their breath. She tried not to flinch at every shadow, every flicker of dark at the edge of her sight.
At night, though—he came.
Not in flesh, but in dreams so vivid they stole her breath. Dreams of hands tangling in her hair, of cruel lips against her throat. Of laughter, soft and intimate, spoken right into her bones.
> "Why do you tremble, little thorn? I've only begun to unravel you."
She woke each morning gasping, thighs slick with shame, the marks on her skin aching as if he'd branded her again in the night.
---
One evening, Lilith stood by the well at the center of the village, filling her jug. She kept her gaze low, hoping to avoid gossiping tongues. The village priest, Father Deren, was speaking to a small cluster of townsfolk, warning them—yet again—of the forest's evil.
> "The darkness beyond our fields is not to be trusted," he intoned, eyes flinty. "It whispers to the weak. It steals souls."
Lilith's hands tightened on the jug.
It already stole mine, didn't it?
Suddenly she felt it—a breath of cold against her neck. Her knees nearly gave out. She spun around—
Empty air.
> "Paranoid, little thorn?"
His voice slithered across her thoughts.
She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Get out of my head.
> "I rather like it here."
---
That night, she found herself standing in front of her mirror again, candlelight trembling.
> "Why me?" she breathed into the quiet. "Why did you choose me?"
The shadows behind her thickened, coiling like smoke. Then he was there—leaning against her dresser as if he owned her tiny world. His smile was sharp and patient.
> "Because you called to me."
Lilith's heart stuttered. "I never—"
> "Oh, but you did. With every daring step into my woods. With every arrogant little breath that said you feared nothing—not even me."
He moved closer. The room seemed to shrink until there was only him, darkness curling at his boots, eyes aglow like coals.
> "You shone, Lilith. Among all these dull, cowering mortals, you burned bright. I had to see how brightly… and how easily you'd break."
His hand lifted. Before she could flee, cold fingers slid along her throat, tracing the marks he'd left. Fire licked through her, shameful and hungry.
> "You belong to me now," he whispered. "Body. Heart. Dreams. Even your fears are mine."
---
Her throat worked. "I will never love you."
The sorcerer only smiled wider, cruel and almost tender. "Who said anything about love? I much prefer devotion born of despair. Love is fragile. Devotion forged by darkness—that lasts."
He leaned down. His lips brushed her ear.
> "But who knows, little thorn? Perhaps you'll beg for love before I'm through."
---
Then he was gone.
Lilith stumbled back against the wall, hand pressed to her chest. Her heart thundered in her ribs, not from terror alone—something else lurked there, shameful and ragged.
She hated him.
She hated how her body ached for him.
How even now her skin felt cold without his touch.
---
Later, alone in bed, she stared at the ceiling beams and whispered into the dark:
> "What are you doing to me…"
No answer came. But in the pit of her stomach, she feared the truth:
He was not merely caging her. He was changing her.
But deep inside, something darker stirred. A part of her that wondered if being owned by him would be a cage… or a wicked kind of freedom.