Chapter 168 Creation of Art
(Apollo & Adelaide)
“…clever girl,” he said.
Heat shot through her, sudden as a struck match.
Not because of the compliment. But because of the way he said it—low, almost thoughtful, like she had surprised him in a way that tasted good.
“Using what I leave you,” he continued. “Shaping it. Making it yours.”
Her fingers twitched against the fabric. Shame and pride mingled as her words slipped out quietly: "I didn’t know what else to do."
“You made something,” he said. “A pretty solution. A temporary one. But pretty.”
Her cheeks flushed. “It’s just a knot—”
He cut her off with a slow shake of his head.
“It is a choice,” he said. “And choices reveal more than you think.”
His eyes darkened then. His hand lifted toward the knot. Not gently. Not with patience. He curled his fingers around the silk like a man ready to tear it from her body in a single vicious pull.
Adelaide gasped and stepped back, hand flying to protect the fabric.
“Apollo—please,” she blurted. “Don’t destroy it. It’s the only thing I have that’s mine.”
He froze. Not in anger. In consideration. Something old flickered behind his eyes, a memory of being stripped of everything once, long before crowns and fire.
A ripple of shadow flickered behind him, stirred by something more complicated than fury—something closer to recognition. The claim in her voice. The fragile pride. The desperate need to keep the one thing she had shaped with her own hands. It hit him somewhere old and unguarded.
Then— His hand softened. His eyes did not.
“You want to keep it?” he murmured.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then I won’t tear it.” A pause. “But understand something.”
He stepped closer, heat rolling off him in slow, possessive waves. “If it pleases you to have coverings, I will bring you an entire wardrobe. Fabrics from lost realms. Silks that remember heat. Jewels that glow against your skin. Garments fit for a queen.”
Her breath stuttered. The word queen echoed strangely in the chamber.
“But your nakedness,” he finished, voice sinking low, “comes and goes at my pleasure.”
Her knees weakened. Shame—no, anticipation—flickered bright under her ribs.
He traced a finger over the knot again. This time, gently. Almost reverently.
“Now,” he said, stepping back just enough, “take it off.”
Her pulse tripped. She instinctively clutched the fabric at her side. “Apollo—”
He lifted a hand—not touching her, simply raising it—and her protest died in her throat.
His voice softened, but in the way embers soften before they burst open into flame.
“I will not rip it,” he said. “You asked me not to. And I listened.”
A rare, dangerous gift. One she felt all the way down to her bones. Her breath shook. She hadn’t expected that.
“But,” he continued, “I want to see you without it. And I want you to give it to me. Not because you owe me. Because I asked.”
Her heart pounded so hard she felt it in her fingertips.
She loosened her grip on the silk. She didn’t move.
He arched a brow. “Do you deny me?”
Her voice cracked. “No.”
“Then,” he said, “turn around again.”
She obeyed. Slowly. Trembling.
“Untie it,” he murmured behind her.
Her fingers rose to the knot, shaking so badly she almost missed it the first time. She tugged. The silk loosened. The dress—if it could be called that—slid down in a whisper, brushing her hips, her thighs, then pooling silently at her feet.
The air hit her skin like a hand. Magic swirled around her, delicate as breath. She felt exposed, yes, but also… seen. The room seemed to hold itself still, waiting for his reaction with her.
She stood bare in the centre of the room, facing away from him, heat pulsing up her spine like a living thing. The wards hummed as though trying to lean closer.
Apollo exhaled. Not sharply. Not possessively. But like a man trying too hard not to devour something in front of him.
“Good girl,” he said.
She shivered.
“Now turn.”
When she did, he looked at her the way a king looks at war—a mix of hunger, inevitability, and violent promise.
“You have my attention now,” he said.
Her lips parted, unsure what to do with that.
“But I made you a promise,” Apollo said, stepping closer. “And I keep my promises.”
He lifted his hand. Smoke curled upward from his palm, thick and molten-dark. It slithered through the air like sentient rope, unravelling into long, shadow-silk tendrils that flickered with heat at their edges. They responded to his breath, to his heartbeat, to the hunger in him that was growing too sharp to hide.
Adelaide froze. “Apollo…” she whispered.
He stopped directly in front of her, the smoke swirling around his shoulders like a living mantle.
“Do not run,” he murmured. “Not from this.”
“I’m not—” Her voice faltered. “I just… I don’t want to be put back on the cross.”
That made him pause. His gaze softened by a hair—barely a breath—but it was enough to change the heat in the room.
“Your time on the cross is done,” he said quietly. “Unless…”
Her brows drew together. “Unless?”
His mouth curved—a dark, wicked smirk.
“Unless you ever ask me nicely,” he murmured. “Then I would gladly oblige you.”
Heat rolled through her so sharply she swayed, the ribbon at her waist tightening in sympathetic hunger. She bit her lip, mortified at how the idea—the choice—stabbed straight into her core with want. She didn’t know whether to hit him or fall to her knees and worship him like she had before.
Before she could choose, the smoke moved. Not violently. Not cruelly. But with precision.
The first ribbon coiled around her wrist, warm as heated silk. Another brushed her thigh. A third slid behind her knees, urging—not forcing—her into position.
“Apollo…” Her breath stuttered. “What are you—?”
“Art,” he said softly. “I am making art.”
Within moments, the smoke had shaped her—not painfully, not crushingly—just enough to guide her limbs. Her body lifted slightly, keeping her toes brushing against the warm stone floor. Her right leg was lifted high, bent at the knee, suspended by a ribbon of dark flame that looped beneath and behind it. Her left leg remained grounded, the ball of her foot balancing her lightly on the warm stone. Her arms were drawn gently behind her back, wrists crossed, elbows softened, bound but not strained.
She hung there—not suspended fully, but held up enough that her own trembling strength ricocheted down her leg. Her body spread open and curved in a way that displayed every line.
Another tether slid around her waist. Another curled beneath her ribs.
The ropes were warm—alive—responding to her breath, tightening when she exhaled, loosening when she inhaled.
She was trapped, and cradled, and offered, all at once.
“Apollo…” she whispered again, voice thinner now.
He stepped back to admire her. Letting her feel his gaze like a physical thing.
“You look at yourself as if you are ordinary,” he said softly. “But entire worlds have crumbled and come apart for far less than a woman of your beauty.”