Marked by Nyx

Chapter 1

“Lala?”

The sound of Emma’s voice doesn’t belong to the quiet of my room, and for a second I think I imagined it, still half caught between sleep and something heavier. But then the window creaks open, slow and careful, and cold night air slips inside before she does.

I push myself up, my heart already beating faster as I watch her climb through the small opening that leads out onto the garage roof. She moves like she’s done this a hundred times before, like sneaking into my room in the middle of the night is the most natural thing in the world.

I shake my head, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping me. “What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping my voice low, like the walls might be listening.

Emma doesn’t answer right away. She just looks at me—really looks at me—with that expression she gets when she’s already decided something for both of us.

“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” she says finally, stepping fully into the room and closing the window behind her. “What are you doing?”

I frown, confused, still trying to catch up. “Sleeping?”

She huffs a quiet laugh and rolls her eyes. “Not tonight. We’re going out.” There’s excitement in her voice now, sharp and alive. “You remember that party Zuzi told us about? The beach one? We’re going.”

My stomach tightens instantly, like my body understands before my mind does.

“What? No, I—” The words tangle together, thin and uncertain.

But Emma is already reaching into her bag, pulling out a bottle of wine like it’s proof that this is happening whether I agree or not. She grabs a glass from my desk, pours without asking, and presses it into my hand.

The smell hits me first—sharp, unfamiliar.

“Emma, I… I’m not really the type for parties,” I say, my fingers tightening slightly around the glass. “Or alcohol.”

She sighs, but it’s soft, almost fond. “I know,” she says, stepping closer. “You’re too good, Lala. Too careful. Too… everything.” Her eyes soften, and for a second there’s something almost pleading in them. “But please. We never do anything.”

That lands deeper than I expect.

We don’t.

We’re sixteen, and while everyone else seems to be living something loud and messy and real, I feel like I’ve been standing still, watching from the outside, always choosing the safe thing, the quiet thing.

My gaze drops to my hands, to the way my fingers tremble just slightly around the glass.

I don’t want to be the girl who always says no.

I let out a slow breath. “Okay.”

The word feels small, but it changes everything.

Emma lights up instantly, like I’ve just given her exactly what she wanted. She lets out a quiet squeal and throws her arms around me, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before pulling away again.

“I knew it,” she grins.

Before I can rethink it, she’s already moving, already pulling open my closet and digging through it with purpose. Clothes fall around her in a messy pile as she searches, rejecting everything with dramatic disappointment.

“You own nothing,” she declares.

“I own normal clothes,” I mumble, still sitting on the bed, still unsure how I got pulled into this so quickly.

Then she stops.

“Wait.”

She pulls something out slowly, and my stomach drops the second I recognize it.

The red dress.

“That’s from when I was ten,” I say quickly, sitting up straighter. “Emma—”

But she’s already holding it up against me, already thinking, already changing it in her head.

“This is perfect.”

“It’s not—”

She doesn’t listen.

I watch, half frozen, as she grabs scissors like she’s about to commit a crime. Fabric falls in soft, quiet pieces to the floor as she cuts, adjusts, reshapes. It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t look like anything but ruined.

But somehow, when she’s done… it isn’t.

It’s something else entirely.

“Try it on.”

I hesitate for a second too long.

“Lala.”

There’s no getting out of it now.

I change slowly, my movements careful, almost reluctant, like if I take too long the moment might pass and I can go back to how things were.

But it doesn’t.

When I pull the dress on, it fits in a way that makes my chest tighten. The fabric clings where it never used to, pressing against my body like it’s revealing something I’ve been hiding without even realizing it. The neckline sits lower than I’m used to, my chest suddenly too visible, and the slit on the side shows more of my legs than I’ve ever shown anyone before.

I feel exposed.

Wrong.

Different.

I step out, arms instinctively pulling in, trying to cover myself without knowing how.

Emma’s face lights up.

“Oh my— Lala.”

I shake my head immediately. “No. No, I can’t—” My voice catches slightly. “I look…”

I don’t finish the sentence, but the word burns in my throat anyway.

Too much.

She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You look hot.”

“I look like I’m trying to be someone I’m not,” I say quietly, my eyes flicking toward the mirror but not fully committing to looking.

Emma steps closer, her expression shifting, softer now but still firm. “No,” she says. “You look like yourself. Just… not hidden.”

That makes something twist inside me.

Before I can argue again, she gently turns me toward the mirror.

And then I have to look.

For a second, I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me.

Her body looks… older. Sharper. Like it belongs in a world I’ve never stepped into. The dress hugs every line, every curve, and I can’t tell if I want to hide or keep staring.

“Let me fix your hair,” Emma says quietly behind me.

This time, I don’t say no.

Her hands move through my hair, curling it, lifting it, letting it fall in soft waves that frame my face differently than I’m used to. When she does my makeup, it’s subtle, but it changes everything. My eyes look deeper, greener, the gold in them catching the light in a way that feels almost too noticeable.

Too seen.

“There,” she says finally.

I swallow, my chest rising and falling slower now, heavier.

“Emma, I don’t know if I can go out like this.”

“You can,” she says immediately. “You look like a Victoria’s Secret angel.”

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers brushing over the fabric at my hips, still unsure where to place myself in this version of me.

The nerves don’t go away.

So she hands me the wine again.

“Drink,” she murmurs.

This time, I do.

It burns less.

Or maybe I just don’t fight it as much.