Chapter 10

Eiran's fingers trace the delicate pearls dangling from my ear, the gentle motion sending ripples of sensation through me. He brushes my hair back, tucking it behind my ear, his touch lingering on the curve of my neck. His eyes never leave mine, the intensity in them pulling me closer, as if I'm being drawn into his orbit. I can't help the sharp intake of breath that escapes me, my chest tightening with a mix of fear and longing. I feel utterly helpless, adrift in this storm of emotions that threatens to drown me.

In this moment, I know with heartbreaking certainty that the dreams I've clung to—the perfect man, the perfect life—are nothing but fragile illusions. No man would ever want me now, not after this. But there's a part of me, a quiet, rebellious part, that doesn't care. A part that wants to cast off the suffocating expectations that have bound me for so long. I don't want to be the prim and proper lady society demands I be. I don't want to pretend to love the piano when it leaves me cold. I want to fight, to protect, to live. But right now, more than anything, I just want to feel. I want to let go, to stop thinking, to stop fighting.

And I'm following him.

His eyes drop to my lips, and I lean towards him, the need to close the distance between us overwhelming. My hand presses against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palm, while my other hand rests on his shoulder, grounding me. I want to kiss him. I want it so badly it hurts, an ache deep in my chest that I can't ignore.

"What do you want?" His voice is low, husky, the words barely more than a breath against my skin. The teasing edge in his tone only fuels the fire burning inside me, and I'm done playing his games.

"I don't know." The words slip out, breathless and weak, but they're the most honest words I've ever spoken. I'm finally breathing, but it feels like I'm suffocating at the same time, each syllable a struggle.

"Are you sure?." His dimples appear as he smirks, the sight enough to make my heart stutter in my chest. He's playing with me, pushing me to the edge, and I'm losing my mind.

"Mhm," I breathe, my voice faltering, just like my resolve. My heart feels like it's splintering, each beat sending a sharp pain through my chest. What is he doing to me?

"My name. Say it."

"Your Grace." The words tumble out automatically, a reflex, but they're not what he wants. His smirk fades slightly, and his eyes darken.

"No, not my title."

"Eiran…" His name escapes my lips like a secret, something I'm afraid to speak but desperate to say. His name feels foreign on my tongue, but also intoxicating, like a forbidden fruit.

His hand slips behind my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls me closer, his breath mingling with mine. His other hand trails up my thigh, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. My breath hitches as his lips brush against my cheek, so close, so agonisingly close. He's about to kiss me, and I can barely think, barely breathe. But before our lips can meet, the door swings open, and the moment shatters.

The sound of the door slamming against the wall pulls me back to reality, the curtains fluttering wildly in the sudden rush of air. Eiran's gaze shifts past my shoulder, his brows drawing together in frustration as he clears his throat. I want to stay in that suspended moment, to keep staring at him, to memorise every detail of his face—the perfect symmetry, the flawlessness of his features, the softness of his porcelain skin, the hidden mole beneath his lip, the deep olive of his almond shaped eyes. I want to stay in his arms, to hold onto this feeling forever. But reality crashes back in, cruel and unrelenting.

"You have a message, Your Grace." The voice is hesitant, unsure, as if the speaker knows he's intruding on something sacred.

"Speak." Eiran's voice is sharp, irritated, but he doesn't move, his body still holding mine close.

"Are you sure you want to hear it here, Your Grace?" The man's voice wavers, and I can feel the tension in the room thicken, the air almost crackling with it.

"Just say it, Rhys." Eiran's tone leaves no room for argument, and I can feel his body tense beneath me.

"Yes, Your Grace, about the Lavi—" Rhys's voice falters, and Eiran cuts him off sharply.

"That is enough, Rhys." Eiran's voice is a command, and I can feel the shift in him, the way his body stiffens, the way his grip on me tightens ever so slightly.

The Lavi… Lavigne? My family? My heart skips a beat, dread curling in my stomach. What about my family? What does he know? Why won't he let him finish?

"What about my family?" My voice trembles, the question slipping out before I can stop it. Panic claws at me, cold and insistent. What have I done? I let my emotions get the better of me, let myself get swept away by this man, this man who once held a sword to my throat, who tried to kill a mother wolf. This man who is engaged. Oh God. He's engaged, and I'm sitting on his lap, and we almost kissed. He's seen too much of me. I need to get off. I need to leave. There's a clock above the door, and it's almost midnight. I have to go.

I climb off his lap, the loss of his warmth immediate and jarring. But I can't allow myself to feel it, to miss it. No. I can't feel like this anymore. I have to stop. I have to think. I turn to face Rhys, trying to gather myself, to regain some semblance of control. Rhys is flustered, his eyes darting everywhere but at me. He brushes a hand through his hair, looking as if he regrets every decision that led him to this moment. He finally looks at the floor, blinking hard, as if trying to erase the image of what he just walked in on. I can't help but feel a rush of anger. If it weren't for him… never mind. I can't afford to dwell on that. He took advantage of my vulnerable state, using me for information. He knows something, and he needed me to get it.

"I do not understand?" My voice is tight, strained, as I try to hold onto the last threads of my composure.

"Do you not understand the capital's language?" Eiran's voice is cold, mocking, and it cuts through me like a blade.

"Should I say it in another? I asked what about my family. Tell me now unless you have a death wish." I'm losing control, the panic and anger bubbling up inside me until I can't contain it anymore. I snap, my voice rising, my chest burning with a fury I can't suppress. I'm going to burn this place down, and I'm going to make sure he feels every bit of pain he's inflicted on me.

"Alora—" Eiran starts, his voice softening, but I cut him off, the pain in my heart twisting into something cold and sharp.

"I do not remember giving you permission to use my name," I hiss, my voice dripping with venom. "Let me remind you, you are engaged. Do not ruin that." The words taste bitter on my tongue, but they're the only defence I have left.

"… My apologies, Lady Lavigne." His jaw clenches, and I can see the anger simmering just beneath the surface, the veins in his neck pulsing. His eyes are no longer warm, no longer the comforting pools I lost myself in. They're stormy now, filled with dark clouds and lightning. He looks down at me, his face rigid, his glare icy cold. This is the man I was warned about, the man who has taken countless lives in war. He is not someone I should be facing like this.

He edges closer, his mocking smirk in place, and I can see the cruel amusement in his eyes. He licks his lips, a slow, deliberate motion, as if savouring my discomfort. His hand moves to my waist, the touch almost possessive, and my breath catches in my throat. His fingers are warm, too warm, and it's all I can do not to melt into him, not to let the heat of his touch burn away my resolve. But I can't. I jerk away, my heart racing, leaving his hand suspended in mid-air where my waist was.

He's taunting me, playing his cruel game, and I'm caught in it, a prisoner to his gaze. His smoky voice resonates around my head, his breath sending me into a dizzying haze.

"I know you want me, My Lady." His words are a whisper, a promise, and they make my blood run hot. He's not a wolf. He's a fox—sly, cunning, and oh so dangerous. He's seducing me with a single look, a single word. But I'm still a bunny, hopping naively in the snow, unaware that I'm about to be devoured.

To kill or be killed.

But it's too late. I'm already dead.