Chapter 35: Fractured Lines

Seraphina could still feel the ghost of Adrian's touch long after he had turned away.

The room was silent save for the crackling fire, but the tension between them pulsed like a living thing. He had not left. Instead, he stood at the side of the bed, unbuttoning his cuffs with slow, deliberate movements.

He wasn't looking at her.

That should have brought relief. It didn't.

She turned away, trying to steady her breath. This is madness.

But her body betrayed her, heat curling at the base of her spine, frustration coiling tight in her chest. This was not supposed to happen. This thing between them—it was supposed to be control, a power struggle, a marriage of vengeance and necessity.

Not this.

Not this unbearable awareness.

She heard the rustle of fabric, the shift of weight as he settled on the bed. Then, his voice—calm, unreadable.

"You should sleep."

Seraphina let out a humorless breath. Sleep?

How could she possibly sleep when the memory of his fingers on her skin still burned like a brand?

Instead of answering, she walked to the other side of the room, toward the duchess's vanity. She stared at herself in the mirror, taking in the faint flush on her cheeks, the wildness in her eyes.

She had to put space between them.

Her fingers clenched at the polished wood. "I will move to the Duchess's chambers tomorrow."

The words rang between them like a challenge.

For the first time since turning away, Adrian's gaze flicked to her in the reflection of the mirror. His expression remained unreadable, but something dark flickered in his eyes.

"You think that's wise?"

She lifted her chin. "I think it's necessary."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Running away, Seraphina?"

Her stomach clenched at the way he said her name, smooth as silk but edged with something sharper. She turned to face him fully, folding her arms across her chest. "I'm ensuring distance."

Adrian leaned back against the pillows, one arm draped over the headboard. He looked perfectly at ease, but she wasn't fooled. "You think distance will change anything?"

"It will help."

His lips curved, slow and knowing. "No, it won't."

Her fingers twitched. "It will remind us both of what this marriage truly is."

Adrian studied her for a long moment, then tilted his head slightly. "And what is it, Seraphina?"

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "A contract."

He laughed then—low, rich, and dangerous.

"A contract," he mused. "You keep telling yourself that."

He stood, his movements unhurried, deliberate. With every step he took toward her, the space between them vanished, until he was standing so close she could feel the heat radiating from him.

His hand lifted, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. She tensed but didn't move away. Couldn't.

"If I agreed to this distance," he murmured, "would you truly be relieved?"

Her breath hitched.

He was too close. Too intoxicating. And she—she was losing this battle.

Desperation clawed at her, and she forced herself to meet his gaze with every ounce of defiance she had left. "You don't get a choice in this, Adrian."

His lips twitched, but there was no humor in it. "Don't I?"

Before she could respond, he stepped back. The loss of warmth was like a slap, but she refused to acknowledge it.

Adrian turned toward the bed once more, his voice casual. "Very well, Duchess. Move if you wish."

But as he settled beneath the covers, his next words made her stomach tighten.

"It won't change anything."

Seraphina stood frozen in place long after the room fell into silence.

And deep down, she knew—

He was right.