chapter 2(a)

a.The prince of attraction

Chloe watched the man disappear into the darkness, his silhouette swallowed by the vast, shadowy landscape. She lingered at the door for a moment, a strange ache in her chest. She wished she'd asked him to stay, but the words had stuck in her throat. Now, the house felt emptier than ever.

She turned back inside, the warmth of the evening fading as she prepared for bed. She untied her apron, damp from the dishwater, and hung it over a chair. Her dress followed, pooling at her feet as she stood in front of the full-length bathroom mirror. The light glistened against her skin, casting a soft glow on her blonde hair and making her look almost ethereal. For a moment, she admired herself—her strength, her resilience—before slipping into a velvet nightgown and climbing into her grandfather's bed.

The bed was warm and comforting, a stark contrast to the stiff, narrow mattress in her hostel room. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and opened the window, letting the cool night air drift in. The room was soon filled with the faint rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. Exhausted, she drifted off to sleep.

But the peace didn't last.

A loud *thud* from downstairs jolted her awake. Her heart raced as she sat up, her ears straining in the darkness. The sound had been unmistakable—something heavy, something deliberate. Fear coiled in her stomach, but she forced herself to move. She grabbed her bathrobe, tying it tightly around her waist, and reached for her phone, its flashlight cutting through the blackness. Under her grandfather's bed, she found a small axe, its handle worn but sturdy. She gripped it tightly, her knuckles white.

The house creaked as she crept downstairs, each step careful and deliberate. The sound had come from the kitchen, and as she approached, she saw a shadow dart across the floor. It was quick—too quick to make out—but the scratch on her exposed thigh was real. She hissed in pain, swinging the axe blindly in the direction of the shadow. It struck the floor with a loud *thunk*, embedding itself in the wood. Her phone slipped from her hand, clattering to the ground.

Panic surged through her. She bolted for the door, her mind racing. Outside was open, safer. She could run, lose whatever was chasing her in the vast expanse of the property. But as she flung the door open, she froze.

Two glowing yellow eyes stared back at her from the porch. A coyote lunged, its claws slashing toward her face. She raised her arm instinctively, the thick fabric of her bathrobe shielding her skin. The force knocked her back, but she kicked out, her foot connecting with the animal's ribs. It yelped, stumbling away, but two more coyotes emerged from the shadows, their eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

Chloe turned and ran, her bare feet pounding against the cold ground. She was fast, but the uneven terrain betrayed her. Her foot caught on a branch, and she fell hard, her ankle twisting beneath her. Pain shot up her leg as she scrambled to her feet, but the coyotes were already closing in. They circled her, their teeth bared, their growls low and menacing.

Just as one lunged, a figure appeared out of nowhere. It was *him*—the man from earlier. He moved with inhuman speed, catching the coyote mid-air and hurling it to the ground with a sickening crunch. The other two hesitated, but only for a moment. One sprang at him, and he met it with a fist, the impact cracking its skull and sending it sprawling. The remaining coyotes took one look at him, their tails tucking between their legs, and fled into the night, their howls fading into the distance.

Chloe stared, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The man stood before her, shirtless and barefoot, his chest rising and falling with barely a hint of exertion. His body was like something out of a myth—broad shoulders, a chiseled chest, and arms that looked like they could crush stone. His skin glistened in the moonlight, every muscle defined as if carved by a sculptor. His face was sharp, his jawline strong, and his eyes—those piercing, otherworldly eyes—glowed faintly, like embers in the dark. His expression was calm but fierce, the kind of look that could command armies or silence storms.

He reached out a hand to her, his voice soft but steady. "Are you hurt?"

Chloe blinked, her mind struggling to process what had just happened. She took his hand, his grip firm but gentle, and let him pull her to her feet. Her ankle protested, but she forced herself to stand tall. "I'm fine," she said, though her voice wavered. "Thank you. Again."

He nodded, his eyes scanning her for injuries. "You shouldn't be out here alone. Let me take you back."

She wanted to argue, to prove she could handle herself, but the pain in her ankle and the lingering fear in her chest silenced her. "Okay," she said quietly.

He slipped an arm around her waist, supporting her weight as they walked back to the house. His touch was warm, his presence steadying. Chloe couldn't help but glance at him, her mind racing with questions. Who was he? What was he? And why did he keep showing up when she needed him most?

After a few more steps, Chloe's ankle began to throb with increasing pain, causing her to let out a soft moan. Without hesitation, the man swiftly lifted her, his right hand strong and sure as though she weighed nothing, and cradled her effortlessly in his arms. He held her like a child, his gaze steady and intense. For a brief moment, they locked eyes—an unspoken connection, electric and undeniable. Chloe felt her pulse quicken, drawn to him by a magnetic pull, but he broke the moment, turning his gaze away as he started walking toward her house.

"All will be well, Chloe," he said, his voice low and soothing, laced with an unexpected tenderness. "I imagine the coyotes were just after some scraps in the bin when they saw you, but I'm glad I was there. I can't even imagine what they would've done to that pretty face of yours if I hadn't arrived."

His words hung in the air for a moment, and Chloe's heart skipped a beat. She couldn't help but blush, realizing that his attention had lingered on her appearance. "You think I'm pretty?" she asked, her voice light with a nervous laugh.

"I don't think you are pretty," he replied, his voice thick with sincerity. "I know you are pretty. But for now, you need care. Let's get you home." He spoke with quiet confidence, trying to shift the conversation away from the sudden, unexpected tension between them. It was clear that they were both attracted to one another, but he wasn't sure if he was ready to confront it just yet.

Chloe fell silent, the only sound the steady rhythm of his bare feet against the ground. He moved effortlessly through the night, as if the sharp edges of leaves, twigs, and stones underfoot didn't affect him at all. Before long, they arrived at her door. He pushed it open with his foot, stepping inside, and gently placed her on the couch.

Without a word, he retrieved her grandfather's first aid kit from the wall and began tending to her ankle, his movements methodical and calm. After finishing, he glanced at the clock, which read midnight, and turned to leave.

But Chloe noticed something—there was a deep, bleeding scratch on his back, likely from the earlier skirmish with the coyotes. Without thinking, she offered to clean it. He hesitated at first, protesting, but eventually relented. Chloe limped to the bathroom, grabbed a clean towel, and dipped it into a basin of cool water. She returned, kneeling in front of him as she gently cleaned the wound. As she worked, she noticed the wound healing rapidly, its edges already closing up. By the time she finished, the scratch was almost completely gone.

He turned to leave once again, but Chloe gathered her strength and, with a quiet but firm voice, asked him to stay.

He hesitated, his usual defiance softening. "It's late, you're barefoot, and you can't go back out there with that wound," she said softly, her gaze lingering on him. "You should stay. In case the coyotes come back."

He didn't answer immediately, but when he did, there was a subtle shift in his demeanor. "On one condition," he said. "I sleep on the couch."

Chloe nodded, though she knew the cold air of the living room would make it difficult for him to rest comfortably. He would likely reconsider before long. She smiled to herself, a gentle warmth filling her chest.

With a shy movement, Chloe removed her dusty bathrobe, hanging it neatly on the hanger. The velvet nightdress she wore clung to her curves, its rich fabric highlighting the graceful lines of her body. Blonde hair framed her face as she turned and walked into her bedroom, her heart racing. She opened the drawer and looked around for something for him to cover himself with for the night.