Don’t call me princess:

Zhera stirred against something hard and warm.

It took a full five seconds to realize that the warmth wasn't a blanket—but a person.And not just any person.Xavriel.Her eyes snapped open.

His arm was draped loosely around her shoulder, his cloak covering them both. His posture was infuriatingly relaxed, head tilted against the window, eyes closed like he didn't have a care in the world.Typical.

She shifted.His arm didn't move.She shoved at it.Still nothing.

"Are you planning to cuddle me the whole ride, or…?"

Without opening his eyes, he murmured, "You're the one who fell asleep on me, Princess."

Her jaw tensed."Stop calling me that."

Now his eyes opened—slow and deliberate, a sliver of moonlight catching in their silvery depths.

"It's what you are."

"It's what I was," she snapped.

"Was. Is. Hard to tell the difference when you behave like royalty even while unconscious."

Zhera sat up, immediately regretting it. A sharp sting bloomed across her arm. She hissed, glancing down at the torn fabric of her sleeve. Blood. Not a lot, but enough to paint a thin line down her forearm.

Xavriel's calm expression vanished.

"You're bleeding."

"It's just a scratch."

He was already reaching for her.

"I said—"

"Hold still."

His voice was soft, but it brooked no argument.He pulled a handkerchief from his coat—of course he had one, the smug undead aristocrat—and gently wrapped her arm. His fingers were cool and precise, his touch unexpectedly careful. The wound was barely worth fussing over, and yet he treated it like a battlefield injury.

Zhera frowned. "Do you always panic over paper cuts, or am I just lucky?"He didn't answer. Not directly. His jaw clenched slightly as he tied the cloth with a final tug.

"You have a talent for attracting chaos," he said instead.

She scoffed. "You think this is my fault?"

"I think," he said quietly, "that the more reckless you are, the easier it will be for someone to use you."

There was something in his voice—something cold and tight beneath the calm exterior. Not anger. Not annoyance. Fear?No.No way.Not Xavriel.He leaned back, mask slipping firmly back into place.

"You're lucky I was nearby."

"Oh, so now you're my savior?"

"I didn't say that," he replied, just as smoothly.

But his gaze lingered on her arm for one beat too long before he looked away.

Dinner was served in a room that felt colder than it looked. The chandelier glowed a warm gold, the cutlery gleamed, and the fire crackled in the hearth. Yet somehow, the air between them was frost.

Zhera sat stiffly at the long table, opposite Xavriel, who—as usual—looked like he belonged in a painting, not real life. Perfect posture, unreadable expression, eyes that caught everything.

She stabbed at the roasted pheasant on her plate, chewing slower than necessary, pretending she didn't feel him watching. She finished up and was debating on whether she should go or stay before him.

"Do you remember anything before they took you?" he asked suddenly, voice low and casual.

Her fork paused midair. "Nothing useful."

"A face? A scent?" His gaze sharpened. "A name?"

"No." She set her fork down, jaw tightening. "Why?"

He leaned back slightly, folding his hands. "Because I'd rather not have to rescue you again. It's distracting."

She rolled her eyes. "Sorry my kidnapping inconvenienced your busy schedule."

"You could try being grateful."

Zhera looked up, bristling. "I didn't ask to be rescued."

A pause. One of those long, loaded silences.

"I see," he said finally. "So I should've left you to bleed in a warehouse full of thugs?"

"I didn't mean that."

"You're welcome, by the way," he added, voice as smooth as the wine he lifted to his lips.

She gritted her teeth. "Do you always make saving people sound like a favor you regret?"

His eyes flicked up to hers, cool and unblinking. "Only when they act like it was a burden."

The silence grew taut between them.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he went on, "Do you have enemies?"

Zhera frowned. "What kind of question is that?"

"The kind you ask someone who gets abducted by strangers in broad daylight."

"No," she said firmly. "I don't have enemies."

"Not even among your kind?" he asked with too much calm. "You are a princess of a proud and territorial race, are you not?"

She bristled. "Were. I was a princess. That title's gone, remember?"

He didn't blink. "Ah yes. Disowned. How could I forget?"

She stiffened, and something flickered in his gaze—too fast to catch.

"I'll look into it," he added, as if offering a gift. "Quietly."

She stared at him. "Why?"

Xavriel sipped his wine. "Call it… a diplomatic gesture."

"I don't want your diplomacy."

He tilted his head. "Then what do you want, princess?"

She hesitated.Not pity. Not this. Not him sitting across the table like he didn't see the way the world was collapsing under her feet.

"I don't want to owe you," she said.

His eyes flicked toward hers, colder now.

"You already do."

The words hit like a slap.

She stood abruptly. "I didn't ask for this. Any of it. I don't need your protection, and I definitely don't need your pity."

Xavriel didn't move, but something in the room shifted—like the temperature dropped ten degrees.

"Lower your voice," he said softly.

"No." Her voice rose—sharper than she meant it to, raw with a heat she hadn't planned.

"I've been insulted, accused, kidnapped, and now you're throwing favors like breadcrumbs and expecting me to say thank you. I'm not your project. I'm not some stray you get to clean up for court points."

His eyes narrowed, the mask slipping just enough for something darker to show through.

And then he said it.The sentence that cut deeper than it had any right to:

"You're nothing now, princess. No royal status. No father. No name worth whispering.If I wanted something or someone to clean, it wouldn't be you."

Silence. A breath. A heartbeat. The words hung between them like ash. For a second, neither of them moved. The fire crackled behind them, oblivious.

Then Zhera laughed. Once. Bitter.

"I don't need a father," she said quietly. "And I don't need a royal status to prove my worth."

She didn't wait for a reply. She turned, walked stiffly out of the dining hall, and didn't look back.

The door slammed behind her as she entered her room.

She locked it, pressed her back to it, and let the fire behind her eyes finally burn through.

It wasn't the insult. It wasn't even the reminder of what she'd lost. It was the fact that it came from him. From Xavriel. The one person who was supposed to be above it all, who was supposed to stay cold and distant and untouchable.

Instead, he'd said it. Like it didn't matter. Like she didn't matter.

Zhera slid down to the floor, arms wrapped around her knees. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She clenched her jaw to stop them—but it didn't work.

"Why does it hurt so much when he says it?" she whispered into the dark.

Everyone else had said worse. Thought worse.

But this time…

She pressed her forehead to her knees.

"…Why him?"

Later that night:

The manor was still. Zhera stood in the guest bedroom's bathroom, splashing cold water on her face.

The events of the day pressed against her chest like a stone.

The kidnapping. The warehouse. Xavriel tearing through those thugs like death incarnate. Him rubbing it in her face at dinner and saying those bitter words she wished she could've never heard from him.

And then the way he had looked at her afterward—concern flickering beneath that unreadable mask, vanishing as quickly as it came.

She didn't know what to make of it.

Didn't want to.

She dried her face with a towel, staring at her reflection. Still a mess. Hair slightly frizzed. Eyes shadowed. And her arm—bandaged with surprising tenderness.

She sighed and turned to leave.

The door creaked open at the exact moment she stepped out, and she shrieked.

Xavriel stood in the doorway, unruffled, one brow slightly lifted.

"Oh my God!" she snapped, pressing a hand to her chest. "What are you doing?!"

He turned his head politely, but not before she saw the faintest flicker of amusement on his face.

"You didn't answer when I knocked. I assumed you'd passed out or drowned. Apparently, you were just…splashing."

She gawked at him, still half wrapped in her towel. "Get out!"

"I'm turned around," he said dryly, facing the wall. "Does that suffice for modesty?"

"You already saw everything, didn't you?"

His smirk was audible. "Wouldn't be the first time someone screamed in my presence."

"You are insufferable."

"Someone once called me that. She was wrong." He glanced over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. "I'm much worse."

Zhera huffed, stomping past him into the room. He followed at a slow, measured pace, like a shadow with a smug attitude.

"I came to check on your arm," he said, motioning to her bandaged wound.

"It's fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"You're lying."

She crossed her arms. "Why do you care, anyway?"

Xavriel tilted his head, gaze unreadable. "Because it would be inconvenient if you died before I figure out what you're really after."

Her nostrils flared. "I told you. I have no ulterior motives."

"Everyone has motives, Princess."

She hesitated. Then: "Stop calling me that."

His eyes flicked to hers.

"What should I call you, then?"

"Zhera," she said stubbornly.

He stared at her for a long moment. "Then call me Xavriel."

Silence. The air seemed to shift. Something heavy settled between them. He took a step closer. Then another. She didn't move.

"You're stubborn," he murmured, voice low. "You throw claws, but you flinch at shadows."

"I don't flinch," she said.

Another step.

He was standing in front of her now, so close she could feel the cold elegance of his presence. He raised a hand—slowly, deliberately—and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.Zhera's breath hitched. He leaned in, just slightly, his lips hovering near hers. Her heart raced. Her eyes fluttered closed. And then—he pulled back.

Just a breath away. His mouth curled into an amused smirk.

"Oh, Princess," he murmured. "That was far too easy."

Her eyes snapped open, cheeks blazing. "You—!"

But he was already turning toward the door, that maddening smirk still playing on his lips.

She stood frozen, equal parts humiliated and furious.

"Goodnight, Zhera," he said without looking back. "Try not to dream of me."

The door shut behind him.

She stood there for a long time, fuming in silence. Then, after a full minute of mental screaming, she hissed, "I hate him."

Her reflection in the mirror didn't look convinced.