Chapter Twenty-five: The Intruder (I)

James Azal, thirty-three years old, single, born and raised in Rome, moved to Bucharest a few years ago. Was once involved with the Thorn's and the Aphelion.

Of course, he was.

His file was clean. Too clean, for someone's whose mere presence filled his queen with dread.

King leaned into his chair, his eyes closed, his mind spiraling. The Thorns, Aphelions, Vladimir and now this new guy, James. All of them tied to her, all of hiding things. Dangerous things.

His mind reeled back to the night of the ball, Myra's limp form in Vladimir's arms. Bruised and battered. He had felt so useless. Hiding there, watching, not being able to protect her.

He hated this. He hated how everytime he tried to unravel her mystery it just got messier, more complicated. Like some sort of forbidden puzzle.

But he wasn't going to give up. No, never. He was determined to uncover the mystery that was Myra Rose Thorn.

He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Nathan's name.

Nathan had pushed him today. For the first time ever. The moment replayed in his head, his best friend looking at him like he was some sort of meddling stranger. Nathan's usual calm eyes burned with annoyance and a threat.

King tossed his phone away.

Lately it was like they were always walking on eggshells around him. Lying to him, pretending everything was normal.

He took James' file again. Still clean. Still fake as hell.

A loud frustrated groan escaped him. He needed to talk to Myra, he wanted to demand answers, he wanted to know her secrets. He wanted to wrap himself around her chaos and be there for her.

He had thought she was slowly breaking down her walls, that he was letting him in. But...

He walked to the room Myra had been staying in when she was sleeping over, her scent curling up in the air like a ghost. The scent of roses filling his nostrils, slightly overwhelming his senses.

He dropped on her bed, clutching her blanket and pressing it against his face. It hit him like a drug, calming yet addictive. Messing with his mind and body.

His Myra. His girl. His addiction. His obsession.

He wrapped the blanket around himself, pretending the warmth it gave was hers,pretending she was just in his reach.

...

The ride back home was quiet, the others didn't bother her with questions yet.

She could feel the anxiety radiating of them. After all at the moment she was the only one who knew their fate.

The moment they go to the estate she rushed upstairs, not bothering to look back.

At the moment she needed time to think.

Myra shut the door behind her, locking it with a soft click. She didn’t turn the lights on. The moonlight slipping through the window was enough—cool and silver, it painted the room in soft shadows.

She dropped her bag, peeled off her uniform blazer, and let herself fall onto the bed. Face down. Breathing into the pillow like it could suffocate the chaos in her chest.

James was here. James.

Three months. Three whole months she’d managed to carve out a sliver of freedom, and just like that, it was over. The storm had found her. Again.

She rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

Her cheeks still burned from where he’d touched her. Not out of affection. Out of control. Out of cold duty.

“I’m sorry, Myra. This is for your own good.”

Bullshit.

Everything they ever did was “for her own good.” Locking her away. Shielding her from truth. Stripping her choices, one by one, until all that was left was what they wanted.

A ruthless heir. A weapon. An obedient child.

Her throat tightened.

They were happy here, Ezra’s laugh echoed faintly in her memory—loud, free, unbothered.

He’d been so happy here. He had friends, here he wasn't under constant surveillance. Here no one dared to ever compare him to her. They were equal. Siblings.

And King…

Her heart squeezed.

He was fire in a world already burning. But somehow, his chaos made her feel less alone. More human. Even when he drove her mad. His quirks and arrogance somehow brought her a sort of warm feeling in her chest. Though it killed her to accept it, she would miss him.

She turned her head, burying her face into the crook of her arm. Curling up and taking a fetal position.

She wanted to run. But they would still find her. They would hunt her down.

The emotions made her chest fellp heavy. She felt suffocated. She could feel it. She was losing control.

“Breathe Myra. Breathe” she told herself. Control was key. She could never lose control.

Not now.

Not ever.

But it was so hard to be in control when they're voices kept getting louder.

'It's for your own good'

More chaotic.

'You need to be protected'

'We're coming with you'

Suffocating.

Her breath hitched. Her chest constricted. Panic bloomed in her lungs like poison.

She dragged herself across the room, the marble floor cool against her skin. Her palms scraped against it as she crawled, eyes unfocused.

The balcony door groaned as she pushed it open.

Cold air punched her in the face. April wind—sharp and biting. The scent of freshly watered earth and flowers rushed in, grounding her.

She collapsed onto the marble floor outside, the cold seeping into her bones. It felt... steady. Like the ground was still here, even if she wasn’t.

She closed her eyes.

Finally—finally—she could breathe.

She lay there, body pressed to stone, heartbeat slowing.

She needed a plan. Something. Anything to keep her from being dragged back to the Thorn Mansion. To her father. To the cage.

Her nails tapped a steady rhythm against the marble—tick, tick, tick—as thoughts spun wildly behind her closed eyes.

Then—

A sound.

A rustle in the bushes below.

Her breath stilled. Her head turned.

A figure, dressed in black, moved across the garden. Slow. Careful.

Strange.

She squinted.

The way he walked—deliberate, quiet. Like he already knew the layout of the grounds. Like he belonged.

But he didn’t.

He was heading toward the annex. Something was wrapped in his arms. Tight. As if it were precious, like it was his life line.

Myra’s body moved before her mind could catch up. She jumped over the balcony railing, landing silently in a crouch, the cold grass brushing against her hands.

He turned at the sound. She hid behind the bushes, her reflexes faster than her own will.

She could’ve taken him down. Tackled him. End

ed it quick.

But something about the way he held that object...

It was suspicious. Too suspicious.

She stayed low.

And like the curious, reckless cat she was, she followed him.