Chapter 17: Under His Spell

The sofa was stiff, but Lyra didn't complain. She curled herself into a corner, her knees tucked close, clutching the blanket that smelled faintly of cedarwood and expensive linen. The moonlight spilled across the polished floor like a sheet of ice. Outside the wind murmured as if whispering secrets through the gaps in the mansion's towering windows.

The room was darker than usual. A low hum of wind brushed past the windowpanes as if the mansion itself had exhaled a warning sigh. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering with the candlelight that Adrian had ordered instead of the usual bright chandelier. The silence was thick—unnaturally so. Lyra's heart was uneasy, and her thoughts tangled in knots.

Then she heard it.

His voice.

Low, calm, unreadable.

"…Come here."

Her eyes snapped open.

She sat up, heart jolting. "What?"

He turned to face her. His expression didn't change. His eyes held that same glint of shadow, endless and unfathomable.

"I changed my mind," he said, his tone like still water hiding a current beneath. "Sleep on the bed."

She blinked, unsure if she heard him right. "But you just said… the sofa—"

Adrian had just told her to sleep with him.

On the same bed.

The words echoed in her mind again and again like a haunting riddle. She blinked at him, searching for meaning, for a crack in his cold mask, a sliver of reason behind the strange demand. Was this a joke? A punishment? Or… something else?

"But… the contract says no physical…" she mumbled, her voice trembling with confusion.

Adrian didn't respond immediately. He turned away, walking toward the window where moonlight poured in like liquid silver.

Then he summoned the maid.

"Prepare her a nightdress. She'll dine with me here."

Lyra's lips parted slightly in disbelief. Why this all of a sudden? Her body tensed. Something felt different. This wasn't the usual Adrian who barely acknowledged her existence, who drowned himself in mysteries and silence. Tonight, his silence wasn't distant—it was… invasive. All-consuming.

The maid returned swiftly, her steps delicate but robotic. In her hands was a nightdress—if one could even call it that. It was made of the softest, thinnest silk, sheer in most places, shimmering like glass in the candlelight. Its neckline plunged daringly low, and the fabric hugged curves like it was tailored for seduction. The hemline ended mid-thigh, whispering against the skin, barely modest.

Lyra's face burned.

Was she supposed to wear this?

As she reluctantly stepped into the bathroom and undressed, her hands trembled. The cool air kissed her skin as she slid into the transparent silk. Her heart beat faster. She looked at her reflection and barely recognized herself. The black strands of her hair spilled down her back, straight and glossy like a silk waterfall. The dress left her shoulders bare, tracing every outline of her collarbone. Her skin looked paler, softer, glowing slightly under the candlelight.

The scent of lavender from her soap clung to her like a spell—fresh, clean, addictive.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, Adrian turned to look at her.

And he did not look away.

His eyes—usually unreadable—locked onto her like ice on fire. Yet there was no visible emotion, no hunger or softness. Just silence. A gaze that stripped her down more than the dress ever could.

She took a shaky breath. "W-why are you staring at me like that?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he slowly began to unbutton his shirt.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Every movement was deliberate, slow, hypnotic. The moment he slid the fabric off his shoulders, she froze.

His torso was sculpted, flawless. Pale skin that gleamed under the candlelight, smooth and cold like marble. His abs were perfectly chiseled, a silent testament to power and restraint. And then her eyes fell on it—

The tattoo.

A fierce, black dragon snaking across his ribs and back—the same dragon she had seen in her dream.

Her breath caught.

No. That wasn't a dream. That was a memory from another realm. Or a warning.

Adrian was sinfully beautiful, like a dark god carved from forbidden myths. His presence intoxicated her, made the air feel heavier, warmer. As if gravity had shifted to pull her closer to him.

"What is going on?" she whispered. "Why are you doing this… tonight?"

He didn't reply. He slipped into a dark silk robe, loosely tied, leaving his chest still exposed. Then he walked past her and sat on the bed—his bed—and gently patted the space beside him.

"Come."

Her legs refused to move, yet her body moved anyway, drawn to him as if under a spell. She sat beside him, stiff, her fingers clenched on her lap. The silk of her nightdress brushed his skin when she shifted, and she could feel the heat between them rise.

Adrian leaned closer.

Her breath hitched.

He reached out, slowly brushing her hair back behind her ear with his long, cold fingers. She trembled. His touch wasn't rough—wasn't even intimate. It was calculated, almost ceremonial. His eyes watched her reaction without flinching.

And then…

He leaned closer to her neck.

She thought he might kiss her. Instead, he simply inhaled—deeply—as if memorizing her scent, embedding it into his mind.

She couldn't move.

Her heart thundered against her ribs like a war drum. Her thoughts blurred into static. Why wasn't he saying anything? Why wasn't he doing anything—yet everything he did felt too much?

Her body screamed to run. Yet her mind was curious.

The air turned electric, erotic, like an invisible current pulsing between them. He didn't touch her again, but his presence was a storm against her skin. His stare was a caress. His chest rose and fell beside hers, steady, calm, deadly.

She was drowning in his silence.

And for the first time…

She was starting to enjoy it.

No.

No, no, no.

She jumped.

Her body flung off the bed as she dropped to her knees, her palms on the cold floor, trembling.

"Please—Adrian—stop," she cried. "I-I can't… I'm not ready. I'm not this kind of girl. I know you're my… contract boyfriend but—this wasn't in the rules!"

Her voice cracked, her breath shaky. "You said no physical touch. You said I wouldn't have to do this! Even if… even if I was starting to feel something—this isn't right! Not like this, not tonight!"

Adrian stood slowly.

His face was still. Pale. A statue.

Then, the faintest movement at the corner of his lips.

A smirk.

But his eyes were devoid of warmth.

He stared down at her, pleading on the floor, and said absolutely nothing.

Just silence.

And that devilish smirk.

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