Chapter Seven: Unraveled in the Dark

The night was supposed to bring distance.

Lydia had told herself that after Adrian's cold, final words—Goodnight, Lydia—she would retreat, lock herself in her room, and regain control of the chaos brewing inside her.

But sleep never came.

She tossed beneath the heavy silk sheets, her mind replaying the way he had looked at her—not just with indifference, not just with cold detachment, but something else. Something deeper.

Something dangerous.

And now, she stood here—outside his study door.

She didn't know what had brought her here. Maybe it was defiance. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe, she just wanted to hear him say her name again.

The door was slightly ajar, candlelight flickering from within. Lydia hesitated only for a breath before she pushed it open.

Adrian was standing by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The fire cast deep shadows across his sharp features, making him look less like a man and more like something carved from darkness itself.

"You should be asleep." His voice was steady, unreadable.

"So should you," she countered.

A slow exhale. Adrian turned, his gaze locking onto hers. There it was again—that tension, stretching between them like a tightrope waiting to snap.

Lydia stepped forward, her silk robe whispering against the marble floor. She wasn't sure why she moved closer, only that standing still felt impossible.

"Are we going to keep pretending this isn't happening?" she asked, her voice softer than she intended.

Adrian's jaw tensed. For the first time, he looked like a man at war with himself.

"Tell me what you think is happening, Lydia." His tone was low, testing.

She swallowed, her pulse hammering.

"I think," she said slowly, closing the last bit of distance between them, "that you're not as indifferent as you pretend to be."

A sharp breath. A flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. Then, silence.

A silence so thick, so suffocating, that Lydia thought she might drown in it.

Adrian lifted a hand. He didn't touch her. Not yet. But his fingers hovered near her waist, just close enough to steal her breath.

"And if I'm not?" His voice was almost a whisper.

Lydia felt the warmth of his breath, the heat of his body so close to hers. Every part of her was screaming to step away—to break whatever spell this was before it ruined them both.

But she didn't move.

Instead, she tilted her head up, her gaze locked onto his.

"Then we're both in trouble."

And then—he broke.

His hands found her waist, pulling her against him in one fluid, deliberate motion. It wasn't a hesitant touch. It wasn't careful. It was the kind of touch that came from a man who had been holding back for too long.

Lydia barely had time to catch her breath before his lips were on hers—hot, demanding, relentless.

She gasped against his mouth, and that was all the invitation he needed. His fingers tightened around her waist, his other hand threading into her hair as he deepened the kiss, as if punishing her for every moment they had resisted this.

The fire crackled beside them, but it was

nothing compared to the inferno they had just unleashed.