Chapter Seven: The Room of Ruin and Rude Entrances

Lena stared at the black vine on her bedroom floor.

It hadn't moved since she returned, but it felt alive. Like it was watching her. Judging her.

She kicked it under the bed and muttered, "I don't get paid enough for this."

Then paused.

"Wait. I don't get paid at all."

With a groan, she dragged herself to the en-suite bathroom, half expecting it to be filled with bats or cursed steam or a mirror that spoke in riddles. Instead, it was… gorgeous.

Polished obsidian floors. A clawfoot tub big enough to swim in. Fresh towels that smelled like moonlight (whatever *that* meant). Even the soaps shimmered.

"Okay, he might be an emotionally unavailable ice demon," she muttered, "but he has taste."

She stripped off her clothes and sank into the bath with a sigh. The water turned lavender-blue, warm and fizzy, laced with oils that soaked into her skin like a spell. For a few minutes, she just melted. No Night King, no whispers, no sentient vines.

Just bliss.

But the peace didn't last.

Her thoughts returned. *The garden. That... thing.* And him—always *him*. Haunting her thoughts. Dancing with her in dreams. Speaking in riddles and disappearing before giving real answers.

She dunked her head under the water and screamed.

When she emerged, hair soaked and sticking to her cheeks, she made a decision.

"I'm going to his room. And I'm getting answers."

Wrapped in a towel, she marched to the closet. Of course, the wardrobe was filled with otherworldly couture—velvets, lace, corsets she wouldn't know how to breathe in. But eventually, she found a sleek black outfit that fit like a glove.

Dark. Powerful. Villainess-worthy.

"Perfect," she said, checking herself in the mirror.

And without waiting, knocking, or thinking about consequences… she stomped through the hall toward *his* room.

She didn't even hesitate. Just flung the door open.

Big mistake.

The Night King was standing near the window, steam still clinging to his skin. A towel was slung low on his hips, hair wet and messy, and in one hand—

He held a crystal glass filled with… blood.

Real, thick, slow-moving *blood*.

Lena froze.

He looked over at her, calm as ever. Raised one brow.

"You knock like a blizzard," he said, voice cool and lazy.

"You drink blood?" she blurted.

"Occasionally." He took another sip.

She looked him up and down and immediately regretted it. "Why aren't you wearing clothes?"

"I just bathed."

"Why are *you* glowing?"

He smirked. "Why are *you* in my room?"

Lena crossed her arms and marched in anyway, trying not to blush. "Because I'm done with the mystery, the flirting, the mind games, and the teleporting."

He set the glass down and leaned against the wall like sin itself. "Oh?"

"I want to go home."

His expression didn't change. "No."

"No?"

"No."

"That's it? Just *no*?"

He stepped forward, still half-dripping and 100% unfairly attractive. "You don't belong there anymore."

"You don't get to decide that!"

"I didn't," he said. "*Fate* did."

Lena threw her hands up. "Oh my god. Can fate send a memo next time? Maybe a little death warning before I get dropped into a magical soap opera with a moody king who doesn't wear shirts?"

His lips twitched. "You think this is a soap opera?"

"Oh please, you drink blood in your towel while staring into the rain. That's *peak* drama."

"I wasn't staring at the rain."

She blinked. "Then what were you doing?"

"I was waiting for you."

That shut her up for a second.

"I…" she hesitated, then rallied, "I still want answers. Why me? Why now? And what's with the… creepy garden monster?"

He stepped closer, suddenly serious. "You'll get answers. But not yet."

"I'm not some pawn."

"No. You're the beginning of the end."

Her heart stumbled. "The end of what?"

"The curse," he said quietly. "The war. Me."

They stared at each other. Tension pulsing.

Then, very softly, he added, "You're in my room. I'm in a towel. You still want to argue?"

Lena turned bright red. "Yes! No—I mean, *yes*, I want to argue, *no*, I don't want to look at your abs while doing it!"

Too late. Her eyes betrayed her.

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

It was deep, rich, and rare.

"Get out, Lena," he said, shaking his head. "Before you get yourself into something you can't argue your way out of."

She turned on her heel, fuming. "This conversation isn't over."

As she shut the door behind her, she heard his voice again, low and amused:

"It's only just begun."