Slightly pissed off, Aria walked even faster, her bare feet hitting the floor with a little more force than necessary as she ignored the people trailing just behind her. Her breaths came uneven, shallow, as she tried to suppress the way her heart slammed against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
But the closer she got to Zyren’s quarters, the worse it became.
Her eyes snapped toward the guards stationed at the doorway. They didn’t question her, didn’t blink—just parted like they had been ordered in advance, their stoic silence suffocating.
Her heart thudded louder in response.
A sickening weight settled deep in her chest as she realized, aside from Rymora, she likely wouldn’t be allowed to take any of the other maids in with her. Not that it mattered. None of them even tried. They glided into the room, faces blank, arranging her belongings with the speed and precision of people eager to be gone.
Zyren was nowhere to be seen, but his presence clung to the room like smoke. Every surface whispered of him—his folded clothes draped near the hearth, the dark fabric of his coat tossed across a chair, and that scent... faint but inescapable. A deep, smoky warmth tinged with something sweet and dangerous.
Soon, her things were tucked into a wardrobe newly placed against the wall, drawers beneath it already filled with whatever she might need. There was nothing left to unpack. Nothing left to wait for.
One by one, they left.
Rymora was the last. She gave a single nod, but Aria saw it—the subtle, desperate step back. The way she clutched her injured arm, cradling it close, the pain obvious even though she made no sound.
Rymora didn’t reach for a parchment. She didn’t need to. Aria opened her mouth, voice quiet but firm.
"You can take the day off! I’ll see you tomorrow morning!"
Rymora’s expression shifted immediately. That gratitude—faint, aching—shimmered in her eyes as she turned and slipped away.
But even as she left, Rymora’s mind churned with dread. Her heart beat not with relief, but with resignation.
’The life of a servant is a terrible one!’ she thought bitterly, recalling the second letter that morning. Lord Drehk had summoned her. Again. And this time, it was a threat.
There was no rest. Not for someone like her. And worse still, she couldn’t begin to imagine how much more brutal life must be for a slave.
The door shut behind her with a soft click.
But she didn’t relax. Not for a second.
She moved slowly, warily, her gaze sweeping the room. It was massive—five times the size of her last. A grand chamber dressed in polished wood, thick velvet, and shadows that lingered in corners like watchers.
The bed was large. Too large.
Still, it was her only comfort.
’With that much space, we won’t even have to touch each other!’ she told herself, gripping onto that thought like a lifeline as she walked over and perched stiffly on the edge of the mattress.
But her heart kept racing.
Even the bed felt too exposed. She stood again, moving to a chair instead, her fingers curling around its arms as she lowered herself into it. She didn’t want to sleep here. Not in his room. Not under his
But she had no choice.
And worse, she still had no plan for Harriet. That fight loomed ahead of her like a cliff’s edge. One step wrong and she would fall straight into death.
The thought was spinning relentlessly in her mind when the door suddenly jerked open.
Her body snapped upright as her breath caught in her throat—and then she saw him.
He entered like he owned the air itself—and of course he did. This was his room. He didn’t knock. He didn’t pause. He didn’t offer the smallest trace of guilt as he closed the door behind him with a soft but final click.
His gaze landed on her immediately—piercing, unreadable, intense.
She froze in place as he walked toward her. Her instincts screamed at her to back away, to retreat. But she didn’t move. She forced herself deeper into the seat, stiffening her spine, her face drawn in confusion.
He stopped right in front of her.
But there was no relief in the halt. Only heightened dread as her eyes dropped, refusing to meet his. She didn’t want to look at him. Not now. Not ever.
Left to her, she would have never seen his face again. But this was reality. She was trapped. So she said nothing.
"You should lie down! I’m sure you’re still feeling a bit sick!" he said, his voice unexpectedly soft—almost too soft.
That gentleness twisted something sharp inside her. Anger?
She frowned, nodding stiffly.
"I will. Thank you, Your High—"
But she didn’t finish.
His lips found hers before she could get the words out. Pressed to hers without warning, without hesitation, like it was his right. Her eyes widened in shock, her entire body tensing as his red gaze bore into hers.
Instead, he spoke right against her mouth, his voice a quiet accusation.
"You wouldn’t even meet my gaze!"
The words struck her like a blow.
She had no answer. No excuse. Her breath faltered as she tried to turn her face, to move away.
But he didn’t let her.
His hands slid behind her neck, fingers locking there like manacles. He pulled her in, kissing her again—this time slower. Not deep, not forceful... just firm. Possessive. He lingered for a second longer before finally pulling away, his expression faintly pleased.
She felt it rising. That heat. Not desire—but fury.
Anger twisted hot in her chest, coiled tight, but she held it back. Her voice came out even, flat, controlled.
"I’m sick. I’ll like to lie down," she said, clinging to the excuse like it might shield her.
Because maybe it could.
Maybe, if she kept saying it—repeating it again and again—it would become her armor. A way to keep him from touching her. A way to survive in his room.
For however long she had to stay.