I woke to the faint rustle of pages and the soft, steady rhythm of soone breathing. My eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim morning light, and there he was—sitting at the side of my bed, his head slightly tilted as he read one of the books from my nightstand.
It had beco a quiet, unspoken ritual between us. I would read late into the night, leaving the book on my nightstand when exhaustion finally pulled under. And without fail, every morning, he would be there—reading that very book as though it were his personal task to inspect my nightly choices.
Today, his posture was relaxed but poised, one leg crossed over the other as his fingers lightly traced the edge of the page. His red eyes, glowing faintly even in the soft light, darted across the text with unnerving focus. If he noticed staring, he didn’t say anything at first, and I took the mont to stare him.
He looked like so mystical creature straight out of a dream, a vision of grace and power that didn’t belong in an ordinary, mundane world like this. The contrast was striking—the sight of him, a Lycan King, reading one of my books so calmly. It almost felt surreal.
"You can stop staring any mont from now," he said without looking up, his voice smooth and low.
Heat crept up my cheeks as I smiled despite myself. "What do you think about the book?"
He closed it with a quiet snap, his eyes finally eting mine. They bore into with an intensity that made my breath hitch, as if he could see straight through , to the thoughts I didn’t dare voice aloud.
"It’s like reading butterflies and glitters," he said, his tone flat but laced with just enough sarcasm to make laugh.
I covered my mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but the amused smile tugging at his lips told he’d noticed.
"Do you like it?" he asked suddenly, his expression shifting to sothing unreadable.
The question caught off guard, and I blinked at him, unsure of what he ant. "Like what?"
"The things in this book," he clarified, his voice steady but his gaze sharp, studying like I was the most fascinating puzzle he had ever encountered.
My mouth went dry, and I glanced away, feeling the heat of a blush creep up my neck. The book hadn’t exactly been innocent—it was filled with vivid, intimate descriptions, things I’d barely dared to imagine before reading them. And now, knowing he had read it too...
"Yes," I admitted softly, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
When I finally dared to look back at him, a small, almost imperceptible smirk curved the corner of his lips. My heart skipped a beat, and I quickly turned my gaze to the window, pretending to admire the sunlight filtering through the curtains.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him snap his fingers.
The soft, lodic sound of a piano filled the air, and I whipped my head around to see one—sleek, black, and utterly out of place—suddenly standing near the corner of my room.
"What are you doing, Your Majesty?" I asked, my voice filled with equal parts curiosity and disbelief.
He rose from his seat, the book now forgotten as he walked over to the piano. His fingers hovered just above the keys, but he didn’t press them yet. Instead, he turned to , his expression thoughtful.
"There is a piece ntioned in the book," he said, his tone casual, as if summoning a piano from nowhere was the most natural thing in the world. "If my mory serves correctly, I believe I can play it. Would you care to listen?"
The question hung in the air, heavier than it should have been.
I looked at him, my thoughts spiraling. The idea of him—his Majesty—bringing a lody from the pages I had read to life was almost too surreal to grasp.
I couldn’t find my voice. My throat felt tight, and my heart pounded in my chest.
His gaze remained fixed on , patient but unwavering, as though he was giving all the ti in the world to decide.
After what felt like an eternity, I nodded.
He ran his fingers across the piano keys, barely brushing them at first, as if reacquainting himself with the instrunt. Then, without a word or warning, he pressed down. The first notes spilled into the air, soft and haunting, like a whisper carried on the wind.
It was unearthly, watching him play. The way his fingers moved, with precision and grace, brought the piece to life as if he weren’t just playing it but breathing it into existence.
I had imagined it so many tis while reading, wondering what kind of music could evoke a powerful emotions, what kind of song could make soone fall in love with a stranger the heroine t in a passing.
Now I understood.
The music was enchanting. Each note seed to weave a spell, drawing into a world where nothing else mattered but the sound, the rhythm, the emotion. It was delicate and yet so intense, a contradiction that left breathless.
It was beautiful.
He...was beautiful.
The thought hit like a thunderbolt, and I couldn’t look away. His hair fell slightly into his face, catching the soft light streaming through the window. His hands moved with a confidence that spoke of mastery, each movent deliberate and precise.
I couldn’t help it—the tears ca unbidden, trailing silently down my cheeks.
It wasn’t just the music, though that was part of it. It was the way he played, the raw emotion behind it, as though every note carried a piece of his soul. It was overwhelming, seeing this side of him, this softer, quieter version of the man who had been both my torntor, my captor and my protector.
The piece shifted, the lody growing deeper, richer. The notes seed to pulse with an aching intensity, and my chest tightened as if the music were reaching inside , stirring emotions I didn’t even know I had.
I wiped at my tears, but they kept falling, unstoppable.
His hands stilled suddenly, the final note lingering in the air like the last breath of a dream. The silence that followed was deafening, heavy with everything that hadn’t been said.
That’s couldn’t be said.
He looked up then, his gaze eting mine. His red eyes burned with an intensity that made my heart stutter.
"You’re crying," he said softly, his voice low and almost tender.
I quickly wiped my cheeks, embarrassed. "I’m not."
His lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Lying doesn’t suit you, darling."
I looked away, focusing on the piano instead. "It was...beautiful," I admitted quietly. "I see why she fell in love with him."
He didn’t say anything for a long mont, and I dared to glance at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was sothing in his eyes, sothing that made my breath catch.
"Did you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
I frowned, confused. "Did I what?"
"Fall in love," he said simply, his gaze unwavering.
The question caught off guard, and I didn’t know how to answer. My heart was racing, and I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.
"I...don’t know," I said honestly, my voice barely audible.
His smirk widened. "Fair enough."
He the stood up, his movents slow and deliberate, and walked over to . I froze as he leaned down, his face so close to mine that I could feel his breath against my skin.
"Sabastine would fetch you breakfast," he said softly, his tone almost...gentle.
I nodded, unable to speak, and he straightened, his usual commanding presence returning.
As he walked to the door, I found my voice again. "Why did you play it?"
He paused, his hand resting on the doorfra, but he didn’t turn around. "Because I could," he said simply, as if that explained everything.
And then he was gone, leaving alone with my thoughts and the lingering echoes of the music.
I stared at the door even long after he had left, my mind swirling in a whirlwind of emotions I couldn’t quite na. The mory of his hands on the piano, the sound of the hauntingly beautiful lody, and the weight of his question lingered like the final note of the song, refusing to fade.
Have I fallen for him? The absurdity of the thought made scoff, but my heart, that little traitor was telling otherwise.
The way he called darling. The way the word rolled off his tongue, both teasing and sincere, made my chest tighten every ti.
The knock at the door pulled from my daze, and I blinked, realizing I had been sitting there, frozen, for who knew how long.
"Enter," I called, my voice softer than I intended.
The door opened, and a maid walked in carrying a tray laden with food. "I’ve brought you breakfast," she said with a polite smile, her tone neutral as always.
I nodded and forced a weak smile in return. "Thank you."
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