The car door shut with a solid, muffled thud. For a mont, I just sat in the driver’s seat, the annoying stain of my father’s words still clinging like frost on my skin. I needed warmth. I needed her.
The car’s engine thrumd back to life, a low growl that carried away from the mausoleum I once called ho. I really do not bla Elara for not wanting co ho.
My hand hovered over the wheel for a mont before I gave in and reached for my phone. Her na glowed across the screen, and the tightness in my chest eased just from pressing it.
She answered on the second ring, as if she’d been expecting it, or perhaps, as if she’d simply known I would need her. "Adrien?" Her voice, a lody of pure warmth, flowed through the speaker, a balm to the parched landscape of my soul. It was a sound that could nd fractured things, smooth rough edges, and chase away shadows.
My eyes closed. The words tumbled out, rougher, more urgent than I intended, a stark departure from the asured calm I usually projected. "Co to my place tonight," I said. The emphasis fell heavily on ’tonight,’ a deliberate severing of the planned, the proper, the courtly. "Not tomorrow at the court. Tonight."
There was a soft pause, a gentle ripple across the line that spoke of curiosity, not annoyance. "Tonight?" The question was a delicate inquiry, a subtle probing of the unusual urgency in my tone.
"Please," I added, the word foreign on my tongue but truer than anything else I’d said all day.
She inhaled sharply, a soft intake of breath that I could almost feel, a phantom echo of her presence. I pictured her then, her lips curving into that familiar, knowing smile. "You don’t usually say ’please,’" she observed, her voice laced with a gentle amusent that both soothed and intrigued.
"I don’t usually need to," I admitted. "Except with you, mi reina."
Her laugh followed, a cascade of pure, unadulterated joy, light and effortless. My grip tightened on the steering wheel, a physical manifestation of the ache in my chest, a yearning to bypass the miles and simply hold her. "You sound like a man begging, Mr. Walton."
A corner of my mouth lifted, a ghost of a smile breaking through the day’s accumulated weariness. "Perhaps I am," I conceded. "And perhaps you enjoy that, princess."
Her smile was audible, a silken thread woven through the phone line from her lips to my ears. "Fine," she conceded, the word held a sweet hint of surrender. "I’ll co."
The weight that had been pressing down on , a physical burden of duty and expectation, lifted with a suddenness that left feeling strangely lightheaded, almost dizzy. I exhaled, a long, slow breath that carried with it a smile I hadn’t felt in hours, a genuine, unforced expression. "Good," I said, the word imbued with a relief that was palpable. "My driver’s already close to your house."
"So you planned this all along, huh?" Isabella’s voice, a silken ribbon of amusent, danced over the line. I could picture her, a slight tilt of her head, eyes sparkling with that intelligent, knowing light. It was a light I craved, especially now.
"Maybe."
Her laughter softened, a gentle lody that wrapped around like a warm embrace. "Adrien Walton, you saw yesterday."
I knew the teasing lilt in her voice, the way her fingers would be toying with the ends of her hair—an old habit when she feigned nonchalance I had noticed.
"I know," my voice dropped, becoming intimate, a hushed confession. "Is it bad that I always want to see my wife?"
There was no answer at first—only the quiet rhythm of her breath, as if she were letting the words sink deep. It was a mont suspended in ti, filled with the unspoken understanding that existed between us. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper wrapped in a smile.
"No. Not bad at all." She paused, and I waited, my breath catching in my throat. And then, with a mischievous twinkle I could practically feel, she added, "Also I am fiancée not wife, yet."
A small, genuine laugh escaped . "We are registering at the court tomorrow," I reminded her.
"I know," she replied, her voice laced with amusent. "you know what?"
"What?"
"I change my mind. I won’t co see you again"
The playful declaration hung in the air, a sweet, teasing taunt. I could hear the laugh just behind her words, the echo of her delight in my own anticipated reaction, the sheer enjoynt she took in this familiar, exhilarating chase.
A primal instinct, a sudden rush of possessiveness, surged through . The world outside the car faded further into insignificance. All that mattered was her voice, her laughter, her infuriating, captivating presence.
"Woman," I growled, the sound low and rough, a stark contrast to the gentle tones I’d used monts before. "You don’t want to kidnap you. Do you?"
A hush fell over the line, a pregnant silence that crackled with unspoken promises and veiled threats. The playful edge of Isabella’s teasing evaporated, replaced by sothing far more potent. I could almost feel her eyes widening, the playful smirk on her lips transforming into sothing... intrigued.
Then, a breathy chuckle, barely a wisp of sound, broke the tension. "Kidnap , Mr. Walton?" Her voice was lower now, a smoky murmur that sent a shiver down my spine. "You wouldn’t dare."
"Try ," I returned, the challenge a thrill, a spark igniting the desire that simred beneath the surface of our polite engagent. In that mont, all I wanted was to bridge the distance, to claim her, to finally hold my queen.
A soft sigh followed, a sound of mock surrender. "Okay, okay, you win," she capitulated, the light tone undeniable. "I’ll co."
Relief, pure and undiluted, flooded . "Good," I said, the word heartfelt. "Because I don’t think I could wait until tomorrow." The thought of enduring another day without the solace of her presence felt like an insurmountable task.
"I hear you," she said, her voice softening again, a promise of warmth and understanding. "I’ll be ready."
A flicker of concern, a trait I often fought but one that surfaced whenever she was concerned, tugged at . "Be careful on your way out," I said, though the thought of her even walking to the car without near made restless.
"Adrien..." Her tone softened again, tender and knowing. "For the last ti. I am not a baby. You don’t have to worry so much. I can handle myself."
I knew she could. She was far more capable than she let on, a strength that was as much a part of her allure as her vibrant spirit. But the need to protect her, to shield her from the shadows I inhabited, was a hunger that never truly abated.
"I know you can, love." I murmured, the words a concession, a reluctant acknowledgnt of her formidable independence. "But let worry anyway."
"Fine. Worry. But don’t co to crying when you grow white beards too young." Her teasing was a balm, a gentle reminder of the lighthearted spirit she brought into my life. "Ah—looks like my ride’s here. I’ll be there soon."
"Soon," I echoed, unwilling to end the call, unwilling to let her go even for the few minutes it would take her to walk outside.
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