EIRA'S POV
What was I thinking?
The question had haunted me ever since we'd left, circling relentlessly through my mind until I could scarcely focus on anything else.
He had helped me.
He had warned me.
He had protected me.
And what had I done in return?
Doubted him. Argued with him. Challenged him at every turn, as though my stubbornness were somehow more reliable than his judgment.
Guilt settled heavily in my chest as I stared through the car window, watching the darkness dissolve into indistinct streaks of light and shadow.
"I'm sorry..." I whispered.
The words barely escaped my throat.
They sounded pathetically inadequate. No apology could undo what had happened or erase the way I'd looked at him back there.
And the most infuriating part?
He had been right.
Again.
Adrian didn't answer.
His hands remained locked around the steering wheel, his knuckles pale beneath the pressure of his grip. His jaw was clenched, his attention fixed on the road ahead.
There were a thousand cutting remarks he could have thrown at me.
Yet he said nothing.
And somehow, that was worse.
Anger would have given me something to fight against. His silence left me alone with the uncomfortable weight of my own mistakes.
Eventually, the car slowed to a stop.
I unfastened my seat belt and stepped outside.
Then promptly forgot how to breathe.
No.
This wasn't a mansion.
It wasn't even a house.
It was a palace.
Towering pillars of pristine white stone rose beneath the moonlit sky, their elaborate carvings casting intricate shadows across the entrance. Enormous glass windows glittered like scattered diamonds, while elegant balconies stretched across the upper floors like something lifted from an ancient royal kingdom.
Fountains shimmered beneath golden lights, their cascading water catching the moonlight.
The entire structure looked impossibly grand, as though someone had plucked it straight out of a fairy tale and dropped it into the real world.
My mouth fell open.
"W-Whose palace is this?"
Adrian glanced at me as though I'd just asked him the most ridiculous question imaginable.
"We're entering from the back."
That was it.
No explanation. No acknowledgment that the enormous palace in front of us might be worth more than a passing glance.
Of course.
Why had I expected anything else?
I hurried after him, still struggling to comprehend where on earth he'd brought me.
The moment we stepped inside, my jaw nearly detached itself from my face.
Oh.
My.
God.
Everything sparkled.
Crystal chandeliers hung from lofty ceilings, scattering fragments of light across immaculate marble floors. Intricately framed paintings adorned the walls, their colours so vivid and details so exquisite that I suspected each one cost more than everything I owned combined.
Polished sculptures, elaborate ornaments, and impossibly expensive furniture occupied every corner.
I turned left.
Then right.
Then left again.
There was simply too much to look at.
And naturally, that was when disaster decided to make an appearance.
My elbow brushed against an enormous antique vase.
It wobbled.
Tilted.
And began its slow, horrifying descent towards the marble floor.
My soul abandoned my body.
Oh, God.
No. No, no, no—
I squeezed my eyes shut and clapped my hands over my ears.
I was ready for the crash. Ready for the destruction of an object that probably had its own insurance policy. Ready for Adrian to throw me out and ensure I was never permitted within a hundred metres of anything breakable again.
But—
Nothing happened.
No shattering.
No deafening crash.
No funeral arrangements.
Confused, I cautiously opened one eye.
Then the other.
The vase wasn't on the floor.
It was in Adrian's hand.
He stood beside me, holding the enormous thing as effortlessly as though it weighed no more than a coffee mug.
His expression, however, suggested that saving it might have been the last good decision he intended to make that evening.
I stared at him.
Then at the vase.
Then back at him.
How?
I hadn't even seen him move.
One moment, the vase had been falling. The next, he'd caught it.
A nervous smile crept across my lips.
"Th-thank you..."
His eyes narrowed.
For one terrible second, I wondered whether he was reconsidering the wisdom of bringing me here.
Without a word, he returned the vase to its rightful place and continued walking.
I hurried after him.
Apparently, my survival instincts had finally decided to make an appearance.
Unfortunately, they were still hopelessly underqualified.
We eventually reached his room.
Surprisingly, it looked nothing like the rest of the palace.
There were no extravagant ornaments or ostentatious displays of wealth. Only dark furniture, clean lines, a large bed, a couch, and a desk arranged with almost unnerving precision.
Everything was orderly.
Restrained.
Controlled.
The entire room seemed like an extension of its owner.
Cold. Disciplined. Unapproachable.
Infuriatingly fitting.
"Don't touch anything."
His warning snapped me out of my observations.
I blinked at him.
"I wasn't planning to," I muttered.
He gave me a look that suggested he considered that statement highly questionable.
Then he disappeared into the bathroom.
I released a quiet breath.
Finally, a moment without his cutting remarks or those infuriating eyes that seemed capable of dissecting every foolish thought that crossed my mind.
Unfortunately, my peace lasted only until the bathroom door opened again.
Adrian emerged in black nightclothes, his damp hair falling carelessly across his forehead. Tiny droplets of water traced the side of his neck before disappearing beneath his collar.
For one thoroughly humiliating second, my brain ceased to function.
Completely.
My gaze lingered a fraction longer than it should have before I abruptly looked away.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
This was Adrian Blake.
The arrogant, insufferable menace who seemed to regard my existence as a personal inconvenience.
Not some—
No.
I was not finishing that thought.
"Sleep on the bed."
His voice interrupted my internal crisis.
I blinked.
"What?"
"The bed."
I stared at him.
Then at the bed.
Then back at him.
"No. It's your room."
"The bed."
"I'll take the couch."
His eyes lifted to mine.
One look.
Apparently, my survival instincts weren't equipped to negotiate with this particular species of human being.
"Okay."
I climbed into bed while he settled onto the couch.
The mattress sank beneath my weight. I pulled the blanket to my shoulders and turned onto my side, keeping my back to him.
Sleep proved considerably easier to surrender to than my thoughts.
Eventually, exhaustion swallowed me whole.
Hours later, I woke with an uncomfortable dryness in my throat.
Water.
I needed water.
I reached for the jug beside the bed, only to discover that it was empty.
Of course.
Even hydration had decided to betray me.
I glanced towards the couch.
Adrian was asleep.
Without his usual scowl, his features appeared less severe. His expression was unguarded in a way I'd never seen while he was awake.
For a moment, I caught myself studying him.
Then I stopped.
I was not about to romanticise the face of a man who had spent the better part of the evening making me question my intelligence.
I slipped out of bed and quietly made my way towards the door, determined to find the kitchen, drink some water, and return without causing another catastrophe.
An entirely reasonable plan.
What could possibly go wrong?
As it turned out, everything.
After wandering through what felt like an endless succession of corridors, I finally found the kitchen.
I drank water as though I'd just crossed a desert, then set the glass down and began retracing my steps.
Unfortunately, every corridor looked identical.
Every doorway seemed determined to lead somewhere unfamiliar.
The palace, which had appeared magnificent upon arrival, was rapidly transforming into an elaborate architectural death trap.
I was still trying to determine whether I'd passed the same painting three times when something soft brushed against my leg.
I jumped.
A startled gasp escaped me, and I stumbled sideways.
My elbow struck an ornament displayed on a nearby pedestal.
It toppled.
Then crashed against the floor with a deafening thud.
My heart lurched.
Shit.
Shit.
SHIT.
For one paralysing moment, I couldn't move.
Then a door creaked open somewhere down the corridor.
My entire body went rigid.
Footsteps.
Someone was coming.
I couldn't explain why I was wandering around the palace in the middle of the night, let alone why I was standing beside what appeared to be the latest casualty of my existence.
I was going to die.
Adrian was going to murder me.
Or worse, his family would discover me first.
Suddenly, a hand clamped over my mouth.
Another arm locked around my waist.
A strangled gasp escaped against the unfamiliar palm as I instinctively struggled.
A firm grip held me still.
"Sshh. It's me," a low voice whispered beside my ear. "Adrian."
Relief swept through me.
I stopped struggling immediately.
He didn't waste a second. Keeping me close, he guided me backwards into the shadows, away from the approaching footsteps.
Only when we reached his room did he release me long enough to shut the door.
Then he turned on me.
His eyes blazed.
"What the hell were you doing outside?" he hissed.
"I-I just went to drink water."
His jaw tightened.
"Do you have any idea how risky—"
Footsteps echoed towards the room.
He stopped mid-sentence.
His gaze snapped towards the door, his entire expression sharpening as he listened.
Then, without warning, he caught my arm, pulled me towards the bed, and pushed me down onto the mattress.
I barely had time to gasp before he climbed in beside me.
His arm swept around my waist, drawing me against him as he pulled the blanket over us both.
One second, I was staring at him in confusion.
The next, I was pressed against his chest, hidden beneath the blanket, with his arm locked around me.
My mind went completely blank.
Oh, God.
I could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. His arm held me firmly against him, leaving me painfully aware of how little space remained between us.
Then came a knock.
"Adrian? Are you alright?"
A soft, feminine voice.
His mother.
My stomach dropped.
Oh, no.
What if she came inside?
What if she lifted the blanket?
What if she found me lying in her son's bed, wrapped in his arms, in the middle of the night?
I was never going to survive the humiliation.
"Yes," Adrian answered calmly. "Why?"
His composure was infuriating.
How could he sound so perfectly normal when I was approximately three seconds away from combusting?
"I thought I heard something."
"It must have been the cat. I'm tired, Mom. Can we talk tomorrow?"
A pause.
Then, "Alright. Good night."
"Good night."
The door closed.
Silence returned.
I remained motionless beneath the blanket, acutely aware of Adrian's arm around my waist.
My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
I didn't even realise what I was doing until my grip tightened.
Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was relief at knowing I hadn't been caught.
Whatever the reason, I instinctively held on to him.
And then—
He drew me closer.
The movement was small, almost imperceptible, but it left me uncertain of what to make of it.
Was he simply trying to hide me more effectively?
Probably.
That was the sensible explanation.
Unfortunately, my mind had never been particularly interested in sensible explanations where Adrian Blake was concerned.
Slowly, I lifted my face.
He was already looking at me.
My breath caught.
His eyes held mine in the dimness, unreadable and unnervingly intent. We were close enough for me to notice the tension in his jaw and the absolute stillness of his expression.
Neither of us looked away.
For one suspended moment, the rest of the world seemed to recede.
There was no palace, no approaching footsteps, no broken ornament waiting to condemn me.
Only Adrian.
And the arm he had wrapped around me.
Why, Adrian?
Why do you protect me, yet push me away? Why do you act as though you don't care when your actions keep telling me otherwise?
I can't understand you.
The questions crowded my mind, demanding answers he would never willingly give me.
Then something shuttered behind his eyes.
He abruptly looked away, breaking the moment as though it had never existed.
I jerked backwards, my face burning.
What was wrong with me?
"I-I'll sleep on the couch," I muttered, scrambling to sit up.
"No. Sleep here. If Mom comes again, it'll cause more trouble."
His hand shot out and caught my wrist.
I stopped.
His fingers encircled it, warm and firm, holding me in place before I could retreat any farther.
He seemed to notice my gaze dropping to his hand.
His fingers loosened.
He released me almost immediately and lay down on the far side of the bed, putting distance between us with the abruptness of someone correcting a mistake.
Just like that, the moment was over.
I swallowed and turned my back to him, clutching the blanket against my chest.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For helping me."
"I'm not helping you," he replied coldly. "I just don't want Andy in trouble because of you."
The words struck harder than they should have.
Of course.
Andy.
There was always a reason. An explanation that allowed Adrian to do whatever he wanted without acknowledging what his actions might mean.
It had nothing to do with me.
It couldn't.
I bit my lower lip and refused to turn around.
I wasn't going to ask him to explain. I wasn't going to give him another opportunity to make me feel foolish for wondering.
Eventually, exhaustion reclaimed me.
I fell asleep facing away from him, determined to believe his explanation.
Morning arrived far too soon.
I stirred beneath the blanket, vaguely aware of warmth surrounding me and something firm beneath my cheek.
For a few seconds, I remained half asleep, my mind floating somewhere between dreams and consciousness.
Then I noticed the steady rise and fall beneath my head.
My eyes opened.
Oh.
My.
GOD.
My head was resting on Adrian's chest.
His arm was wrapped around my waist.
And my fingers were clenched in his shirt.
I stopped breathing.
No.
Absolutely not.
This was not happening.
I distinctly remembered going to sleep facing the opposite direction.
So how, exactly, had I ended up practically draped across him?
Had I moved in my sleep?
Had he?
Was there a perfectly reasonable explanation that didn't involve my subconscious deciding to ruin my life?
Heat flooded my face.
I tried to lift my head.
His arm tightened slightly around my waist.
I froze.
Was he awake?
I stared at his face.
His eyes remained closed, his expression undisturbed.
Thank God.
Very carefully, I began to extricate myself from his embrace.
I eased his arm away, released my grip on his shirt, and slowly rose from the bed as though escaping a sleeping bear.
Success.
I was free.
I had survived the night.
My dignity, though severely wounded, might yet recover.
Then I turned around.
His eyes were open.
Watching me.
Shit.
He hadn't said a word or bothered to change his expression. He simply regarded me with that infuriating stare before reaching for his clothes and disappearing into the washroom.
I stood motionless.
What was that?
Was he going to pretend nothing had happened?
Was I supposed to pretend nothing had happened?
Wonderful.
Perfect.
Absolutely humiliating.
A few minutes later, he emerged, his hair damp and droplets of water clinging to the ends.
I looked at him.
Then immediately looked away.
No.
Not handsome.
Definitely not.
Just arrogant Blake.
Infuriating Blake.
The human embodiment of a headache.
That was all.
I rushed into the washroom before my thoughts could betray me any further.
My reflection greeted me with messy hair, tired eyes, and an expression suggesting I'd spent the night wrestling aliens.
Excellent.
A flawless beginning to the day.
I splashed water over my face, attempted to tame my hair, and stared at myself in the mirror.
Get yourself together, Eira.
He was still Adrian.
Still rude. Still arrogant. Still the same man who could make me feel like the most irritating person alive with a single glance.
Whatever had happened during the night meant absolutely nothing.
I repeated that to myself until I almost believed it.
Then I returned to the bedroom.
Adrian was sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone as though the entire night had been an insignificant interruption to his routine.
Of course he was.
I cleared my throat.
"I should go now," I said quickly. "See you at college."
"I'm coming with you."
I blinked.
"No, really, I can manage—"
"Eira."
My name came out like a warning.
"I'll return Andy's dress. Don't worry," I shot back, turning towards the door.
I had barely taken a step when his hand closed around my wrist.
He pulled me sharply backwards.
A startled gasp escaped me as I stumbled, my balance failing for a moment.
Then I found myself standing directly in front of him.
Far too close.
His fingers remained around my wrist, his grip firm enough to stop me from retreating. His face was only inches from mine, his expression dark with irritation.
"Stop it," he growled. "You're not safe. You're coming with me, whether you like it or not. With your will… or I'll drag you."
The words were delivered in a low, controlled voice that made it clear he had no intention of entertaining another argument.
I looked down at his hand, then back at his face.
"Why can't you listen just once?" he demanded.
My irritation flared.
There it was again. The infuriating certainty that he had the right to decide everything for me.
"I said I can manage!"
His jaw tightened.
For one fleeting moment, I wondered whether he was angry because I'd disobeyed him—or because the thought of me walking out alone was something he refused to tolerate.
But his expression gave nothing away.
He simply waited, his fingers still wrapped around my wrist.
I swallowed.
"Fine..."
He released me.
The sudden absence of his touch left me strangely conscious of the place where his fingers had been.
"Let's go. We're getting late."
He turned towards the door without waiting to see whether I would follow.
Naturally.
Adrian Blake could drag someone into an argument, win it by sheer force of personality, and walk away as though the matter had been settled by an international treaty.
I followed him, my thoughts churning.
Why does he keep saying he doesn't care, yet never lets me go?
Why does he push me away whenever I begin to suspect there might be something beneath that cold, arrogant exterior?
And why does he keep looking at me as though I'm a problem he intends to solve, even while insisting I'm nothing more than an inconvenience?
I glanced at his back.
He didn't look around.
Didn't slow down.
Didn't offer a single explanation.
Is he bipolar? Or am I the crazy one?
Honestly, at this point, I wasn't sure which of us needed professional help more.
And the most infuriating part?
Somehow, despite everything, I still followed him.