EIRA'S POV
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"I… Adrian… I—"
The words lodged in my throat. I couldn't seem to force out a single coherent sentence.
His eyes—those dark, merciless eyes—were fixed on mine, pinning me beneath a gaze so furious it felt as though he could tear through every excuse before I even uttered it. There was something terrifying about the way he looked at me. As if I'd committed an unforgivable offence without even realising what I'd done.
"Adrian… I'm sorry… for misunderstanding you," I whispered, my voice trembling. My heart pounded violently against my ribs.
"I just wanted to—"
I never got to finish.
His hand clamped around my wrist.
Cold.
Unyielding.
His fingers tightened, and before I could comprehend what was happening, he was already dragging me towards the door.
"Adrian! Please, listen to me! I'm sorry… just let me help you!"
He didn't even spare me a glance.
"P-please! At least let me explain!"
I struggled against his grip, desperately trying to free myself, but it was like fighting against iron. His hold didn't falter.
"You can't just throw me out like this!" My voice cracked with desperation.
He remained unmoved.
He was almost at the door when—
THUD!
"CLAIRA!"
My scream ripped through the room.
I wrenched my wrist from his grasp and rushed towards her.
She was sprawled on the floor.
Unconscious.
Motionless.
"Claira… Claira, open your eyes!"
I dropped beside her, gently shaking her shoulders. My voice trembled as panic surged through me.
"Claira, please… wake up!"
Something was terribly wrong.
And I had no idea what to do.
.........
"Doctor… how is she?"
Adrian's voice sliced through the silence.
It was cold and controlled, yet there was an unmistakable sharpness beneath it—a dangerous restraint that made even the slightest movement in the room seem unwelcome.
The doctor adjusted his glasses, visibly uncomfortable.
"She's fine, Mr. Blake. However, this degree of stress is extremely concerning given her condition. She needs complete rest, adequate nutrition, and, most importantly, absolutely no emotional strain."
He hesitated before continuing.
"Mr. Blake… if you don't mind me asking… who is she to you?"
The atmosphere changed.
Instantly.
Adrian's expression hardened.
"That's none of your business. Do your job and leave."
His voice never rose.
It didn't have to.
The doctor visibly flinched.
"Y-yes… of course."
He hurriedly gathered his belongings and practically fled the room, as though he'd narrowly escaped something far more dangerous than an unpleasant conversation.
I exhaled quietly, offering him an apologetic smile as he passed.
Poor man. Being around Adrian must feel like standing in the path of an approaching storm.
But the moment I turned around, I felt it.
His gaze.
Fixed on me.
Unwavering.
Heavy with an unmistakable warning.
I instinctively straightened.
"W-water…" Claira whispered.
I immediately reached for the glass on the bedside table.
But before I could take even a step—
Adrian was already beside her.
He knelt by the bed, slipping one arm behind her shoulders and carefully lifting her head. His other hand brought the glass to her lips.
His movements were measured, almost painstakingly gentle.
It was a peculiar contrast.
The same hands that had dragged me towards the door were now supporting her with such care.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
His voice had softened.
Only for her.
"I… I'm fine," Claira murmured weakly.
"I'll make something for you," I offered quickly, getting to my feet.
I glanced at Adrian, almost instinctively seeking his permission.
He didn't acknowledge me.
But neither did he stop me.
That was enough.
I hurried towards the kitchen before he could reconsider.
ADRIAN'S POV
"She thinks running around will fix everything…"
I muttered, watching her disappear into the kitchen.
Reckless.
Impulsive.
Infuriatingly incapable of recognising when to stay out of trouble.
She acted first and considered the consequences afterwards. And somehow, she always managed to land herself in situations she had no business being in.
I should have stopped her.
Should have thrown her out the moment she walked in.
But then I had seen Claira's face.
The fear.
The exhaustion.
I had more important things to worry about.
"Adrian… try to understand—"
"You should rest. We'll talk later."
I cut her off before she could finish.
Claira nodded, but as I turned away, her fingers closed weakly around my wrist.
"Adrian… don't be angry with her. She was only trying to help."
I glanced down at her hand.
Then gently disengaged my wrist from her grasp.
Help?
She had absolutely no idea what she was getting herself into.
Peter wasn't merely a problem.
He was a threat.
A very real one.
And the last thing I needed was that girl stumbling into something she couldn't possibly handle.
I turned and headed downstairs.
Only to stop at the kitchen entrance.
What the hell had happened here?
Vegetables were scattered across the counter. Flour coated the worktop, the floor, and practically everything within reach. A fine cloud of it still hung in the air.
And right in the middle of the disaster—
Eira.
Her back was towards me as she struggled with something that looked suspiciously like a cooking utensil.
Completely oblivious.
Completely out of her depth.
"What are you doing?"
My voice cut through the kitchen.
She startled so violently that whatever she was holding nearly slipped from her hand.
Slowly, she turned around.
Her cheeks flushed.
A streak of flour was smeared across her forehead, several strands of hair had escaped their confines, and a few stubborn wisps clung to her cheeks.
She looked—
Ridiculous.
Dishevelled.
Chaotic.
And—
Unfairly, inexplicably cute.
My jaw tightened.
What the hell was wrong with me?
EIRA'S POV
"You should… go out," I muttered, suddenly conscious of the disaster surrounding me. "I'll handle everything."
"I'll cook. Leave."
His response was immediate.
Flat.
Absolute.
Before I could protest, he reached for an apron and slipped it over his head, tying the strings around his waist with an ease that suggested he had done this countless times before.
"No, Adrian! You don't have to—"
His eyes snapped towards me.
I immediately swallowed the rest of my sentence.
He turned back to the counter, dismissing my objection without so much as a word.
I released a defeated sigh and stepped aside.
But before I could move away—
His hand closed around my wrist.
In one swift motion, he pulled me back.
I stumbled, instinctively reaching out to steady myself.
My palm landed against his chest.
And suddenly—
He was much too close.
I froze.
The solid warmth beneath my hand, the faint movement of his chest, the startling proximity of his face—
Everything registered at once.
I could barely breathe.
My eyes travelled upwards, meeting his.
He was looking down at me, his expression unreadable. Neither of us moved.
For one suspended moment, I became painfully aware of just how little distance remained between us.
Then his free hand lifted.
His fingers approached my forehead, brushing an escaped strand of hair away from my face.
A dusting of flour clung to his fingertips.
His touch was unexpectedly light.
He swept the stray strands aside, his knuckles grazing my temple before his thumb passed briefly over my forehead.
I forgot what I was supposed to say.
His gaze lingered on my face.
For a fraction of a second, something shifted in his expression.
Then his hand dropped.
He released my wrist and stepped away, as though the moment had meant absolutely nothing.
"Flour," he muttered. "At least learn to do something properly."
My cheeks burned.
I stared at him, momentarily speechless.
What… was that?
And why did my heart suddenly feel as though it had forgotten how to beat normally?
"Clean this mess."
His abrupt command shattered whatever spell had momentarily held me captive.
I quickly crouched down, gathering the scattered vegetables.
I needed to concentrate.
I really did.
But concentrating was proving remarkably difficult with him standing barely a few feet away.
I tried not to look.
Failed.
The knife moved effortlessly beneath his fingers, slicing the vegetables into perfectly even pieces. His movements were precise, economical, and strangely mesmerising.
He didn't waste a single motion.
The oil hissed as he added the ingredients to the pan, filling the kitchen with an inviting aroma.
He moved with the same quiet authority he seemed to carry everywhere—as though even the smallest task had no choice but to obey him.
I watched for a moment longer than I should have.
Then quickly looked away when I realised what I was doing.
A little later, the food was ready.
And I was genuinely speechless.
Tomato pasta.
Fresh salad.
Soup.
Pancakes.
Everything looked absolutely perfect.
I glanced at him.
Was there anything this man couldn't do?
When he wasn't looking, I cautiously reached for a pancake.
Just a little taste.
One bite wouldn't hurt.
The moment it touched my tongue, my eyes widened.
Oh.
My.
God.
It was incredible.
Soft, warm, perfectly sweet.
"You're… a food magician," I whispered before I could stop myself.
SPLASH!
The next second, hot soup spilled across my hand.
"Ahh—AAAH!"
A sharp cry escaped me.
Pain shot through my fingers, and I instinctively jerked backwards.
But before I could even pull my hand away—
Adrian was there.
His fingers closed around my wrist, and he pulled me towards the sink.
"Adrian—!"
He thrust my hand beneath the running water, adjusting its position beneath the stream.
"Are you blind?"
His voice cracked through the kitchen.
"Do you want to burn yourself?"
"I-I'm sorry! I only took one bite—just one!"
"And this is what happens? You can't even manage that without hurting yourself?"
His fingers remained wrapped around my wrist, holding my hand beneath the cool water.
I tried to look at the burn, but he shifted his grip, turning my hand slightly to keep the water running over the affected area.
His brows were drawn together.
His jaw was clenched so tightly that I could see the tension running along it.
"You don't even know how to eat properly."
"You can't say that to me! I didn't—"
"Stop talking."
The words came out sharply.
I glared at him.
"Leave! I can take care of myself!"
I attempted to pull my hand away.
He didn't let go.
Instead, his fingers tightened around my wrist.
"Don't you dare move."
His voice dropped.
Lower.
Rougher.
There was something beneath the anger now—something that didn't quite belong there.
His gaze flickered from my face to my injured hand.
Then back to my eyes.
He was standing so close that I could feel the faint brush of his sleeve against my arm. His grip was firm, his expression thunderous, and his attention so completely fixed on me that I suddenly forgot the argument I had been preparing.
"Adrian…"
His name escaped my lips before I could think better of it.
He didn't answer.
The water continued running.
Neither of us moved.
I could feel his thumb resting against the inside of my wrist, dangerously close to my pulse. Every beat seemed louder beneath his touch.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"What's wrong now?"
His voice was still harsh, but quieter.
I swallowed.
"Nothing…"
A lie.
Because something was terribly wrong.
I was standing in front of a man who had spent the better part of the day treating me like an inconvenience, who had dragged me towards the door without a second thought.
And yet, right now, he wouldn't even let me pull my injured hand away.
His gaze remained fixed on mine.
For a moment, neither anger nor irritation seemed enough to explain the intensity in his expression.
Then his jaw flexed.
"Keep your hand under the water."
An order.
Of course.
Because apparently, even my injuries came with instructions from him.
I should have been furious.
I should have pulled away the moment he loosened his grip.
But as his fingers remained wrapped around my wrist, and his dark eyes refused to leave my face, I found myself caught in a silence I didn't know how to escape.
And the most unsettling part?
I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to.