Daelan's POV
"Daelan?"
My name.
My name.
But it's never sounded like that before.
The way she says it is like it's a word woven from silk and shadow, her voice wrapping around it with such ease, as if she's said it a thousand times in her mind before finally speaking it aloud.
And it shakes me.
I stand frozen, my heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape, my mind blank as she descends the staircase with hurried, graceful steps.
The silk robe clings to her figure, flowing around her like liquid fire, cascading with each movement like water slipping over smooth stone. The fabric whispers with every shift, trailing slightly behind her, the hem brushing the edges of the polished marble steps.
When she reaches the bottom, she stops just a step away from me, her eyes—those ocean-blue eyes—lifting to meet mine.
She's so close.
Close enough that I can see the faint shimmer of mana flickering like dust motes around her skin, the subtle glow of power that most people would miss—but I see it. I feel it.
"Heavens," she murmurs, tilting her head slightly, her lips curving in amusement. "You're taller than I expected."
Her voice is light, almost teasing, but the way she looks at me—like I'm something she's been searching for—makes my chest tighten.
I don't respond.
Not because I don't want to, but because I don't know what to say.
Is that a good thing? A bad thing? Do I apologize for being tall?
Instead, I just stand there, caught in the gravity of her gaze, feeling like I'm on the edge of a cliff, one wrong move away from falling.
She blinks, as if realizing something, then steps back slightly, her expression softening.
"Oh dear," she says with a small, self-deprecating laugh, running a hand through her raven hair. "It's probably really late. Let me show you to your room. We'll talk in a couple of hours."
She turns and ascends the stairs again, and—without thinking—I follow.
I was expecting many things tonight.
An older woman, perhaps. A widow, lonely in her grief, clinging to some shadow of companionship. Maybe even someone trapped in an unhappy marriage, seeking an escape.
Hell, I was even prepared to meet a man, to have to navigate whatever twisted arrangement this was supposed to be.
But this?
This beautiful, impossible woman who seems to have stepped out of a dream?
I wasn't ready for her.
And as I trail behind, I catch glimpses of her bare feet moving gracefully along the smooth floor—except…
With each step, she leaves behind faint traces of frost, delicate snowflakes blooming briefly against the warmth of the polished stone before melting away. Tiny cracks of ice ripple outward, spiderwebbing like fragile glass before disappearing.
She doesn't seem to notice.
And I don't say anything.
Because, honestly, I don't trust my voice right now.
She leads me down a long hallway, the walls lined with artwork I can't even process because my mind is too full—of her, of questions, of the overwhelming feeling that my life just pivoted around an invisible axis.
Finally, she stops in front of a large door, pushing it open with ease.
"Uhm…" She hesitates for the first time since I met her, her fingers brushing the doorframe. "Let's talk later."
Then she turns, her hair flipping over her shoulder in a cascade of black silk, and as she passes me, her scent hits—warm, subtle, a blend of something floral and crisp, like the air after the first snowfall.
It lingers even after she's gone, leaving me standing there, dazed.
I step into the room, barely noticing the sheer size of it.
It's bigger than anything I've ever owned, probably bigger than the entire apartment I used to share with the twins. The ceiling stretches high above, the walls adorned with delicate designs, the bedding crisp and pristine.
But none of it registers.
I sit on the edge of the massive bed, my body finally giving in to the exhaustion I've been holding at bay.
And just like that, I'm out.
---
Emmaline's POV
The moment I step into my room, I scream into my pillow.
It's not a polite, dignified scream either. No.
It's a full-on, muffled, rage-filled yell.
The pillow doesn't survive.
A pulse of mana escapes with my frustration, freezing the fabric solid, turning it into an ice sculpture of what used to be a perfectly fluffed cushion.
I glare at it.
Then I throw it across the room, where it shatters against the wall in a spray of glittering ice shards.
"BENJAMIN, YOU SNAKE!" I shout, pacing like a woman on the verge of madness.
How dare he trap me like this?!
He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing when he dragged Daelan here. That smug little bastard probably planned this.
Because—
Daelan Crowe.
He's not just handsome.
No. That's an understatement.
He's… he's obnoxiously hot.
The red hair, the sharp violet eyes that seem to burn even in the dimmest light, the strong lines of his jaw, the way his lashes—his stupid, ridiculously long red lashes—frame his eyes like some kind of walking fantasy.
And don't get me started on his height.
Or his voice—low, rough, like he's perpetually one word away from growling.
I flop onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, my heart still racing.
"Get it together, Emmaline," I mutter to myself, my breath fogging slightly in the chilled air.
I press my palms against the mattress, trying to ground myself.
But all I can think about is him.
The way he looked at me, my heart races thinking of those violet eyes.
And that's dangerous.
I sit up, dragging my hands through my hair.
That man—Daelan Crowe—is mine.
I don't care if it takes days, weeks, months.
I don't care if the world burns around me.
He walked here on his own. No contracts. No schemes. No manipulations. Sure I was waving candy but it's too late now.
And if he thinks he's leaving?
They'll have to pry him out of my cold, frozen hands.
Literally.