Chapter 11: Opposites attract, after all
Roya stood in the bathroom, staring at Emris's expensive-looking bottle of shampoo with a wicked grin. She had been plotting her next move, and this was perfect. Digging through the drawer she had hidden her latest concoction in, she pulled out a small vial of liquid. It looked harmless enough, but the effects would be anything but. She emptied it into the shampoo bottle, shaking it to mix everything together seamlessly.
"There," she whispered to herself, satisfied. "Let's see how he likes this."
---
The next morning, Emris was in the bathroom, humming to himself as he washed his hair, oblivious to the change happening with each lather. Roya waited patiently outside his room, leaning against the wall as she heard the water shut off.
When he finally stepped out, towel wrapped around his waist, his usual silver hair—his pride and joy—was gone. Instead, thick, jet-black strands fell over his face. His hair, now sleek and dark, gave him an almost brooding, dangerous look.
"Good morning, sunshine," she called, trying to sound casual as she took in the sight of him. She wouldn't say it out loud, but the dark hair made him look even more striking—more handsome, in fact.
"What the hell?" Emris muttered, glancing into the mirror and freezing at his reflection. He blinked several times, running his fingers through the now dark, inky locks. "What... what is this?!"
Roya crossed her arms, biting her lip to keep from laughing. "Looks like you've been blessed with a new look," she said, trying to sound unimpressed, though inside, she was marveling at just how well the dark hair suited him.
He spun around, glaring at her, eyes blazing with a mix of shock and fury. "You did this, didn't you?"
She shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You think this is funny?" He marched toward her, still dripping wet, and she had to bite back the urge to smirk at how ridiculous he looked in his frustration.
"Actually, yes," she deadpanned. "You've been due for a makeover. The silver hair was overrated anyway."
Emris growled, running his fingers through his hair again, inspecting the change. He didn't want to admit it, but... it didn't look terrible. In fact, it gave him a darker, more commanding presence. But still, the fact that she had done this without his consent infuriated him.
"I look like a damn shadow," he muttered under his breath.
"More like a brooding hero," she teased, leaning back against the doorframe. "All you need now is a tragic backstory. Oh, wait. You already have one."
Emris rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he snapped. "This isn't over."
"Of course it isn't," she said with a smirk. "But let me know when you want to thank me. You're welcome, by the way."
---
Later that day, Roya decided it was time to go outside. It had been too long since she had done anything other than argue with Emris in her mansion, and she needed to clear her head. As she headed for the door, slipping on her jacket, she heard footsteps trailing behind her.
"Where do you think you're going?" Emris's voice echoed from down the hall.
"Out," she said simply, not even bothering to turn around.
"You can't go alone," he called after her, his tone filled with mock concern. "What if something happens to you, my dear author?"
She stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. "I'm not helpless, Emris. I don't need a babysitter."
"Well, too bad," he said with a smug grin. "Because I'm coming with you."
She sighed, rolling her eyes. "You're like an annoying puppy, you know that?"
"Woof," he replied with a wink, pulling on a jacket to follow her.
Despite her irritation, Roya couldn't help but steal a glance at him as they walked out the door. He looked different with the dark hair—more serious, even when he was acting like a clown. She hated to admit it, but the new look suited him far better than she expected.
They walked through the city in silence, but the tension between them was thick, charged. She could feel his presence looming next to her, his eyes occasionally darting toward her as if he was waiting for something—some kind of reaction or admission.
"So, where are we going?" Emris finally asked, breaking the silence. His tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of something else—curiosity, maybe. Or was it something more?
"Nowhere you'd be interested in," she replied coldly, eyes fixed ahead.
"Try me," he said with a smirk, falling into step beside her.
Roya glanced sideways at him, annoyed by how persistent he was. "Fine," she said, narrowing her eyes. "We're going to a bookstore."
His expression faltered slightly, clearly not what he had been expecting. "A bookstore?"
"Yes," she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You know, where they keep books? Ever heard of them?"
Emris gave her an exaggerated eye roll. "Oh, I'm familiar. Just didn't think it was your scene. But, by all means, lead the way."
She gritted her teeth, ignoring him as she strode ahead. He was impossible—infuriating. Yet, every time she thought about kicking him to the curb, something inside her resisted. There was something about him, his presence, that drew her in, even as she tried to push him away.
As they entered the bookstore, the quiet atmosphere seemed to dampen the tension between them, but only slightly. Roya began browsing the shelves, trying to focus on her task and ignore the tall, dark-haired man trailing behind her like a shadow.
"So, how many of these are about me?" Emris asked, his voice low as he leaned over her shoulder, far too close for comfort.
"None," she lied, her pulse quickening.
"Really?" he said, his breath warm against her ear. "Because I think you've been writing about me for years, Dream."
She shot him a sharp look, their eyes locking for a moment that seemed to stretch out longer than it should have. His dark hair framed his face in a way that made him look… handsome. Damn him.
"Don't flatter yourself," she muttered, turning back to the books. But her mind was racing, and she hated that his presence was having this effect on her.
"I don't need to," he said with a grin. "You do that enough for me."
The words lingered between them, charged with the unspoken tension that had been building for days. They hated each other, that much was clear. But beneath that hatred was something else—something neither of them was ready to admit.
Opposites attract, after all.