Chapter 15: The Book signing event
Roya was halfway through her breakfast, casually flipping through her phone, her plate of eggs and toast untouched. She enjoyed mornings like this, quiet and undisturbed. The sun poured in through the tall windows of the mansion, casting a warm glow on the hardwood floors. She took a sip of her coffee, savoring the rare moment of peace.
That peace, however, was short-lived.
With a soft whoosh, a stack of manuscripts and books appeared on the table in front of her, disrupting her calm. Roya froze, her mug hovering in mid-air as she blinked at the sudden intrusion. She recognized those pages immediately—her manuscripts, charred at the edges but otherwise intact, along with some of her favorite books she thought had been destroyed.
"Miss me, Dream?" came Emris's smooth, teasing voice from the doorway.
Why would she when he keeps buzzing in her ear all the damn time. Roya's jaw clenched as she set her mug down a little too forcefully. She didn't need to look up to know he was leaning against the doorframe, shirtless, with that insufferable smirk plastered across his face.
"You kept them?" she asked, her voice cold and sharp, though the slight quiver betrayed her surprise.
"Of course," he replied, sauntering into the room like he owned it. "I'm not as heartless as you think."
She rolled her eyes. "You burned down my study. I think my assumptions are fair."
He didn't respond immediately, instead pulling out the chair across from her and sitting down with an infuriatingly casual air. He reached for an apple from the fruit bowl, took a bite, and grinned at her. "I just wanted to remind you not to get too comfortable, Dream. But I couldn't actually destroy these. They're you—the only parts of you that feel… human."
The comment hung in the air, heavier than she expected. Roya's throat tightened, but she refused to let it show. She turned her attention back to her food, poking at her toast with her fork.
"Your hand." His voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
"What about it?" she asked without looking up.
"Let me see it."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not," Emris said firmly, standing up and walking over to her side of the table. He was suddenly too close, his presence impossible to ignore.
"I said I'm fine," she repeated, pulling her hand under the table.
"Dream," he said softly, his tone unexpectedly serious. It wasn't a plea—it was a demand.
Reluctantly, she held out her hand. The burn was minor but still raw, the reddened skin standing out against her pale complexion. Emris knelt beside her, his long fingers surprisingly gentle as he examined the injury.
"You're reckless," he muttered, his brows furrowing as he brushed a thumb near the burn. Roya flinched, but he didn't let go.
"And you're annoying," she shot back, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
Without another word, Emris conjured a small vial of salve from thin air. The glass shimmered in the sunlight as he uncorked it, the faint scent of lavender wafting through the room. He dipped his finger into the salve and began to apply it to her wound with meticulous care.
He could have just used the first aid kit, What a show off.
The sensation was cool and soothing, but Roya couldn't focus on that. She was acutely aware of how close he was, his dark hair brushing against his sharp jawline, his blue eyes entirely focused on her hand. The silence between them was different now—not heavy, but charged with something unspoken.
"Why do you care?" she asked quietly, her voice almost a whisper.
He paused for a fraction of a second, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. "Because someone has to," he said simply, before returning to his task.
Her breath hitched. It wasn't what he said—it was the way he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
When he finished, he stood, pulling her to her feet in one swift motion. The sudden movement startled her, and for a moment, they stood inches apart. His hand lingered on hers, his touch warm despite the coolness of the salve.
"You're welcome," he said, smirking down at her.
Roya yanked her hand away, taking a step back to regain some semblance of control. "Don't think this changes anything."
"Of course not," he replied, his grin widening. But there was something in his eyes—something softer, almost tender—that made her chest tighten.
As he walked away, Roya sat back down, her untouched breakfast forgotten. Her gaze lingered on the stack of manuscripts and books, a small flicker of gratitude breaking through her usual indifference.
But then she remembered the two burned rooms which needed fixing, "Unemployed leech." She cursed under her breath ignoring the warm feeling inside her stomach.
_________
Book signings were always an ordeal for Roya. Pretending to care about strangers who idolized her, some in unnerving ways, felt like a charade she had to endure. She had no attachment to her work, yet here she was, smiling faintly as a long line of fans eagerly waited for her signature.
Seated at a table surrounded by stacks of her books, she tried to tune out the noise. But her focus inevitably shifted to Emris, leaning casually against a nearby bookshelf. He watched her with an irritatingly smug expression, his striking blue eyes alight with amusement.
"Is this what humans call 'work'? Sitting and scribbling your name over and over?" he teased, his voice echoing in her mind.
"Go find a corner to brood in, Emris," she replied curtly, signing another book with mechanical precision.
Emris snorted softly but didn't move. His presence loomed, as always, both a comfort and an annoyance. Roya returned to the line, scanning the faces of her fans until her gaze locked onto someone unusual.
A woman stood midline, clutching a battered copy of her first book. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes wide and erratic, and she fidgeted with something hidden under her oversized coat.
Roya's pen paused mid-signature. Something about her set alarms ringing.
"Next," Roya said, masking her unease.
The woman approached, setting the book down with trembling hands. Her voice was unsteady, almost manic. "You ruined them."
Roya blinked, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"
"Emris and Zaiden!" the woman hissed, her voice rising. "You destroyed them. How could you?"
Emris straightened from his lazy stance, his smirk vanishing. Roya felt his eyes on her, sharp and watchful.
"Miss, I don't know what—" Roya's words were cut off as the woman lunged.
A flash of silver caught the light—a knife.
Chaos erupted as fans screamed and scattered. The woman thrust the blade toward Roya, but Emris moved faster than any human could. In an instant, he was between them, his hand snapping out to catch the woman's wrist mid-swing.
"Not today, sweetheart," he growled.
The woman struggled, her screams frenzied. "You don't understand! She deserves to die for what she did to them!"
Emris yanked the knife from her grasp, tossing it aside as security rushed in to restrain her. Roya stumbled back, her heart pounding, but she managed to stay composed.
Emris turned to her, his piercing blue eyes scanning her for injuries. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," she said, her voice calm despite the tremor in her hands.
"You're welcome," he quipped, his smirk returning as if nothing had happened.
Roya rolled her eyes but couldn't deny the strange comfort his presence brought. She turned to thank the next person in line—except there wasn't a line anymore. The event had descended into chaos, fans fleeing in every direction.
"I guess that's it for today," she muttered, brushing past Emris.
But he wasn't letting it go. He stepped closer, blocking her path. "You're shaking," he observed, his voice softer now.
"No, I'm not," she snapped, brushing his hand away.
"You're welcome," he repeated, his grin infuriatingly smug. But then his expression shifted, a rare flicker of something softer flashing across his face.
Before Roya could retort, he leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek in a fleeting kiss. It was quick, almost casual, yet it sent a jolt through her she couldn't explain.
She froze, her heart skipping a beat. "What was that for?"
"For being hopelessly reckless, as usual," he replied, stepping back with a smirk. "Consider it a reward for not getting yourself killed."
Roya's face burned, though she quickly masked it with a glare. "Don't do that again."
"No promises," he said, turning away.
But the moment wasn't over. Roya's gaze shifted, drawn to a shadow in the far corner of the room. Her breath hitched.
Zaiden.
He stood in the shadows, watching them with his piercing scarlet eyes. His expression was cold, calculating, yet somehow knowing. He didn't move, didn't speak. And then, as if sensing her gaze, he disappeared into the darkness.
"Did you see that?" she asked Emris, her voice quieter now.
"See what?" he replied, frowning as he followed her gaze. But there was nothing there.
"Nothing," she muttered, though her pulse quickened.
Zaiden had been there. He had watched everything unfold. And Roya couldn't shake the feeling that whatever game Zaiden was playing, they had just become pawns in it.
*****
Zaiden watched the chaos from the far corner of the room, his expression unreadable. He stood cloaked in the dim light, a silent observer as the mad fan lunged at Roya.
His scarlet eyes remained fixed on the scene, calculating every movement. There was no need to intervene; he already knew how this would play out. Emris would step in—predictable as ever. Roya would survive, shaken but outwardly composed.
It had happened before. A different place, a different lifetime. The outcomes always circled back to the same inevitability.
Zaiden's lips curled into the faintest semblance of a smirk, one that held no humor, only bitter acknowledgment.
"She'll be fine," he muttered under his breath, his deep voice breaking the silence.
The crow perched beside him cawed softly, its red eyes glinting as if mirroring his thoughts.
Zaiden fed it a small treat, his gloved fingers steady. "Patience," he murmured to the bird, his tone a low rumble. "They'll make their move soon enough."
His gaze shifted back to Roya, who now stood frozen as Emris leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Something stirred in Zaiden's chest, something fleeting and unwelcome.
"Amusing," he said to himself, though his voice was devoid of amusement.