ADRIAN'S POV
The bruises on Eira's wrist had no business occupying my thoughts.
Yet every time I closed my eyes, I saw them again—the dark marks against her skin, the way she'd tried to hide them, and the infuriatingly innocent expression she'd worn while lying straight to my face.
She was a terrible liar.
And whoever had put those marks on her had made a serious mistake.
I left the college before the urge to find the bastard became impossible to ignore.
By the time I reached home, my anger had cooled into something far more dangerous.
"Adrian."
Mike stood beside the window, a glass in his hand, his expression unreadable.
"What?"
He placed an envelope on the table.
"Mr. Dawn is hosting a family gathering on Monday evening. His son intends to introduce the woman he plans to marry."
I barely glanced at the invitation. "Then he can introduce her without me."
"Your preferences aren't the concern here." Mike's gaze sharpened. "The Dawns are important allies. You'll attend."
"I don't remember asking for your permission."
"And I don't remember offering you a choice."
Our gazes held.
Mike never raised his voice. He didn't need to. The silence around him was warning enough, and when his expression shifted by the slightest degree, the room seemed to lose whatever warmth it had possessed.
"Monday," I said flatly. "I'll be there."
"See that you are."
He turned toward the door, then paused.
"Whatever is distracting you, deal with it before it becomes a liability."
His eyes lingered on me for a moment longer before he left.
I stared at the closed door.
Mike noticed more than he admitted. That didn't mean he needed to know everything.
My thoughts drifted to Andy.
Six years ago, Dawson had left scars on her that no one could see. For months, she'd barely spoken or smiled. I'd watched her retreat further into herself, unable to find a way to reach her without making her feel cornered.
Until the day I took her into the forest.
We'd spent the afternoon beneath the trees, far from the world that had hurt her. I hadn't asked questions or demanded that she talk. I'd simply stayed beside her until the silence no longer felt like a prison.
Eventually, she laughed.
It had been a small, fragile sound, almost unfamiliar coming from her.
I still remembered it.
A knock interrupted my thoughts.
"Come in."
Andy stepped inside, a travel bag hanging from her shoulder.
I glanced at the bag, then at her.
"What's that?"
"My bag."
"I can see that."
"Then why did you ask?"
I gave her a flat look.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to my hostel."
"No."
"Adrian—"
"I said no."
"And I heard you. Unfortunately, I'm not a child you can lock away whenever you're worried."
Before I could respond, she shoved me backward onto the bed and knelt in front of me.
I could have stopped her with one hand.
Instead, I stared at her in disbelief.
"You're doing it again," she said.
"Doing what?"
"Trying to protect me by deciding everything for me."
My expression hardened.
"You have no idea what you're asking for."
"Maybe not. But I know I can't spend my life hiding from what happened." She held my gaze, refusing to yield. "I need time alone, Adrian. I need to feel like my life belongs to me again."
I studied her face.
She wasn't asking me to stop caring. She was asking me to stop letting fear make every decision for her.
The realization was considerably more irritating than it should have been.
"Fine."
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
"Don't make me regret it."
She threw her arms around me.
I stiffened at the sudden contact. Her cheek pressed against my shoulder, and for a moment, the room fell silent.
Then I wrapped one arm around her.
"You will answer every call," I warned. "If you disappear without telling me, I'll come looking."
She pulled back, grinning.
"Yes, Daddy."
I closed my eyes.
"Call me that again, and I'll personally reconsider this entire arrangement."
She burst out laughing.
I pushed her away, though the corner of my mouth threatened to betray me.
Almost.
Later, I drove her to the hostel myself. I watched until she disappeared through the entrance before returning home.
By midnight, I was standing outside Eira's hostel.
This was ridiculous.
I had more important things to do than sneak around a college girl's window like some lovesick idiot.
I should have left.
Instead, I climbed the exterior ledge and slipped through her open window.
Her room was a disaster.
Books lay scattered across the desk. Clothes occupied the chair. A half-empty glass of water sat beside a stack of papers.
I surveyed the mess with open disapproval.
Of course. Even her room managed to test my patience.
Then I saw her.
Eira slept on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, her dark hair spilling across the pillow. A few strands rested against her lips, stirring faintly with every quiet breath.
I stopped.
For a moment, I simply looked at her.
And then, inexplicably, I forgot everything else.
Beautiful.
The word surfaced in my mind before I could suppress it.
My jaw tightened.
What the hell?
I had seen beauty in countless forms over the centuries. Faces that could turn heads in crowded rooms, smiles that could deceive kings, eyes that could make men forget their own names.
Beauty had never been a rare thing.
But this—
This was different.
My gaze traced the delicate curve of her cheek, the dark sweep of her lashes, the soft contours of her face. In sleep, the stubbornness that usually sharpened her features had eased, leaving behind a quiet softness I had never quite noticed when she was awake.
She looked impossibly peaceful.
Almost as though the world had finally granted her a few hours without a reason to fight it.
A strand of hair lay across her cheek, brushing the corner of her mouth.
I found myself watching it move with her breathing.
Then I noticed the tiny crease between her brows.
Even asleep, that innocent, stupid, stubborn girl looked as though she was arguing with someone.
Probably me.
The thought should have irritated me.
Instead, the corner of my mouth almost lifted.
I killed the expression before it could form.
What was wrong with me?
She was Eira. The girl who challenged every instruction, questioned every answer, and looked at me with those infuriating eyes as though she had every right to see through me.
She was supposed to be a nuisance.
A complication.
Someone whose reckless behaviour had somehow become my problem.
Not someone I stood beside a bed watching as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
I had come here for a reason.
I knew that.
Yet I couldn't seem to remember it.
My hand lifted before I realized what I was doing.
I wanted to brush the strand of hair away from her face.
The impulse was absurdly simple. A single movement, barely a touch.
Still, I stopped with my fingers suspended inches from her cheek.
I could almost feel the warmth of her skin.
My gaze dropped to her lips.
I looked away sharply.
Enough.
I wasn't here to admire her.
I wasn't here to stand in the darkness, captivated by a sleeping girl who would probably insult me the moment she opened her eyes.
I was here because something had been wrong with her wrist.
I forced myself to look down.
And there they were.
The bruises.
The dark marks stood out against her skin, unmistakable even in the faint light filtering through the curtains.
Every trace of softness vanished from my thoughts.
I crouched beside the bed and reached for her hand, supporting her wrist in my palm as I examined the marks. Beneath the faint light, they looked even uglier.
Someone had put their hands on her.
The thought settled beneath my skin like a blade.
She shifted.
My attention snapped to her face.
Her breathing remained slow, but her fingers brushed against mine, curling faintly as though searching for something in her sleep.
I went still.
Then her fingers settled around one of mine.
A small, unconscious gesture.
It should have meant nothing.
I should have pulled away immediately.
Instead, I remained where I was, watching her hand rest against mine. Her grip was barely there, yet I found myself unwilling to break it.
For one absurd moment, I wondered what she would do if she knew who was sitting beside her bed.
What she would say if she knew how badly I wanted to find the person responsible for those bruises.
My jaw tightened.
She was asleep. She had no idea who was holding her hand, what I was thinking, or how close I was to forgetting every reason I had to stay away.
I eased my finger free.
Enough.
I lowered my head and pressed my lips to the bruised skin.
For one treacherous second, the thought of someone hurting her eclipsed everything else.
Then her fingers tightened around mine.
My entire body went still.
She was asleep. She couldn't possibly know what that simple touch had done to me.
I lifted my head, leaving her hand resting against the blanket.
Her lips were slightly parted, her lashes resting against her cheeks. A faint crease marked the space between her brows, as though even sleep couldn't entirely free her from whatever troubled her.
My fingers twitched with the urge to smooth it away.
I curled them into a fist instead.
She was a complication I couldn't afford.
I rose.
Her eyelids fluttered.
Then they parted slightly.
I froze.
Her gaze found my face, unfocused and heavy with sleep. For one suspended second, she seemed to be trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
Her lips parted.
I didn't wait to hear what she might say.
I released her wrist and turned toward the window. Her fingertips brushed mine as I withdrew, a fleeting contact that lingered beneath my skin long after it ended.
I slipped through the window without looking back.
I had stayed too long already.
By the time she was fully awake, I was gone.
EIRA'S POV
Something cold brushed against my hand.
I stirred in my sleep, my fingers twitching faintly at the unfamiliar sensation. For a moment, I barely registered it. I was too caught between sleep and wakefulness, too lost in the warmth of my bed to care.
Then I felt it again.
I tried to open my eyes.
They felt impossibly heavy, as though sleep was determined to pull me back under. I forced them apart, just enough for the room to emerge in a blur.
Someone was kneeling beside my bed.
A man.
His face was so close to mine that I could barely make out anything beyond the dark outline of his features. His head was bent, his lips hovering near my wrist.
I blinked, struggling to see clearly.
Adrian?
Was that Adrian Blake?
I tried to lift my head, to focus on his face, but my eyelids drooped again. The image blurred, slipping away before I could make sense of it.
For one strange instant, I thought I felt fingers around my hand.
Then everything dissolved into darkness.
A moment later, my eyes flew open.
I sat bolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Adrian?"
The name escaped me before I could stop it.
I stared at the space beside my bed.
Empty.
I turned toward the bathroom. The door stood open, revealing nothing but darkness. I switched on the bedside lamp and looked around the room, my gaze darting from the bathroom to the balcony and finally to the open window.
There was no one.
Not a soul.
What was happening to me?
Had I really seen Adrian kneeling beside my bed? His face so close to mine, his lips almost touching my wrist?
Or had I dreamed it?
I pressed my palms against my face, trying to steady my breathing.
Of course I'd dreamed it.
What other explanation could there be?
Adrian Blake would never sneak into my room in the middle of the night. And even if he did, why would he kneel beside my bed and touch me so gently?
Why would he bring his lips anywhere near my bruises?
The very thought was absurd.
I lowered my hands, still trying to convince myself that my half-asleep mind had played a cruel trick on me.
Then my gaze fell to my wrist.
I froze.
The bruises were gone.
I stared at my skin, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. I turned my wrist beneath the lamplight, examining it from every possible angle.
Nothing.
Not even a faint mark remained.
My breath caught.
How?
How could bruises that had been there only hours ago disappear so completely?
I pressed my fingertips against the spot where the worst of them had been. There was no tenderness, no soreness, nothing to suggest that my skin had been bruised at all.
They hadn't faded.
They had vanished.
A strange chill crept up my spine.
I looked toward the empty space beside my bed again.
Adrian's face flashed through my mind—his dark eyes, the closeness of his features, the indistinct impression of his lips against my wrist.
Had I really seen him?
Had he actually been here?
Or had my mind somehow woven the impossible sight of Adrian Blake into a dream while the bruises healed on their own?
I couldn't tell anymore.
I dragged a hand through my hair and let out a shaky breath.
"What is happening to me?"
The question hung unanswered in the silence.
I looked at my wrist again, then at the open window.
Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The night was still, and there was no sign that anyone had entered.
Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened—something I couldn't explain, something that existed somewhere between a dream and reality.
I lay back slowly, pulling the blanket close, but sleep was the last thing on my mind.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him again.
Adrian kneeling beside my bed.
His face close to mine.
His lips hovering near my wrist.
And no matter how desperately I tried to convince myself that I'd imagined it all, one question refused to leave me alone.
If it was only a dream, then how had my bruises disappeared?