Zareth and Serenya stepped out of the vast imperial library, the echo of their footsteps carrying through the marble corridors. True to his word, he kept four deliberate steps between them, his tall frame moving with the lazy confidence of a predator indulging prey.
Serenya's lips pressed into a thin line as she stole a quick glance over her shoulder. His eyes were already fixed on her, dark and consuming, as if the distance she forced between them was merely an illusion. Her cheeks heated instantly, her heart tripping over itself. Perhaps she should have added no staring to her conditions.
She turned forward again, clutching the edges of her gown as if that would steady her wildly erratic heartbeat. But the memory of the kiss they had shared in the library returned unbidden, vivid as flame. She could still feel the press of his lips, the searing warmth of his breath, the way her mind had gone utterly blank beneath his touch.
"You know," Zareth's voice broke the silence, low and deliberate, his tone soaked in amusement, "you look just as beautiful from four steps away. No—more than beautiful. Ethereal. Untouchable. My little dove glowing in the dark."
Her blush deepened until her ears burned. She bit her lower lip before replying softly, "T-thank you."
His crooked smile widened as though he had wrung the reaction he wanted from her.
They continued walking, but instead of taking the familiar turn toward the dining hall, Zareth veered down a different corridor, his long strides echoing like deliberate taunts against the marble. Serenya frowned, her steps faltering until she came to a halt.
"Why are we going this way instead of the usual path?" she asked, her brows knitting.
Zareth pivoted, closing one of the four steps between them without hesitation. She immediately shifted back, her skirts rustling against the floor. "Four steps intervals," she reminded him quickly, her voice sharp. "A man of his word should not break it so soon. A king especially."
He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, curling through her like smoke. "You wound me, little dove. Have you forgotten?" He took another step forward, eyes glittering. "I am no king. I am the Emperor. Kings follow rules. I break them." His lips curved in that insufferable, crooked smile. "If I say something and I change my mind, I take it back. That is my privilege."
Her eyes widened in disbelief, scandal flashing across her innocent face. "You—! That is completely unfair!"
"But," he continued smoothly, cutting through her protests like a blade, "you are my Empress. Which means my words to you carry permanence. So, to answer your question—tonight, we dine not in the hall but in the royal garden."
Serenya pouted, clearly unimpressed. But Zareth only looked more entertained, his eyes glinting with triumph.
By the time they arrived at the garden, the air was crisp with night-blooming jasmine, their fragrance wrapping around the senses like velvet. Soft lanterns hung from carved bronze poles, scattering golden light over the manicured hedges. A single table was prepared in the center, adorned with crystal goblets, silverware that gleamed under the moonlight, and two chairs placed directly opposite each other.
Zareth spread his arms slightly as if presenting a masterpiece. His smile sharpened. "I know why you gave that condition, Serenya. You want to look into my eyes directly while we dine, without the excuse of turning your neck. That is why I had it prepared perfectly for us."
Her lips parted, outrage bubbling up. "That is not what I meant!"
"My, my, Serenya," he drawled, his deep voice oozing sarcasm. "How was I supposed to know? You give vague orders, I interpret them in the most convenient way." He leaned closer, voice dropping to a husky whisper that made her stomach twist. "Convenient for me, of course."
She stood rooted, refusing to move closer.
Zareth exhaled dramatically and pulled out her chair himself. "Sit. I will not repeat myself."
Her pout deepened, but she moved forward, skirts brushing lightly against the chair as she sat. Immediately, servants moved in, pulling out Zareth's chair. He settled with the grace of someone who owned every stone in this empire, every breath she dared to take.
"When did you even instruct them to do this?" Serenya asked suspiciously.
"It's part of my special qualities," he said, his crooked grin flashing.
She narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. But before she could argue further, the head servant lifted the silver lids, and the aroma that filled the air stole her breath.
Her eyes widened. On the table sat dishes she knew intimately—Vayrana food. Spiced saffron rice, fragrant with herbs she hadn't smelled since leaving her homeland. Slow-braised lamb soaked in a rich sauce that shimmered under candlelight. Sweet flatbreads drizzled with honey, the exact texture she remembered from her childhood feasts.
Her throat tightened unexpectedly. It had been so long. The sting of tears pricked her eyes.
Zareth's gaze flicked to her immediately. He leaned forward, fingers brushing the corner of her cheek, though there was no tear there. "Crying already? Over food?" His voice teased, but the undercurrent was softer, almost protective.
"I wasn't crying," she whispered, batting his hand away weakly.
"Mm." His thumb lingered near her jaw, arrogant even in retreat. "I was just making sure. I wouldn't want you shedding tears over a plate."
She rolled her eyes, but her earlier anger cracked, dissolving like sugar in warm tea.
"Who cooked this?" she asked, her voice laced with awe as she tasted a spoonful. Her eyes closed as the flavors flooded her senses—it was just like home.
"The royal chef," Zareth answered casually, taking a bite himself. "That man has a book on how to prepare nearly every dish in the empire. Naturally, I ordered him to master Vayrana cuisine."
Serenya hummed with delight, her smile unguarded for once. The sight of her so carefree twisted something deep in Zareth's chest, though his smirk remained firmly in place.
Before she could say more, Cassian appeared silently, handing a letter to the Emperor. Zareth read it swiftly, his expression unreadable, then dismissed his general with a curt nod.
The serenity of the garden dimmed as the scene shifted elsewhere—
Inside the inner palace, Evelyn paced like a caged tigress in her gilded chambers. Her fiery red hair cascaded over her back, glinting in the mirror's reflection as candlelight caught each strand. Her crimson eyes burned with barely concealed rage.
She froze when she heard hesitant footsteps. Tessa and Ariel, Serenya's personal servants, entered nervously, bowing so low their foreheads nearly touched the ground. They looked as if they had stepped into a lion's den.
"I heard rumors," Evelyn began, her voice like poisoned silk, "that you were slapped by the human princess. Is it true?"
The two exchanged terrified glances until Tessa whispered, "Yes, milady. The princess struck Ariel twice when she refused to tell her name."
Evelyn's brows shot up, surprise flashing briefly before it hardened into something darker. "That little human dares…" she muttered.
Then, without warning, she struck Ariel across the face, the crack of her hand echoing in the chamber. Ariel gasped, stumbling, while Tessa fell to her knees in terror.
"Why would you let her slap you? She is human! Beneath you!" Evelyn snarled, her red eyes glinting like embers. Ariel trembled, her voice caught in her throat.
"Pathetic," Evelyn hissed. "Leave me."
The two scrambled away, nearly tripping in their haste.
Evelyn sank into a velvet chair, her nails digging into the golden armrest. A servant hurried forward with a goblet of blood tea, but she barely tasted it, her teeth clenched tight.
"How long has it been since His Imperial Majesty called me?" she demanded, her voice brittle with suppressed fury.
"Two weeks and , perhaps three days, milady," her older servant answered nervously.
Evelyn's jaw tightened. Two weeks. Three days with no summons, no glance, no acknowledgment. And in those two weeks and three days, the human girl had grown bold enough to strike servants?
Her gaze snapped to her reflection in the mirror. Red hair. Crimson eyes. Beauty carved like sculpture. She ran a brush through her hair, each stroke precise, almost violent.
"I refuse to lose to a fragile human," she whispered, her lips curving into a confident smile. "Tonight, I will remind him of who truly belongs by his side."
The servant bowed deeply, hurrying to prepare her bath. Evelyn's reflection stared back with ruthless determination.
"He won't be able to resist me," she murmured, crimson lips curving.