The night had started out calm.
Emily was in her room, curled beneath the sheets, the faint glow of her phone screen reflecting in her eyes. She had been scrolling absentmindedly, thinking about Isabella, wondering why she hadn't heard from her friend since the party. Something felt off. She couldn't explain it. The silence had grown too loud.
Then—there was a creak.
Not from the hallway. Not from the walls.
From the window.
Emily's brows furrowed as she sat up slowly. The curtains fluttered. The breeze was too cold for a calm night. Something wasn't right.
She reached for her phone—then the window shattered.
Masked figures crashed through the glass like specters of war, dark and swift, dressed in tactical black. They moved like they knew exactly where she was. Emily screamed, scrambling off the bed just as one of them lunged toward her. His hand caught the end of her shirt, ripping it as she fell to the floor.
But before the man could reach her again—
He stopped.
Something had pierced through his chest from behind.
He looked down to see blood seeping through his armor. Then collapsed.
Behind him stood Xaren.
His eyes were dark red, glowing like hot coals. His body moved like a predator unchained. Silent. Deadly. Efficient. He twisted, ducked, and slammed another man's head against the wall. Two more attackers charged at him, but they were nothing. One kick. One punch. And they were groaning on the floor.
Emily crawled back, shaking, pressing her hands over her mouth as Xaren decimated the intruders in seconds.
When the last man fell, Xaren turned toward her, his chest rising and falling heavily.
"Get dressed," he said, voice rough and commanding. "Now."
"Wh-what—?"
"They weren't here for you," he muttered, scanning the broken window. "They thought this was Isabella's room."
Emily's blood turned cold.
"I'm taking you somewhere safe."
He didn't wait for her reply. He yanked his jacket off and threw it over her torn clothes, then scooped her into his arms like she weighed nothing. The ride to the hotel was silent. Emily held onto him tightly, her face buried in his neck, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.
Once inside the suite, he locked the doors, drew every curtain, and checked every room. Satisfied, he pulled out his phone and called Azrael.
"She's not safe anymore," Xaren said grimly. "They thought she was Isabella. That means they're targeting her. Which means Isabella is the real target. They want to use her as leverage."
There was a long pause on the other end. Then Azrael's voice came through, low and furious. "Do whatever you must. Keep Emily close. I'll handle the rest."
"I'll stay with her," Xaren said before hanging up.
Emily sat quietly on the bed, still wrapped in his jacket. "What the hell was that?"
"I'll explain," Xaren said. "But first... you need to bathe. You're shaking."
She nodded slowly, too tired to argue. The bathroom door closed behind her with a soft click. The sound of running water soon followed.
Xaren collapsed on the armchair near the window, rubbing his temples. He hadn't expected this. Not tonight. Not so soon. But the moment he saw Emily under attack, something inside him had snapped. A need to protect her—violently, fiercely—had overtaken every logical thought.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged.
Wearing nothing but a white robe.
Tied loosely at the waist.
Her skin glowed from the heat of the shower, her hair damp, sticking gently to her shoulders. She looked like a vision out of a dream—soft, flushed, vulnerable. Xaren was caught off guard. His body responded before his mind could resist.
He turned his face away immediately, jaw clenched, fists tightening. He was getting hard. Badly.
Emily moved silently, like she didn't notice—or maybe she did. She walked to the bed, sat on the edge, her robe shifting to reveal the smooth skin of her thigh.
Xaren forced himself to breathe.
"I'll give you a moment," he muttered, rising and heading straight into the bathroom to calm himself down. The cold water didn't help much. He leaned on the sink, gripping the edge tightly, trying to will his body to behave.
When he stepped back into the room a few minutes later, shirtless, still drying his hair with a towel—
He froze.
Emily was no longer on the bed.
She was sitting at the edge of it like a goddess carved from fire and temptation, her legs crossed, hair cascading behind her in soft waves. Her robe had slipped slightly off one shoulder. Her eyes locked onto his the second he stepped in.
She stared at his chest.
And didn't look away.
He stood still, heart thudding. She stood slowly and walked to him.
"I love this," she murmured, her fingertips tracing the hard ridges of his abs. Their eyes met, the tension in the room thick enough to choke.
"Emily…" he breathed.
She leaned closer, her fingers brushing up to the back of his head, massaging gently. He rolled his eyes at the feeling, a low groan slipping from his throat. He was fighting a losing battle. Every inch of her touch drove him closer to a place he wasn't sure he could return from.
Then she straddled him.
Her thighs draped over his lap, her robe parting just enough to brush against his skin.
His hands instinctively caught her hips to steady her, but it only made it worse. He could feel the round softness of her butt pressing against his hard length. A strangled sound escaped his throat.
She smelled like soap and sin.
His eyes dropped to her chest. The robe wasn't hiding much. He could see the curve of her breasts, the dip of her collarbone, the rise and fall of her breath.
He gulped.
"What are you doing?" he rasped.
"I'm trying to feel you," she whispered, her fingers exploring his chest, then his neck, up to the nape where her nails grazed just lightly enough to make him shudder.
His fingers dug slightly into her waist.
"Emily…" he said again, voice lower, strained.
"I want to make you relax, Xaren," she whispered into his ear.
Then she bit his earlobe.
Xaren growled low in his throat, his grip tightening. She was teasing something dangerous. Something primal. He was trying so hard not to pin her down and ravish her senseless. But she was making it impossible.
Every breath she took.
Every movement of her hips.
Every touch of her fingers.
She was a flame. And he was the dry forest she was about to burn.
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, his pupils dark with desire.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked, barely able to speak.
Her lips brushed his jaw, warm and deliberate. "More than anything."
And just like that, Xaren was about to rip off her robe — every nerve in his body screamed for it, every part of him ached for her. But then he stopped.
His hands hovered above her waist, trembling slightly. His breathing was ragged, and his jaw clenched as he fought the fire raging inside him. This wasn't right. Not now. Not like this.
She had almost died tonight.
And they weren't even dating.
What the hell was he doing?
He closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, and forced himself to pull back. Emily's brows furrowed in confusion as he gently lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She blinked up at him, her lips parted as if to speak — to ask him why — but he cut her off gently, voice low and firm.
"Go to sleep," he said.
She opened her mouth again, but he was already reaching for his shirt. He slid it over his shoulders, buttoned it without meeting her eyes, then moved to the door.
"I'll be heading out," he said, voice tight and unreadable.
And then he left, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded louder than a slam.