Chapter 17
Hazel's POV
The corridors were quiet, eerily so, as though the mansion itself had fallen asleep. I crept toward the kitchen with the stealth of a thief, my stomach growling in protest. For days now, I'd been craving noodles. Not the plain kind the servants would scoff at, but the way I liked them—spiced, colorful, alive with flavors.
But there was a problem.
Since the day I fainted from cramps, the number of servants had mysteriously doubled. They lingered longer, working tirelessly until late at night. Their presence made it impossible for me to sneak into the kitchen unnoticed. To them, instant noodles were "junk," unworthy of the master's household, and certainly not suitable for someone like me.
But what did they know?
They had no idea how delicious "junk" could be when cooked with a little heart.
I peeked around the corner. Silence. The coast was clear.
"All clear," I muttered under my breath, tiptoeing into the dark kitchen.
I flicked on my phone's flashlight, the faint glow illuminating the shelves and counters. My fingers worked quickly, gathering everything I needed—peppers, green beans, carrots, chicken, a little vegetable oil. Plain noodles were never enough. I needed spice. Flavor. Comfort.
Every move I made was slow, cautious, deliberate. I stirred the pot quietly, the aroma of sizzling peppers and chicken filling the air. My mouth watered at the smell, my stomach growled again, and I couldn't suppress the small smile that crept onto my lips.
But I had underestimated something.
Noodles have a way of betraying their cook.
The fragrance spread quickly, wrapping around the kitchen like an invitation.
Finally, I turned off the stove, dished out the noodles, and sat down with glee bubbling inside me. My fork hovered just above the bowl. At last.
Then—
Click.
The lights blazed to life.
I froze. My breath caught in my throat. My eyes widened like a child caught with stolen sweets.
Val stood in the doorway.
His eyes flickered from my startled face to the steaming bowl in front of me. Calmly, without a word, he walked to the freezer, pulled out a bottle of water, uncapped it, and drank. The rise and fall of his Adam's apple with every gulp left me oddly breathless.
Then, with deliberate steps, he crossed the room. He pulled out the chair beside me, sat down, and without asking, picked up my fork.
My lips parted, but no sound came.
He twirled the noodles around the fork, lifted it, and ate. Not a flinch, not a pause. The hot steam didn't bother him at all. He kept eating—calm, collected, completely ignoring the storm rising inside me.
One bite. Two. Three.
I sat there, my breath shallow, my chest tightening with suppressed fury. Surely, he would stop. Surely, after a few bites, he would let me eat. But no. He ate every last strand of noodle. Every single one.
My eyes stung red from holding back my anger.
When he finished, he stood, carried the empty plate to the sink, and washed it with the same indifference as though it had never been my meal in the first place.
I clenched my fists. I was ready to explode. I didn't care if the money that bought the noodles was his, it was my stomach that had been rumbling for hours!
I opened my mouth, ready to snap—
And then I saw him.
Val tied an apron around his waist.
"What… at this time?" I muttered under my breath, too shocked to keep it in.
He pulled down a pack of spaghetti. His voice rolled out, deep, steady.
"Your body is changing, and you want to eat junk?"
I bit my lip hard. My patience was hanging by a thread. If I opened my mouth now, I would lose it. So I sat, arms crossed, glaring at him with a scowl plastered across my face. If the food he was about to make turned out bad, I swore I'd kill someone.
But when the aroma hit me, rich and mouthwatering, my resolve began to crumble. And when the first bite hit my tongue, I realized I had just swallowed my pride along with the spaghetti.
I ate. And ate. And ate.
By the time I was done, the pot was empty, my stomach full, my lips smeared with remnants of sauce. I leaned back, blissfully satisfied, but when I caught my reflection on the polished surface of the counter, heat crept up my cheeks. I must have looked ridiculous—like a child with no table manners.
So much for elegance. So much for composure.
But hunger had no rules.
As I carried the dishes to the sink, humming softly, I suddenly froze.
A strong hand slid around my waist.
My breath hitched.
I turned slightly, realizing Val had moved closer without me noticing. His arm circled my waist possessively, his head dipping low until his face pressed into the curve of my neck.
Right over my gland.
"Val… I…" My voice broke. I didn't even know what to say.
His grip tightened, his breath warm against my skin. I could feel it—the faint tremor in him. The way his aura, usually sharp and terrifying, softened just slightly.
Was it… because of my pheromones?
Peach. Sweet. Inviting.
It felt as though he liked them—needed them—even more than I understood myself. And every time he breathed me in, every time his presence pressed against me, his terrifying edge dulled, if only a little.
"What are you doing to me?"
The words rumbled against my skin, a shock that sent my thoughts scattering.
What was I doing to him? More like—what was he doing to me? My entire body was alive under his touch, trembling from his closeness.
Ernest's words echoed in my mind. He has trouble sleeping and takes drugs, but none of them work. Sleep therapy is the only thing that helps.
Was that why he never slept beside me? Why he always woke up before I did?
Did he… never sleep at all?
It wasn't pity that gripped me, but sadness. A heaviness for him that I couldn't shake.
"Your insomnia…" My voice was soft. "I can help. I've learned one or two massage techniques—the kind that helps you sleep."
For a moment, his grip loosened. He lifted his head, his eyes unreadable.
"Don't think much of it. I'm fine," he said flatly. And then he let go, stepping away, leaving me standing there stunned, the warmth of his touch lingering on my skin.
I watched his retreating back, confusion swirling inside me.
Did I say something wrong? Or is there more to his sleepless nights than just insomnia? Something from his past… something heavier?
I thought we were finally bridging the gap between us, but maybe I was wrong. He was still closed off, still locked behind a wall I couldn't break.
Would we ever have a real relationship? Or would it always be this—ice and fire, closeness and distance, a cycle I couldn't escape?
I sighed deeply, forcing myself to finish the dishes before retreating to the bedroom.
The room was empty, cold.
My plan had been to stay awake, to wait for him. But the exhaustion of the day weighed heavily on me. I had an audition tomorrow—not just for acting, but for modeling as well. I needed to look my best. No eye bags, no fatigue.
Sleep claimed me quickly, but the last thought in my mind was his voice, low and rough, whispering against my skin—
What are you doing to me?