Darius
He didn't follow her immediately. That would have been too eager, too obvious. He let her leave first—graceful and unhurried, a queen retreating from the crowd—and only after a measured pause did he slip through the double doors at the side of the ballroom.
The hall beyond was hushed, carpet muffling his footsteps. Aresha's silhouette was a streak of silver ahead, her gown trailing like smoke. She didn't look back, but he knew she was aware of him.
She wanted him to follow.
And he wanted her cornered.
At the far end, she pushed open a set of carved oak doors and entered the small, private drawing room. The moment he crossed the threshold, the air shifted. The door clicked shut behind him—her hand on the latch.
Trapped together. Exactly where both of them wanted to be.
She didn't turn to face him at first. Instead, she drifted to the table, poured herself a measure of brandy with unhurried precision, and finally lifted those eyes to him.
"You're bold, Vale," she said softly, swirling the amber liquid. "Planting devices in my rooms, shadowing me like a hunter."
His lips curved faintly. "And you're careless, Silas. For someone who built empires in the dark, you leave an awful lot of trails."
Her laugh was low, dangerous. "You think I leave them by accident?"
He studied her—the subtle tilt of her head, the way her fingers coiled around the glass. Everything about her posture screamed control. But beneath it… he saw the flicker. A wariness she tried to bury.
Good. He wanted her off-balance.
"I know what you are," he said at last, voice calm, deliberate. "You hide it well, but shadows have tongues. Nine Cloud Abyssal. Veyrantis. The Silas bloodline. Do you want me to go on?"
Her glass stilled mid-swing.
For the first time, he saw her mask falter.
Only for a breath—but enough.
Aresha set the glass down with a deliberate click. She moved toward him, slow and lethal, her gown whispering against the carpet. She stopped just close enough for him to catch the faint trace of her perfume—sharp, cold, like winter roses.
"Be very careful, Vale," she murmured, eyes boring into his. "Those names aren't meant for your tongue."
"And yet," he returned, voice low, "I'm saying them. Which means I know more than you expected."
She tilted her head, studying him as she was calculating which vein would spill fastest if she slid a blade between his ribs but put a pause to those thought's remembering the kids. "If you know so much, then you should also know what happens to those who dig too deep into Veyrantis."
He leaned in, until their breaths mingled in the charged silence. His phobia whispered at the edge of his skin, nerves tightening from her nearness—but he didn't retreat. Not from her.
"Maybe I want to see if you'll break me before I break you."
For a moment, they stood in the standoff
clashing with midnight, two predators circling in a room far too small to contain them.
Then she smiled. Slow. Dangerous.
"Careful what you wish for."
Aresha
His composure was maddening. Most men flinched when she so much as flexed her power. But Darius Vale—he absorbed it, deflected it, and threw it back like tempered steel.
That made him dangerous.
And infuriatingly compelling.
She should have ended this—snapped his neck, erased the threat. Yet, something in the way he stood there, unflinching, staring down her name and legacy, held her hand.
Worse—something in her chest tightened.
The man was a storm. Not the kind you could avoid, but the kind that forced you to decide whether to bow or be broken.
Her smile widened, masking the churn beneath her ribs.
"You think you've cornered me, Vale," she whispered. "But don't mistake proximity for power. You're still in my den."
"Then why," he murmured, dark eyes unwavering, "does it feel like you're the one on edge?"
Her breath caught—just for a fraction. He saw it. She knew he saw it.
And that realization was the most dangerous thing of all.