The note was gone.
Serenya had slipped into the laundry room before dawn, heart hammering as she fed the parchment into the furnace. The flames caught fast, devouring the words until nothing but curling ash remained. You have a week. Burned. Buried. Safe.
At least from the servants' eyes.
She pressed her hands to her skirt, forcing calm into her breathing. But the air felt heavier this morning, the manor itself humming with unease. Every step she took down the servants' corridor, she felt stares linger a heartbeat too long. Brisa avoided her gaze. Marta barked orders sharper than usual. And the stranger from last night—who was he, truly?—had not appeared again.
Still, the real weight pressing at her chest wasn't their eyes. It was his.
Darian's.
The memory of his voice from last night clung stubbornly. Be careful where your thoughts wander. The warning had been soft, almost intimate. It had unsettled her more than a shouted command ever could.
She set her jaw, adjusting her apron. Today she would stay invisible. She had to.
The clank of boots shattered that hope.
"Rhyn," a guard barked, striding into the corridor. His eyes swept over the servants until they landed on her. "The Captain requires your presence."
Her stomach dropped. Again?
The guard didn't wait for an answer. He turned on his heel, expecting her to follow.
Serenya's palms dampened. Every instinct screamed to run the opposite direction, to find a corner, a shadow, anything to escape that study. But she smoothed her skirt, steadied her steps, and followed.
The walk was short, far too short. The manor's walls seemed narrower, the air tighter with each turn. When they reached the tall door with its new brass lock gleaming, the guard rapped once, then opened it.
Darian's voice floated out, calm and commanding. "Send her in."
Serenya's pulse tripped. She stepped forward, the door shutting heavily behind her.
Darian stood by the window, sunlight catching the edge of his profile. Not a desk, not parchment this time—he was simply waiting.
Serenya froze in the doorway.
"Close it," he said without looking at her.
The command struck harder than a shout. She obeyed, the latch clicking louder than it should.
When she turned, his eyes were already on her—sharp, unblinking. Her throat went dry.
"You were quick to come," he said.
"I… the guard came for me." Her voice came out smaller than she intended.
One brow lifted, faint amusement flickering across his face. "Always obedient. Or simply afraid?"
Heat rushed to her cheeks before she could stop it. She folded her hands to hide the tremor. "Is there a difference, sir?"
He actually smiled. Brief, thin, but it was there. "Perhaps not."
The air between them shifted. Not quite hostile. Not quite safe.
He moved back to his desk, picking up a stack of loose papers. "You'll sort these. Alphabetically, by name. Nothing difficult. Unless you're careless." He set them down in front of her with a deliberate thump.
Her pulse leapt. Another test. Always a test.
"Yes, sir." She reached for the stack, her fingers brushing the edge—too close to his hand. She jerked back instinctively.
Darian didn't miss it. His gaze lingered on her face, unreadable, before he leaned back in his chair. "You react like a startled bird."
"I didn't mean—" She cut herself off, biting down on her tongue.
"You didn't mean," he repeated slowly, as though savoring the words. "And yet you did. Interesting."
Her chest tightened. The papers trembled faintly in her grip. She focused on sorting, page after page, anything to keep her hands busy.
But she felt him watching her. Every flick of her eyes, every tremor of her fingers. He wasn't just testing her accuracy—he was dissecting her.
And worse—part of her felt it. The way the silence between them pressed, heavy, alive.
She set down the first neat stack. Her breath came too quick, and she forced herself to steady it.
Darian's voice broke the quiet. "Tell me, Rhyn… do you always follow orders so easily? Or do you only pretend?"
Her head snapped up, startled. His eyes locked with hers, dark and steady, waiting.
For a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe.
Serenya's mouth went dry. She wanted to answer, to deflect, but nothing came. Her silence betrayed her.
Darian rose from his chair.
The scrape of wood against stone made her flinch. He didn't move quickly, but with a quiet certainty, like a predator closing distance at his own pace. She gripped the papers tighter, knuckles whitening.
He stopped behind her chair. Close. Too close. She felt the weight of his presence before the brush of his voice.
"You've a steady hand… most of the time."
Her shoulders stiffened.
A shadow fell across the parchment as he leaned in, his hand resting on the edge of the desk beside hers. The faint scent of leather and steel filled her lungs, drowning out reason.
"Not like now," he murmured.
Her fingers twitched, smudging ink across the page. Her breath hitched—too loud in the silence.
Darian's chuckle was low, almost amused. "I thought so."
She forced herself to speak, even if her voice wavered. "You're standing too close, sir."
"Am I?" His reply was soft, almost indulgent. He didn't move.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. She dared not look up, but every part of her was aware of him—the heat of his body, the subtle shift of his coat brushing her shoulder.
"Focus," he said, tone slipping back into command. "Letters, ink, order. That is all that should matter."
But the way he lingered—watching the way her hand trembled, the way her breath caught—betrayed that he was measuring more than her work.
She forced her quill to move, one line, then another, the scratch of ink shaky but legible. Every stroke felt like walking a blade's edge.
Darian stayed there, a silent weight at her back, until her shoulders ached from holding so still.
When he finally pulled away, the sudden absence of him felt like a drop into cold water.
"Better," he said simply, resuming his seat. But his gaze—steady, knowing—never left her.
The scratching of her quill slowed, then stopped. Serenya realized she'd been holding her breath too long. She let it out shakily, fingers stiff from gripping too tight.
Darian shifted again. The quiet scrape of his chair legs against the floor made her glance up—just in time to see him standing, circling the desk with unhurried steps.
Her pulse tripped. He was moving toward her again.
"Your lines," he said evenly, "they curve at the end. A habit. It betrays hesitation."
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
He stopped beside her this time, leaning down as though to inspect her work. His arm brushed against her shoulder, firm, deliberate. The quill nearly slipped from her grasp.
"Steady," he murmured, his breath warm at her ear.
Every nerve in her body jolted awake. She couldn't move, couldn't think—just the sound of his voice so close, the nearness of him pressing into her awareness.
Her hand jerked. Ink blotted across the parchment.
Darian's head tilted, his face so close she caught the faint shadow of a scar at his temple. For a heartbeat, it felt inevitable—that he would linger, that his gaze would drop, that something forbidden would snap.
Then, suddenly, he straightened.
He stepped back sharply, the air rushing in between them like a gasp. His jaw flexed once, quickly, before his expression reset into cool control.
Serenya blinked hard, heart hammering in her throat.
"You lose focus too easily," he said, tone clipped. "That will not do."
But the words came faster than his usual calm, as though he were covering something. His hands were behind his back, but she thought—just for an instant—that they clenched.
He turned away, back toward his chair, as if distance was the only command that mattered now.
Serenya stared down at the ruined page, the blot bleeding across the letters. Her breath wouldn't steady. She hadn't missed it—the flicker in his eyes before he turned away.
Silence stretched between them, thick as smoke. Serenya forced her quill to move again, but the ink still bled unevenly across the parchment. Her fingers wouldn't stop trembling.
Darian said nothing for a long while, the only sound the faint crackle of the hearth. When she dared a glance, he was watching her—not her work, not the letters. Her.
Her throat tightened. She bent her head, desperate to finish, desperate to leave.
Finally, his voice cut through the stillness. Calm again. Almost too calm.
"That's enough for today."
She set the quill down at once, relief and dread tangling in her chest. Rising from her seat, she smoothed her apron, ready to bow and retreat as quickly as possible.
But as she turned, his voice caught her.
"Rhyn."
She froze, heart lurching. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
Darian's eyes were unreadable, steady in the firelight. His jaw was tight, his tone quiet—too quiet, as if he hadn't meant to speak but couldn't stop himself.
"Do not mistake my patience for kindness," he said. A pause. Then softer, almost under his breath—"It would be easier if I disliked you."
The words hung there, raw and dangerous.
Serenya's pulse thundered in her ears. She didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe.
But Darian looked away first. He dismissed her with a flick of his hand, turning back toward the window as though nothing had been said at all.
Her legs carried her out of the study, though her chest felt hollow, heavy, alive all at once.
Easier if he disliked me…
The door closed behind her, and still, her heart would not stop racing.