⚠️ Content Notice:
This chapter contains depictions of trauma, and abuse. Reader discretion is advised. If these themes are distressing, please skip this chapter.
The room was silent except for the soft whisper of fabric as Elara moved across the polished wooden floor. The master bedroom loomed vast and unfamiliar, suffocating in its luxury. Her bare feet made no sound against the carpet, though her movements carried the practiced hesitation of someone who had never been welcome in such spaces. The wide four-poster bed sat in the center, dressed in crisp white sheets and a duvet that looked heavy enough to swallow her whole.
But Elara didn't climb onto it.
Instead, she reached for the folded comforter at the foot of the bed, pulled it free with delicate hands, and—without so much as a glance at Adrian—laid it carefully on the floor beside the bedframe. She crouched, wrapped herself in the blanket, and curled into a small bundle, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her golden hair, brittle from years of neglect, spilled across her pale cheek, and she settled quickly into stillness.
Adrian Vale, who had been watching her with folded arms and sharp blue eyes, let out a harsh exhale.
"The hell are you doing?" His voice cracked through the silence, raw and edged.
Elara didn't look up. Her lashes remained low, her face turned slightly toward the floor. "Sleeping," she said softly, almost tonelessly.
Adrian's jaw flexed. He stalked forward a step, then another, until he stood at the side of the bed. "On the floor?" His voice dropped lower, incredulous. "There's an entire bed here. Use it."
Still, Elara did not rise. Her body, cocooned in the comforter, curled tighter, like a cornered animal returning to its den. "The floor is fine," she murmured, the words muffled against the fabric.
"Fine?" Adrian's scoff carried more disbelief than anger. "You've got a damn mattress—more expensive than some people's yearly salary—and you'd rather sleep on the floor like a dog?"
The word slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately something in Elara's stillness shifted. Her shoulders twitched beneath the blanket, a tiny flinch, but she didn't argue. She didn't lash back with wounded pride or wounded rage like most would have.
She only said, "I usually sleep on the floor. It's better this way."
For the first time since she entered his life, Adrian felt his throat tighten with something he didn't know how to name. Better? She said it like she believed it—like the floor was safer, kinder, more familiar than a bed.
His irritation spiked, but so did something else, something far more dangerous: curiosity.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, growling under his breath. "Goddamn stubborn woman."
When she didn't move, he lost patience. He stepped back and crossed his arms tighter, his tall frame casting a shadow over her cocooned body. "Get in the bed, Elara."
Her eyes, heavy-lidded from exhaustion, fluttered open just enough to glance at him. Hollow, resigned, empty of defiance. "That's your bed."
Adrian almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Almost. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, it's my bed. And it's big enough to share. Do you think I'm going to bite you in your sleep?"
Her gaze lingered on him, cautious, unreadable. Then, without a word, she tightened the comforter around herself and rolled to face the opposite direction, presenting her back to him.
Something inside him snapped.
With a low curse, he grabbed the edge of the comforter and yanked it just enough to force her attention back on him. "I said, get in the bed."
Her expression didn't change—calm, blank, irritatingly unbothered. "I have a comforter."
Adrian swore under his breath, raking both hands through his hair. "That's not the point," he muttered, pacing a step away before whirling back toward her. "The point is, you are not sleeping on the goddamn floor in this house. Not while I'm in it."
The words burned as they left him, sounding far too much like some twisted promise of protection. He hated that. Hated how natural the command had sounded, how fiercely it left his mouth.
Elara, of course, didn't argue further. She simply let the silence fall again, her body curling tighter into her bundle as if she hadn't heard him at all. Within minutes, her breathing evened, slow and soft. She had fallen asleep—just like that—on the hard floor beside a bed fit for royalty.
Adrian stared down at her, chest tight, frustration pounding in his temples.
For the first time, he noticed how quickly exhaustion claimed her, as though her body had long ago learned to collapse at the first chance of safety—or what passed for it. And though she looked breakable, fragile enough to shatter under a touch, she also looked... peaceful.
Peaceful, on the damn floor.
Adrian's hands curled into fists. He muttered a curse at the ceiling, then another under his breath for himself.
He should have left her there. He should have walked away, shut off the light, and let her prove her own stubbornness until her body ached with it.
But he didn't.
With a sharp exhale, he crouched, arms scooping beneath the bundled comforter. She stirred faintly but didn't wake as he lifted her. She was lighter than he expected, alarmingly so, her bones pressing through the thin layers of fabric. His jaw clenched, a sour taste rising in his mouth.
He laid her on the bed—his bed—with a rough sort of care, dropping the comforter over her and stepping back as if she might burn him. She shifted once, instinctively curling toward the warmth of the pillow. Her golden hair fanned out like a brittle halo against the stark sheets, and for a brief, treacherous second, Adrian thought she looked... beautiful.
The thought curdled immediately. He forced it down, scowling hard enough to bury it.
He slid into the opposite side of the bed, yanking the sheet up with a deliberate barrier between them. Even so, the air felt charged, thick, heavy with the memory of her weight in his arms.
"Try moving again," he muttered darkly into the pillow, "and see what happens."
Elara didn't stir. She slept on, quiet and still, as though she had never been moved at all.
Adrian lay awake longer, eyes fixed on the ceiling, every muscle taut with unspoken tension. He told himself it was irritation. Anger. Nothing else.
But when his gaze slid sideways—just once—he caught sight of her face.
The hollowness of her cheeks spoke of years without nourishment. Her lips, red but chapped, parted faintly as she breathed. Her lashes, long and dark, brushed against pale skin. Her hair, gold as sunlight yet brittle as straw, spread messily across the pillow.
She looked too breakable, too starved, too damn fragile.
And still, somehow, unbearably pretty.
Adrian clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze back to the ceiling. He would not think that. He refused.
But the thought lingered, poisoning the edges of his resolve.
Pretty.
Like something carved from ruin.
He turned onto his side with a grunt, back facing her, dragging the blanket higher over his shoulders.
"Damn it," he muttered, his voice low and hoarse, meant only for himself.
Sleep eluded him for a long time, but when it finally came, it came with the image of her lying there, too small in his bed, too silent for his peace, and far too beautiful for the hate he was supposed to feel.