⚠️ Content Note
This chapter contains themes of recovery, education, and growing intimacy. Romantic tension and mature intimacy (heated kissing and physical closeness) are included, but no explicit sexual scenes. Reader discretion is advised.
Elara Cross had changed.
Not overnight, not in a sudden bloom, but gradually, like a flower that had been left in the shade for too long finally being coaxed into the sun. Two years under Adrian Vale's roof had done what a lifetime in her family's house never could.
The first year had been about survival. About food staying in her stomach instead of clawing its way back up. About nightmares easing enough that she could sleep through a night without bolting for the corner of the room. About scars treated and softened, about bones knitting stronger with nutrition.
Now, in the second year, Adrian decided—no, insisted—that it was time for her to catch up on the education she had been denied.
Which was how Elara found herself sitting at the long polished dining table, books stacked high on either side of her, a pencil clutched awkwardly in her hand as though it were a weapon she didn't know how to wield.
Adrian leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed, watching her with his usual mixture of impatience and something quieter that he never named.
"Elara," he said, his voice clipped, "that's not how you hold a pencil."
She glanced up at him, green eyes steady, then looked back down at her hand. "It writes," she said softly.
His jaw ticked. "It writes crooked."
She sighed, adjusted her grip, and tried again on the paper. The letters were shaky, uneven, but they were letters. Her name. Elara Cross.
Adrian's sharp gaze softened almost imperceptibly. He still remembered the day she told him she only knew how to write her name. The way she said it had been so matter-of-fact, so calm, like it wasn't the tragedy it actually was. Like it wasn't another theft from her already stolen childhood.
Now, watching her scrawl those six letters across the page, he felt something tighten in his chest.
"Better," he muttered.
Elara looked up at him then, lips twitching faintly, like the ghost of a smile wanted to form but didn't quite dare.
It became routine. Mornings with tutors who cycled through subjects—English, history, science. Afternoons often ended with Adrian himself, because numbers were her worst enemy and, apparently, his personal responsibility to fix.
"You don't add apples and oranges together," she argued one day, frowning down at the worksheet.
Adrian pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back a groan. "Elara. It's not about fruit. It's basic arithmetic."
"Then why use fruit at all?" she asked, genuine confusion in her tone.
He stared at her for a long moment before slamming his pencil down. "Because that's how they teach it to children, damn it."
Her lips quirked then, just slightly. He realized too late that she was teasing him on purpose.
Adrian leaned back in his chair, scowling. "You're infuriating."
"And you're loud," she said calmly, returning her attention to the numbers.
Some days ended with him storming out for air, but he always came back. Always. Because as much as she drove him mad with her slow progress, there was something grounding about sitting across from her, about seeing her slowly learn things she should have been allowed to learn a decade ago.
Ysabel, of course, didn't help matters.
Adrian's cousin was the one who set Elara up with most of her tutors. She was also the one who, when she wasn't prescribing medicine or scolding Adrian about his temper, took it upon herself to... meddle.
"She's your wife," Ysabel said one afternoon, not even bothering to lower her voice while Elara sat across the room flipping through a beginner's English book. "Maybe try being less of a grouch about it."
Adrian shot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "She's my forced wife."
Ysabel rolled her eyes. "And yet you're the one teaching her math every afternoon like some lovesick schoolboy. Don't play dumb with me, Vale."
Adrian scowled deeper, but when he glanced back at Elara, who was biting her lip in concentration over a paragraph, something twisted in his chest. He looked away quickly.
The second year wasn't just about books. It was about living.
Elara laughed more now. Not often, and not loudly, but when she did, Adrian felt it all the way down to his bones.
Once, after she managed to solve an algebra problem correctly on her own, she actually clapped her hands together like a child, face lit up in triumph. Adrian had to look away to hide the ridiculous smile tugging at his own lips.
"You're not hopeless after all," he muttered.
"I had a good teacher," she said simply.
And damn it, he felt that.
It was late one evening when things finally shifted.
The house was quiet. The staff had gone to bed. The only sound was the scratch of pencil against paper and the occasional frustrated sigh from Elara as she tried to untangle the mess of equations Adrian had set before her.
He sat beside her this time, leaning over the same sheet of paper, their shoulders brushing when she shifted.
"Not like that," he said, reaching over to guide her hand. His fingers curled lightly around hers, adjusting the pencil grip. "You carry the one here."
Her breath hitched.
Adrian felt it—noticed the way she froze slightly under his touch. He pulled his hand back as though burned, scowling at the paper instead. "Pay attention," he muttered.
But when she turned her head, he realized just how close their faces were.
Her green eyes caught the lamplight. Her lips parted faintly, soft and pink.
Something hot and dangerous coiled in Adrian's gut.
"Elara—" he began, his voice rough.
She leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn't practiced, wasn't smooth. Her lips pressed clumsily against his, tentative and unsure. But it was real.
Adrian froze, breath caught in his throat. Then instinct roared to life.
He cupped the back of her neck, pulling her in and kissing her back—hard, rough, like he'd been holding himself back for years. The pencil clattered to the table, forgotten.
Elara made a small, startled sound against his mouth—then tried to mimic his movements, fumbling, awkward, but eager.
He growled low in his chest, frustration and hunger tangling, and took over, showing her how it was done. His lips moved against hers, demanding, coaxing, devouring.
She shifted, climbing into his lap without hesitation, her arms winding around his neck.
Adrian's hands gripped her hips tight, pulling her against him as though he could anchor himself by the feel of her body. His blood burned. His restraint frayed.
"Elara," he rasped against her mouth, biting her bottom lip before sucking it gently. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."
Her breath shuddered. "Then... tell me."
He groaned, head falling briefly against her shoulder as he struggled to wrestle back control. She was inexperienced. Naïve. And yet she was here, kissing him back with all the fire of someone who had finally learned she was allowed to want something.
Adrian pulled back just enough to look at her. Her face was flushed, her golden hair falling loose around her cheeks, her lips red and swollen from his kiss.
God help him. She was beautiful.
"Stop," he muttered, though his grip on her didn't loosen. "You're... you're going to ruin me."
Elara blinked, confusion flickering across her features. "Is that... bad?"
He cursed under his breath and crushed his lips to hers again—one more kiss, rough and lingering, before forcing himself to pull back.
"Go to bed," he said hoarsely, his voice strained with the effort of holding himself in check. "Before I do something we can't take back yet."
She studied him for a moment, then—smiled. Soft. Certain. Beautiful. Damn Too much.
"Goodnight, Adrian."
And with that, she slipped off his lap and padded from the room, leaving him sitting there, heart pounding, fists clenched tight on the table as though that could keep him from chasing after her.
Adrian dragged a hand down his face, groaning low.
Two years ago, he swore he would never love her. Never protect her. Never let her in.
And now?
He doesn't know anymore.