Damian's gaze cut through the shadows like a blade, pinning Elara where she stood among the orchids. He didn't move at first. He didn't have to. His presence filled the greenhouse like smoke, curling into her lungs, suffocating.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
He tilted his head slightly, studying her as though she were a puzzle he already knew the answer to. "You didn't answer me." His voice was quiet, almost gentle—but Elara knew that tone. It was the calm before fire.
She forced her hands to unclench from the fabric of her dress. "I couldn't sleep," she whispered. "The air inside was… stifling."
Damian's eyes lingered on her trembling fingers. A faint smile curved his lips, though it held no warmth. "So you sought the night instead of me?"
Her stomach twisted. His words were a trap—every possible answer was dangerous. "I thought I'd find peace here," she said carefully.
He stepped closer. The crunch of gravel beneath his shoes echoed through her bones. Elara's breath caught when his hand rose, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was deceptively tender, but his eyes remained sharp, searching.
"The peace you seek does not exist," he murmured. "Not without me."
His thumb traced her jawline, the caress slow, deliberate, claiming. Elara's heart pounded so violently she was certain he could feel it through her skin.
She swallowed. "You're wrong."
Damian's smile widened, dark amusement flickering in his gaze. "Am I? Then why do you tremble when I touch you?"
Her body betrayed her, shivering beneath his fingers. She turned her face slightly, trying to escape the pull of his closeness. "Fear isn't desire."
He chuckled softly, a sound that sent ice down her spine. "No, but sometimes they wear the same mask."
Elara's nails dug into her palms. Behind his words, she heard the echo of the stranger's voice: You'll die hesitating. And she hated herself for faltering now, for letting Damian press closer until her back brushed against the glass wall of the greenhouse.
Moonlight spilled over them, illuminating the dangerous curve of his smile.
"Tell me," he whispered, lowering his lips near her ear. "What did you see out here, alone in the dark? What tempted you more than my bed?"
Her pulse roared in her ears. She could still smell the faint trace of the stranger's presence—the earthy scent of his cloak, the urgency in his voice. But if Damian sensed even a hint of it, blood would paint these flowers before dawn.
Elara forced her breathing to steady. "Nothing," she said finally, her voice steadier than she felt. "Only silence."
For a long moment, Damian said nothing. His eyes searched hers with a predator's patience, as if peeling back her skin to see what secrets writhed beneath. Then, at last, he stepped back.
But his hand didn't leave her. It slid instead to her waist, firm, unyielding. "Silence can be dangerous, little dove. In silence, lies are born."
Her breath caught, but she forced a weak smile. "And yet you keep me in silence often."
His eyes glimmered with something unreadable—admiration, or warning. Maybe both. "Because I want to hear what truths you invent when you're desperate."
Damian's lips brushed her temple, the kiss feather-light, chilling in its intimacy. "Do not make me doubt you, Elara. You know what happens when trust breaks."
Her chest tightened painfully. "I haven't betrayed you."
"Good." His hand lingered one second longer, then fell away. He turned toward the door, his voice calm again, but edged with steel. "Come. The night is not over, and neither is your place by my side."
Elara followed, her steps heavy. Every breath burned with the weight of the lie she had just buried beneath her tongue.
But as the glass doors closed behind them, she knew one truth with terrifying clarity: Damian didn't believe her. Not fully.
And when Damian doubted… the world bled.