The night had only grown louder, but Arielle felt like she was wrapped in silence. The crowd laughed, sang, shouted, and stumbled through the haze of alcohol, yet all of it blurred, dimmed, until the only sound she really heard was Adrian's voice.
"I don't like people touching what's mine."
The words still echoed in her ears, heavy and impossible to shake. She told herself she had misheard, that the music had distorted it. But when she dared look at him again, there was no mistake in his expression. Calm. Steady. Certain.
He meant it.
Her pulse stuttered in her throat. "You don't even know me," she whispered, trying to steady her voice. "You can't just… say things like that."
Adrian's lips curved slightly, though it wasn't amusement that touched his face. It was something deeper, sharper, something that made her skin prickle. He leaned in, lowering his voice until it was swallowed by the music.
"Cara mia."
Arielle blinked. "What?"
His gaze didn't waver. "My dear."
Her cheeks warmed. She opened her mouth, but he continued, the words spilling with unnerving ease.
"Bellissima. Innocente. Lumină mea."
Her stomach tightened. The words were foreign, unfamiliar—some Italian, some maybe something else entirely. She had no idea what they meant, but the way he said them, smooth and deliberate, made her heart race.
"What… what are you saying?"
Adrian's lips ghosted close to her ear, his breath brushing her skin. "Names," he murmured. "The ones that belong to you, even if you don't know them yet."
She shivered. The heat of the crowded room seemed to close in, suffocating her, though her body trembled for an entirely different reason.
"You can't—"
"I can," he cut in softly, his tone silk over steel. "I already have."
The intensity in his eyes made her look away, focusing desperately on the chaos around them—the flicker of lights, the clinking of cups, the wild laughter. Anything but him.
But she couldn't. Not really.
"Adrian, I don't…" She faltered, her throat dry. "I don't understand you."
He tilted his head, watching her with unsettling patience. "You don't need to. Not yet."
Her breath hitched.
A group of students stumbled past them, laughing loudly, one of them nearly knocking into Arielle. Instinctively, Adrian's arm shot out, pulling her closer to him. Too close. Her shoulder brushed his chest, and suddenly she was caged by his presence, his scent—smoke and something darker—wrapping around her.
Her body stiffened, but he didn't let go.
"You're shaking," he observed quietly, almost curiously, as if noting the weather. "Why?"
She forced herself to meet his gaze, though her chest was tight. "Because you're… you're scaring me."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick and unbreakable.
Then, Adrian's lips curved again, slower this time. "Good."
Her stomach dropped.
He leaned closer, so close she felt the faint brush of his words against her cheek.
"Do you know what 'obsidio' means?"
She swallowed hard. "No."
"It means siege," he whispered. "An army surrounding its enemy, cutting off escape. Waiting. Watching. Patient until the walls finally break."
Her pulse pounded in her ears.
"That's what you are to me, Arielle." His eyes gleamed under the strobe lights, dark and unyielding. "My siege. My battle. My surrender."
She had no reply. Couldn't form one.
Every instinct screamed at her to run, but her body refused to move. Her heart betrayed her, beating too fast, too loud, not entirely out of fear.
The music shifted, louder, faster, students cheering as the tempo spiked. But Arielle barely heard it.
Because Adrian bent closer still, his lips nearly brushing her ear as he whispered the next word.
"Mon trésor."
Her breath caught. She didn't need to understand French to feel the weight of it, to feel how dangerously it lingered in the air between them.
"My treasure."
She shook her head, barely finding her voice. "You… you can't call me that."
"I already did," he replied simply, as if that was the end of it.
And maybe it was.
Because no matter how much she wanted to deny it, a part of her—the part that had been invisible her whole life, overlooked, forgotten—ached at the sound.
Ached at the thought of being seen this way.
Even if it was by someone like him.
Especially by someone like him.