A few hours earlier
The moment Julian stepped out of the office, the carefully maintained composure on her face shattered.
Her expression twisted—subtle, controlled, but unmistakably dark. Years of dealing with politicians, board members, and power-hungry elites had taught her one thing well: when men spoke too carefully, they were hiding something. And tonight, the rot was unmistakable.
Especially Martin.
His pauses had been too deliberate. His reassurances too polished. Julian replayed his words in her mind, again and again, each time uncovering another inconsistency. She could feel it—an unease crawling beneath her skin, sharp and relentless.
This wasn't just politics.
This wasn't coincidence.
Something was moving beneath the surface, and she hated being the last to see it.
Without wasting another second, Julian pulled out her phone, her heels striking the marble floor with purpose. Her fingers moved swiftly as she dialed.
"Jennifer," she said the moment the call connected, her voice low but commanding. "Call an emergency meeting at W Group headquarters. Audit Room. Now."
There was no need to explain further. Jennifer understood urgency when she heard it.
W Group Headquarters
Audit Room
The Audit Room was sealed off from the rest of the building—soundproofed walls, dim recessed lighting, and a long obsidian table that reflected power as much as it did faces. This room was where secrets were dissected, where threats were named before they became disasters.
Julian sat at the head of the table, her posture straight, her presence immovable. The air around her felt heavy, expectant.
Across from her stood Jennifer, tablet in hand, her expression sharp and professional. Two other men occupied the room as well—silent, observant figures from Julian's inner circle, men trusted not for their loyalty alone, but for their discretion.
Jennifer inhaled once before speaking.
"The individuals who attacked us tonight," she began, tapping her screen as holographic data flickered to life, "belong to an organization that has surfaced relatively recently."
Julian's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against the armrest.
"The name of the organization is DECARD," Jennifer continued.
"They've been active for approximately seven to eight years. No public leader. No registered headquarters. Their rise to power has been… aggressive."
The room grew quieter.
"They don't operate like typical syndicates," Jennifer added.
"Their movements are calculated. Strategic. Whoever is behind this knows exactly what they're doing."
Julian leaned back slowly, her gaze fixed ahead, unreadable.
Seven to eight years.
Long enough to build an empire.
Short enough to still be hungry.
And hunger, Julian knew well, was the most dangerous weapon of all.
"An organization that was established only recently," Julian said at last, her voice cool and edged with unmistakable sarcasm, "is capable of barging into Sky Soul?"
The name itself carried weight—an institution protected by layers of power, influence, and silence. Julian's lips curved faintly, not in amusement, but in disbelief sharpened by irritation.
The room fell into immediate silence.
Jennifer stiffened, as did the two men seated nearby. No one dared to interrupt her train of thought. They had all seen this side of Julian before—the calm before decisive action.
Julian lifted her gaze slowly, fixing it on Jennifer.
"Go on," she ordered, her tone measured but absolute.
Jennifer swallowed once and nodded, adjusting her tablet before continuing.
"The organization may not be vast in numbers," she explained carefully, choosing each word with precision, "but it is far from insignificant either. Their structure is tight, their movements disciplined, and their operations highly coordinated."
She paused briefly before delivering the next revelation.
"The gang appears to revolve around three central figures," Jennifer continued. "They are known only by their codenames—King, Ace, and Joker."
A subtle shift passed through the room.
"Each of them holds significant authority within DECARD. Orders flow through them. No action is taken without their approval."
Jennifer hesitated for a fraction of a second before adding, her voice lowering slightly, "Unfortunately, Madam… neither we nor any of our sources have been able to uncover their real names or their origins."
The words settled heavily in the air.
"None?" Julian raised her brows, genuine surprise flickering across her otherwise composed expression. Her fingers tapped once against the armrest as she processed the implication.
An organization this efficient, this bold—yet completely faceless.
Julian hummed softly, a contemplative sound that made everyone in the room straighten unconsciously.
"Continue," she said at last.
And everyone present knew—whatever came next would decide the direction of the war that had just begun.
"Yes. And this King is believed to be the leader of the gang," Jennifer continued, her voice steady but careful. "The other two—Ace and Joker—serve as his right and left hands."
She drew in a quiet breath before going on.
"They operate with extreme cruelty. In fact, far more ruthlessly than the Falcons. That is precisely why DECARD has already earned a reputation for their brutality, despite being relatively new."
The words sat heavy in the air.
"This King," Jennifer said, scrolling through the data, "is said to be the most dangerous among them. He oversees their syndicate operations and is responsible for large-scale smuggling—arms, illegal goods, and high-risk contraband. Every major movement of the organization ultimately passes through him."
Julian remained silent, her expression unreadable.
Jennifer moved to the next file.
"Ace," she continued, "is known as the notorious one. Fun-loving—if one can call it that—but in the worst possible way. He handles negotiations, contracts, and deals with external parties and underground dealers. He plays the role of a mediator, but his methods are far from civil."
One of the men in the room shifted uncomfortably.
Then Jennifer's tone changed.
"And then there is Joker."
Her fingers paused over the screen for a moment.
"He is the most secretive among the three. According to multiple reports, he has personally eliminated several major organization leaders without hesitation. His role is primarily execution—he handles killings, threats, and the removal of obstacles that stand in DECARD's way."
The room seemed to grow colder.
"And tonight," Jennifer added, lowering her voice slightly, "he was the one who launched the attack. His target was Mr. Dante."
She hesitated, clearly choosing her next words with care.
"But…" Jennifer continued, "…due to some unexpected interference—or perhaps an accident—he did not complete the kill."
Her gaze flickered briefly toward Julian, as if testing how much truth she should reveal.
The implication was clear.
Someone like Joker does not fail without reason.
The temperature in the room seemed to plunge into negative degrees.
Julian knew—without a shred of doubt—that the accident Jennifer spoke of was her daughter.
Her fingers curled into tight fists against the armrest, nails biting into her palm as she exhaled sharply, forcing herself to remain composed.
"Anything else?" Julian asked, her voice low and edged with steel. Her patience was thinning fast.
Jennifer shook her head slowly, then lowered her gaze, fear flickering across her face.
"This organization has been extremely secretive since its establishment," one of the men seated to Julian's right spoke up. "None of our known sources have ever come across them before. And judging by tonight's incident, it appears someone on the inside may have helped them."
The implication hung heavily in the air.
Suddenly, Jennifer looked up, as if another thought had struck her.
"There's one more thing," she added quickly. "This group has been at war with the Falcons for many years."
Julian's brows knit together. "Falcons? For what reason?"
Jennifer shook her head. "We don't know."
"Damn it," Julian muttered under her breath.
The fragments were beginning to form a picture—one she could almost see—but the details were still frustratingly out of reach.
"Dig deeper," Julian ordered coldly. "And make sure no one traces this back to us."
Every person in the room nodded at once.
"And what about the bodyguard issue I asked you about, Eden?" Julian asked, her gaze shifting to the man seated to her right.
Eden straightened immediately. He was a man who rarely faltered, yet tonight even he looked weighed down.
"Madam," he began carefully, "unfortunately, due to today's incident, many of our men are injured. At this moment, only one individual is suitable to be assigned as Miss Blythe's personal bodyguard."
He stepped forward and handed a sealed file to Julian.
"I tried to allot the best of the best from our organization," Eden continued. "Every available candidate was reviewed personally."
Julian accepted the file and opened it.
The guard's details were laid out neatly inside—background, skill set, operational history, psychological assessment. Everything was thorough. Everything was precise.
Yet her expression barely changed.
Not impressed.
Not convinced.
Her fingers closed around the file slowly, tapping once against the table as her thoughts drifted elsewhere—toward threats unseen, toward shadows moving too close to her daughter.
The night dragged on like an unending storm.
Julian spent every remaining hour buried in decisions, countermeasures, and quiet commands—one call after another, one problem folding into the next. There was no rest. No pause. Only control.
By the time the sky began to pale, exhaustion sat heavy on her shoulders.
At exactly seven in the morning, Julian finally arrived back at the Whitmoré mansion.
The gates closed behind her with a low, echoing thud.
And with her came choices that could no longer be delayed.
After seeing Blythe safe, Julian finally retired to her room.
Her chamber was no less grand than Blythe's—spacious, elegant, and immaculately designed—but unlike her daughter's, it carried no warmth. No traces of laughter. No careless mess. Everything stood in disciplined silence, much like Julian herself.
After stepping out of the shower, steam still clinging faintly to her skin, a maid assisted her in choosing a dress. The fabric slid over her shoulders smoothly, but the unease in her chest refused to settle.
Ring… ring…
The sharp sound sliced through the quiet.
Julian glanced at the screen.
Caller: Eden.
Her brows knitted instinctively.
"Hello," she answered, her voice steady but alert. "What's wrong, Eden?"
There was a brief pause on the other end—just long enough to stir her instincts.
"Madam," Eden said carefully, "there's a problem."
Julian's fingers tightened around the phone. "What is it?" she demanded. "What's wrong?"
"The newly appointed bodyguard for Miss…" Eden hesitated. "He—"
"He what?" Julian cut in sharply. "What's wrong with him, Eden?"
"He got into an accident."
Julian frowned deeply. For a fleeting moment, a bitter thought crossed her mind—Is someone playing tricks or black magic with her?One setback after another, relentless, merciless.
"Is it serious?" she asked, her tone lowering.
"It's not that serious, Madam," Eden replied quickly, "but he'll need at least three months to fully recover."
"Three?" Julian echoed, disbelief creeping into her voice.
She exhaled sharply, frustration bleeding through her composure.
"That's too long," she said firmly. "I can't keep my daughter locked away for three months."
Her gaze drifted to the window, the early morning light barely filtering through the curtains.
"Are there no replacements?" she asked, her voice hardening once more.
"…From within our organization, unfortunately, there is no one suitable," Eden admitted. "However, if you permit, I do have a candidate. He's not part of us—but he's better than anyone we currently have."
Julian's expression hardened instantly.
"Eden," she snapped, her voice sharp as a blade, "knowing full well the hyenas circling us, how do you expect me to place an outsider beside my daughter?"
There was a pause—then Eden spoke again, this time with unwavering confidence.
"Madam… we cannot rely on external agencies. Some of our men are still deep undercover, and the rest simply aren't capable enough to handle this level of threat. This man is different. In terms of defense, strategy, and restraint, he surpasses them all."
Julian's jaw tightened.
"And more than that," Eden added quietly, "he's trustworthy."
The certainty in his tone made Julian hesitate—just for a second.
"…Fine," she said at last. "Bring him to the mansion first. Then we'll talk."
Without waiting for a reply, Julian ended the call.
She straightened her posture, her face once again masked in composure, and began preparing herself—fully aware that this decision might change everything.
Twenty minutes later, Eden arrived at the mansion—with Dwight beside him.
The doors opened quietly as they stepped inside. The air in the room felt heavier than before, thick with unspoken scrutiny. Julian was already seated on the sofa, a stack of files spread across the glass table before her, her attention seemingly absorbed in work.
"Madam," Eden announced respectfully, breaking the silence. "He's the man I was telling you about."
Julian handed the file she was holding to Jennifer without looking up at first. Only then did she lift her gaze—slowly, deliberately—toward Dwight.
The moment her eyes settled on him, she paused.
He stood tall, composed, his presence commanding without effort. A solid, disciplined frame, muscle built not for show but for survival. There was something dangerous in the way he carried himself—an unpolished, lethal stillness. And his eyes… dark, calculating, sharp enough to strip confidence from even the most seasoned opponent.
Julian assessed him in silence.
Instinctively, her mind drifted to the masked men from the night before—his movements, his shadows, his intent. For a fleeting moment, Dwight's silhouette overlapped with those memories.
If one of them ever reached my daughter… she thought, her jaw tightening, this man would stop them.
The realization caught her off guard.
Julian lifted her brows slightly, surprised—not by him, but by herself. Trust did not come easily to her. Yet, despite knowing nothing about him just moments ago, she found herself believing in his capability… perhaps more than she should.
Her gaze hardened again, composure sliding back into place.
Belief could be dangerous.
And she never made mistakes lightly.
"Madam," Eden said, straightening instinctively, "this is Dwight Montclair. Dwight—she is the mother of the daughter I told you about earlier, Miss Julian Illez Whitmoré."
Dwight inclined his head in a formal bow. It was calm. Respectful.
But there was nothing submissive about it.
Even at rest, his body seemed alert—muscles subtly coiled, senses alive. While no one noticed, his gaze swept the room with precision, not curiosity. He wasn't observing the décor or the people.
He was searching.
Not unlike a predator entering unfamiliar territory, instinctively tracking the presence it had come for.
Julian studied him closely.
"Mr. Dwight," she said at last, her voice cool and controlled, "I assume Eden has already informed you about the nature of the work you're being considered for."
Dwight did not respond immediately.
Instead, his eyes shifted—briefly, deliberately—toward Eden standing beside him.
Eden froze.
The silence stretched just long enough to be uncomfortable.
Julian followed Dwight's line of sight and turned her gaze to Eden as well. In that instant, Eden felt it—two pairs of eyes on him, sharp and assessing. Two predators weighing him from opposite sides.
He swallowed hard and cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak, the air suddenly tight in his lungs.
"Madam, I thought it best to let him meet you first," Eden said carefully, "and then you could decide whether he should be appointed or not…"
"He is appointed," Julian interrupted coolly. "Partially. Tell him the rules on the way."
She lifted her wrist, checking the time on her watch. "My daughter will be arriving shortly."
Eden nodded at once and gestured for Dwight to follow. Without a word, Dwight turned and walked out—rigid, composed, like a carved statue finally set in motion.
Julian extended her hand for the file without turning around.
But then—
She paused.
And turned.
Her sharp gaze landed on her assistant, who was still staring at the retreating figure of the man who had just left.
"Jennifer."
"M-Madam?!" Jennifer jolted back to reality, her face flushing crimson as embarrassment caught up with her wandering mind. Under the weight of Julian's unwavering stare, she hurriedly placed the file into her outstretched hand.
"I'm sorry, Madam."
Julian exhaled softly, shaking her head as she returned her attention to the documents.
Young people.
Present situation
"Blythe… Blythe!" Julian's voice cut through the silence, her hand waving insistently before her daughter's blank gaze.
Blythe blinked, startled, as though pulled back from some distant shore of thought, her breath catching as reality reclaimed her.
"Blythe, are you well?" Julian's tone softened, but the concern etched across her face betrayed the weight of the question. Around her, Mr. Tim and Linda leaned closer, their expressions mirroring Julian's worry, forming a circle of anxious guardians.
Blythe's eyes darted between them, the haze lifting. She steadied herself, forcing a gentle smile that carried more reassurance than truth. "I'm fine," she murmured, her voice quiet but deliberate, as though the words themselves were meant to soothe the room.
Julian did not relent so easily. "Are you certain?" she pressed, her gaze sharp, unwilling to be deceived by a fragile smile. Blythe nodded firmly this time, her composure restored, and only then did Julian turn her attention to Dwight.
He stood apart, silent as stone, his presence commanding without effort. Julian's words flowed toward him, once again explaining his role to Blythe, her tone clipped with authority.
But Blythe's voice rose in quiet resistance, her words tinged with youthful defiance. "Mother, I rarely leave the castle. Most of my days are spent here. I don't see the necessity of him being with me at all times." Her eyes flickered toward Dwight, then back to Julian, her tone steady yet reluctant.
"And I already have many bodyguards. Surely that is enough."
Her protest lingered in the air, fragile yet resolute, like a candle flame refusing to be extinguished. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Julian's reply, while Dwight remained unmoved—an enigmatic figure whose silence spoke louder than any argument.
"Even those men together could not best him—or so Eden claims," Julian murmured, her voice carrying a note of skepticism. She leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing as though weighing the truth of the statement.
"Blythe, listen, dear. You cannot always have the others at your side. They follow you only when you step beyond these walls. But him…" She paused, her gaze flicking toward Dwight, her tone sharpening with finality.
"He remains with you, day and night. For my peace of mind, just allow it. Do this for me."
Blythe, nineteen and still bound by the invisible chains of filial obedience, felt the weight of her mother's words press against her chest. Resistance stirred faintly within her, but it was fragile, fleeting. She could not bring herself to deny Julian. With a quiet breath, she nodded, her compliance soft yet absolute.
In that moment, Dwight's eyes glimmered—an imperceptible flash, gone as quickly as it appeared. No one saw it, no one marked the shift. But within that fleeting spark lay something darker, a silent claim unspoken.
Caught you, prada mea !"
The thought lingered in the unseen recesses of his mind, a whisper of possession cloaked beneath his stillness.
After that Blythe had withdrawn to her chambers, leaving the corridors hushed in her absence. Julian, with deliberate calm, summoned Dwight to her study.
The room was a reflection of its owner — structured, elegant, and intimidating without trying to be. Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and neatly arranged files. A single lamp cast a focused golden glow across the large desk, leaving the corners of the room in thoughtful shadow.
"So, did Eden provide you with all the instructions, Mr. Dwight?" Julian's voice was measured, her gaze unwavering as it settled upon the man standing before her desk. Her fingers tapped lightly against the polished wood, each rhythm a silent test, as though she sought to uncover a flaw in his composure. Yet, none revealed itself.
"Yes, madam." Dwight's reply came in a voice low and magnetic, each syllable carrying weight, as though his words were rare coins—few in number, but precious in value.
Julian's brows arched, her curiosity momentarily breaking through her mask of indifference. The cadence of his speech betrayed something foreign, something unexpected. "Are you… Romanian?" she asked, her tone sharpened by intrigue.
Dwight's gaze lifted, sudden and sharp, before lowering again with deliberate restraint. "Is there a problem with that, Señorita?" His accent curled around the word, rich and unmistakable, and even Jennifer—silent until now—found her brows rising in surprise at his boldness.
Julian's expression remained unreadable, her face a veil of indifference that concealed whatever storm might have stirred beneath. "None," she answered, her voice flat, offering no hint of concession nor suspicion.
But Dwight knew.
He could feel the weight of her silence pressing against him, the subtle calculation in her eyes. She was not merely asking questions; she was measuring him, weighing him, deciding whether he belonged in the realm of safety—or in the shadows of danger.
"Eden mentioned you once worked as a bodyguard. May I know which organization you served under?" Julian's voice carried a calm authority, though her eyes searched Dwight's face for the truth behind the question.
Dwight had anticipated this coming long before stepping into the study. His answer was prepared, sharpened, and waiting. "I worked for Lup," he said evenly.
He did not elaborate, nor did he evade. The word was placed between them with deliberate precision — like bait dropped into still water. Whether she chose to bite or let it sink… that decision now belonged to her.
Julian's brows knit together in brief confusion, but the frown dissolved almost as quickly as it appeared. She regained her composure, her tone clipped and decisive. "Fine. Jennifer will lead you to Blythe's chambers. You are to remain with her every second."
Dwight inclined his head, his voice resonant with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. "I will protect my luna, madam."
The word lingered in the air, heavy and intimate, as though it carried a meaning far deeper than mere duty. His tone suggested that only he possessed the strength to shield her from the world.
Without waiting for reply, he turned toward the door, his steps measured and unhurried, leaving the room in silence behind him.
Julian's expression hardened, her frown deepening this time. The word luna unsettled her—it was too personal, too intimate.
A term that did not belong in the language of professional guardianship. And though she said nothing, the unease remained, pressing against her thoughts like a shadow she could not dismiss.
Before Dwight could step beyond the threshold, Julian's voice cut through the air—cold, commanding, and absolute.
"Nu uita unde ești și pentru cine lucrezi.
Protejeaz-o. Atât. Restul nu te privește.
Nu confunda apropierea cu permisiunea."
The words, sharp as steel, carried the weight of authority that brooked no defiance.
Dwight lifted his gaze to her, his eyes steady, unreadable.
"Înțeleg," he replied.
In English, his voice was rough, magnetic, almost abrasive in its power. Yet in his native tongue, the syllables curled with a dangerous allure, seductive in their resonance, as though the language itself cloaked him in mystery.
He did not linger. With a calm, deliberate motion, he closed the door behind him, the sound echoing softly in the chamber. His steps fell into rhythm as he followed Jennifer down the corridor, his presence trailing like a shadow that refused to be shaken.
Jennifer led Dwight through the long corridor, her steps brisk yet betraying a faint unease. Though she kept her eyes forward, she could not entirely mask the flustered air that clung to her—aware of the man's presence behind her, his quiet strength pressing like a shadow at her back.
Dwight, however, was elsewhere. His mind replayed fragments of the earlier exchange, each word echoing with deliberate weight. A faint smile touched his lips, subtle and unreadable.
Will she take the bait or not…?
his eye curled in amusement.
I believe my mother-in-law is not that......
Jennifer halted abruptly, as though cutting through his thoughts. "Here," she said, her voice quick, almost clipped, gesturing toward the towering door before them.
She gave a small nod, her composure fraying at the edges, and then turned away. Her retreat was hurried, almost a run, as though distance itself might steady the flutter in her chest.
Dwight remained, his gaze fixed upon the door, the faint smile lingering—an expression that carried more than mere amusement.
For the first time, Dwight felt a tremor of nervousness coil within him. The girl he had dreamed of, the one whose presence had driven him nearly to madness with yearning, was just beyond this door.
The barrier of wood seemed impossibly thin, as though it could not contain the storm of anticipation rising inside him.
His mind painted the scene with feverish detail: he would knock, and the door would open slowly, revealing her radiant face.
Her starry eyes, expressive and curved with warmth, would catch his gaze and hold it captive.
Her lips—soft, inviting, almost sinful in their allure—would lift into a smile that beckoned him closer, daring him to press against them.
And then, in that honeyed voice that lingered like music, she would whisper, "You came."
"Yes… yes," Dwight murmured inwardly, nodding to himself, the fantasy tightening its grip.
Just like a wife welcoming her husband…
The thought twisted into a low, amused chuckle that escaped him—hehehehh—a sound that carried both delight and possession.
He ignored entirely the memory of her earlier resistance, dismissing it as though it had never existed. To him, it was irrelevant, a fleeting shadow against the brilliance of the vision he now embraced.
The door loomed before him, silent and waiting, while Dwight's anticipation swelled—an intoxicating mix of desire, arrogance, and inevitability.
Dwight felt the slow rise of his heartbeat, each thrum echoing in his chest like a drum of anticipation. He drew in a deep breath, steadying himself, and lifted his hand to knock—three deliberate raps against the door. Then he stepped back, the silence of the corridor pressing in around him.
Footsteps approached, light yet certain. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment, lips curving faintly as though rehearsing the smile he longed to give. Click. The latch turned.
He opened his eyes, gaze lifting expectantly—only for his expression to fall in an instant, shifting to cold indifference.
"You came," Linda said warmly, her smile gentle as she opened the door.
Futu-i!
Everything had unfolded exactly as he imagined—except for the person. Not Blythe, but Linda.
Her smile lingered, soft and reassuring, yet beneath it flickered a trace of confusion.
Just now, she thought she had seen him smiling, a fleeting curve of lips that vanished too quickly.
Perhaps I imagined it, she told herself. Work has been heavy lately. My mind must be playing tricks on me.
Linda opened her mouth, ready to speak again, but a sudden cough interrupted her. Mr. Tim had stepped forward from behind, his presence firm and commanding. "Mr. Dwight, please come in," he said, gently but decisively moving Linda aside.
Dwight inclined his head with indifferent composure. The heartbeat that had surged moments earlier now plummeted into an icy stillness, as though dropped into a cellar of frost.
The air around him seemed to shift, heavy and chilling, carrying with it a gloom that pressed upon the others. As he passed, both Linda and Tim felt a shiver crawl along their spines, uncertain whether it was the cold climate or the man himself that unsettled them.
Confusion flickered between them, unspoken yet palpable.
Dwight stepped into the waiting room, his movements calm, deliberate. His eyes swept the space, but the silhouette he longed for was absent. He did not falter.
Instead, his gaze sharpened, his senses attuned. From the adjoining chamber—the bedroom—he caught it: a breath, light and delicate, soft as silk against the silence.
Without hesitation, he knew. It was her.
His eyes fixed upon the closed door, unyielding, as though his vision could pierce through wood and shadow alike. The intensity of his stare was consuming, a silent force that sought to bridge the barrier, to claim what lay beyond.
"Miss is resting. Until she wakes, Mr. Dwight, you may remain in this room," Tim said evenly, his eyes catching the way Dwight's gaze lingered on the closed door.
"If you need anything, you may call for me or Linda. We will be nearby," Tim added with calm assurance before turning away. Linda followed him, their footsteps fading down the corridor until silence reclaimed the chamber.
Dwight was left alone.
The chill that had gripped his heart earlier began to thaw, replaced by a slow, feverish heat. His pulse quickened, his breath uneven.
His girl.
His moon.
His Blythe. She was so close—just beyond that door. The thought twisted inside him, a thrilling ache that coiled through his chest and stomach, as though his very organs strained against the weight of desire.
God alone knew how fiercely he pressed against the invisible chains that bound him, restraining the urge to break through, to seize her, to wrap her delicate frame against his own. To touch that flawless, creamy skin, to claim what he believed was his. Yet he held back, forcing himself not to frighten her, not to shatter the fragile boundary between longing and possession.
His breathing grew distorted, ragged, each inhale heavier than the last. His thoughts spiraled, wild and consuming, with every second that passed. The room seemed smaller, the air thicker, as though the very walls conspired to trap him with the intensity of his obsession.
And still, his gaze remained fixed upon the door—silent, waiting, and unbearably close.
"Blythe…" Dwight whispered, the name rolling from his lips again and again, like sacred scripture chanted in devotion.
His gaze remained locked upon the door, unwavering, as though the barrier itself were a holy veil separating him from his desire. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, steadying the storm within. When he opened them, his expression had returned to its calm, composed mask—yet his eyes did not stray from the door, not for a single heartbeat.
Here, his situation was contained, his emotions bound in chains of discipline. But beyond that door, the one who mattered most was not so controlled.
Blythe had retreated to her chamber, moving directly to her bed. Exhaustion weighed upon her—she had not slept properly since yesterday—but rest would not come easily. Her mind was tangled, restless, disturbed by the appearance of the new bodyguard.
Is he…? The thought struck her like lightning. No, no, no! How could that be possible?
She shook her head, forcing herself to dismiss the paranoia, to silence the whispers of suspicion clawing at her reason. Yet the unease lingered, gnawing at her.
Because his eyes… his eyes were somehow familiar. Too familiar.
And that similarity unsettled her more than she dared admit.
Blythe pulled the fluffy blanket tighter around herself, as though its softness could shield her from the unease gnawing at her chest. Yet deep inside, no warmth could quiet the storm.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
She flinched, her heart leaping. She knew—it was him. Even as she tried to convince herself otherwise, whispering that perhaps it wasn't, the certainty pressed down on her. She didn't know what to do with him, didn't know how to face the unsettling presence that lingered just beyond the door.
Slowly, hesitantly, she sat up. And then it came—an intensity, sharp and piercing, radiating from the door like invisible beams. It was as if his gaze could burn through the wood, reaching her, finding her. Panic surged.
She dropped back onto the bed, pulling the blanket over her head, cocooning herself completely, as though the fabric could block those unseen lasers.
The muffled sound of voices drifted faintly through the door, indistinct, blurred. She strained to listen, but the words dissolved into noise. And then she realized—she hadn't heard his voice. Not once.
Her mind twisted around the thought, restless. What would his voice sound like? The question lingered, haunting her. Would it be deep and commanding, rough yet magnetic? Or soft, dangerous in its allure?
She shook her head beneath the blanket, trying to silence the curiosity, but the thought refused to leave. His silence was louder than any sound.
The door creaked open, then closed again. Blythe clutched the blanket tighter, her knuckles whitening against the soft fabric. Linda and Tim were gone.
Now… is it just him and me?
The thought struck her with a chill. That feeling returned—intense, abrupt, no longer veiled. It pressed against her like a weight, raw and undeniable. She shivered, curling deeper into the cocoon of her blanket, eyes squeezed shut as though darkness could shield her.
The silence thickened, heavy and eerie, filling the room like a fog. Every sound became magnified—the faint hum of the air, the rhythm of her own breath. It was so quiet that even the smallest exhale seemed loud, intrusive.
Blythe…
Her name drifted through the silence, not spoken but whispered, intimate and unsettling. Her heart jolted. She peeked out from beneath the blanket, only her wide, rabbit-like eyes visible, glimmering with fear and curiosity.
She searched the room, her gaze darting from shadow to shadow. But there was no one. No figure, no movement. Only…
Only the feeling. That piercing intensity, as though unseen eyes bore into her, watching, waiting.
Her eyes lingered on the door, not merely on the wood itself but on the presence she imagined beyond it—the person on the other side.
Did he… call me?
The thought struck her, fragile yet insistent. She shook her head quickly beneath the blanket, forcing reason back into her mind.
No. Impossible. How could I hear him? These walls are thick, impenetrable. No sound could pass from that room into mine.
She burrowed deeper into the blanket, cocooning herself until she resembled a tightly wrapped dumpling, small and hidden upon the bed. The fabric pressed against her face, warm yet suffocating, as though it alone could shield her from the intensity she felt.
Here she was—fragile, uncertain, trembling beneath layers of cloth.
And there he was—silent, waiting, his presence pressing against her from the other side of the door.
Two worlds divided by a barrier, yet bound by an invisible thread of tension.
This.
This situation… This fragile scenery… was no different from a lion crouched outside a rabbit's burrow, waiting with patient hunger, while the rabbit trembled deep within, desperate to remain unseen.
If mere thoughts could disturb them so profoundly—his obsession burning like ice, her fear twisting like fire—then what would happen when they were truly forced to share time, space, and breath? How much of themselves would they lose in that collision of predator and prey, of desire and resistance?
Who would surrender first?
Who would be caught by whom?
And who would bring this relentless cat-and-mouse game to its end first?