Chapter 4 – The 47th Visit
Kael came back at 9:17 p.m. the next night.
I was ready.
I had spent the day preparing the Eclipse Penthouse like a spider gilding its web.
Lights dimmed to 8 % (warm amber, the exact shade that made my skin look translucent).
Temperature dropped to 17 °C so my breath would fog prettily.
One window cracked open three millimeters so the city's cold night air would slip in and make me shiver on cue.
White roses replaced every six hours; tonight's batch still had dew on the petals.
And on the lowest shelf of the glass coffee table, barely visible, the childhood chess piece Kael lost when he was nine (the black king, carved from meteorite iron). I had stolen it from his bedroom in Monaco six years ago. I left it there like bait.
I wore cream cashmere (oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, sleeves long enough to hide my hands, no pants, just thigh-high socks the color of fresh milk). The rose-gold choker was the only thing that looked expensive. Everything else screamed fragile, untouched, breakable.
When the private elevator chimed, I was curled on the floor-to-ceiling window seat, knees to chest, staring out at the campus like a lost prince waiting for rescue.
The doors slid open.
Kael stepped out alone. No coat tonight. Just black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, red choker stark against his throat. His hair was still damp from a shower; I could smell his soap from twenty meters away (cedar and something sharper now, like ozone after lightning).
He had come straight from training. There was a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw. Someone had landed a hit. They wouldn't wake up for a week.
I didn't turn around.
I let him see my reflection in the glass first: small, shivering, silver hair spilling everywhere, bare legs glowing under the low light.
His footsteps stopped behind me.
"You shouldn't sit on cold marble," he said.
His voice was rougher than yesterday. Like he'd been shouting. Or growling.
I hugged my knees tighter. "I know. I just… couldn't sleep."
Silence.
Then the soft rustle of fabric as he crouched behind me. Not touching. Yet.
I felt the heat of him anyway.
"You opened a window," he said.
"I like the way the city sounds at night," I whispered. "It reminds me I'm real."
A pause.
"You're cold."
He said it like an accusation.
I turned my head just enough for him to see the side of my face, the faint flush I'd painted on with chilled fingertips.
"I'm always cold," I said. "Late-presenting Omegas run low body temperature. Did you know that?"
I felt him move before I heard it. The soft weight of his blazer settled over my shoulders (still warm from his body, carrying that cedar-ozone-blood scent that made my mouth water).
I pulled it closer like it was the first kindness I'd ever been given.
He stayed crouched, forearms resting on his knees, watching me like I was a bomb with an unknown timer.
I let the silence stretch until it hurt.
Then, very softly: "You came back."
He exhaled through his teeth. "I said I would check on you."
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
Another beat.
I turned fully then, sliding off the window seat to kneel on the floor in front of him, blazer swallowing me whole. His scent was everywhere now. I was drowning and smiling.
Up close, the bruise on his jaw looked worse. I reached out without thinking (slow, trembling) and brushed two fingers just beneath it.
He went rigid.
"Who hurt you?" I asked, voice barely a breath.
His hand caught my wrist again (same as last night), but this time he didn't let go.
"No one," he said.
I let my eyes fill (real tears this time; I was good at that when I needed to be).
"I hate that people hurt each other here," I whispered. "I hate that they think strength means breaking things."
His grip loosened a fraction. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist (once, unconscious).
"I don't break things," he said. "I remove them."
I smiled, small and sad and perfect. "Then I'm safe with you."
Something fractured behind his eyes.
He released my wrist like I'd burned him and stood abruptly.
I stayed on my knees.
He turned away, pacing three steps, dragging a hand through his hair.
"I'm posting two guards on this floor," he said to the window. "Starting tomorrow. They'll be discreet."
I tilted my head. "Will they follow me to class?"
"If necessary."
"Will you?"
He spun back.
I was still kneeling, blazer slipping further off one shoulder, revealing the delicate line of my collarbone and the edge of the rose-gold choker.
His gaze snagged there (on the hollow of my throat) and stayed.
I let him look.
Then I crawled forward (slow, deliberate) until I was at his feet again.
He didn't move.
I rested my forehead against his knee, just for a second.
"Thank you," I whispered into the fabric of his pants. "For protecting something useless like me."
His hand hovered above my hair (trembling).
I felt the exact moment he almost touched me.
Then he stepped back so fast he nearly tripped.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, voice shredded.
He was at the elevator in four strides.
The doors were already closing when I called out, soft as a prayer:
"Kael-senpai?"
He froze, one hand braced on the door to keep it open.
I smiled (small, sweet, devastating).
"I left something for you on the table."
His eyes flicked to the coffee table.
To the black king chess piece sitting alone under the spotlight of a single lamp.
His breath stopped.
I watched his face cycle through recognition, confusion, fury, and something darker (something that looked a lot like fear).
The doors closed.
He was gone.
I stayed on my knees for a long time after, cheek pressed to the place where his shoe had been, breathing in the last traces of his scent.
Then I stood, walked to the hidden panel behind the bookshelf, and opened the live feed from his penthouse.
He stormed in, slammed the chess piece onto his desk, and stared at it like it had personally declared war.
He didn't sleep that night.
I know.
I watched him pace until dawn.
I counted every circle he walked.
Forty-seven.
One for every time I had been inside that room while he slept.
I touched the screen where his face was reflected, traced the bruise on his jaw, and smiled.
Tomorrow, I decided, I would let him catch me crying.
Tomorrow, I would let him comfort me.
Tomorrow, the web would tighten just a little more.
And the black king would finally learn whose board he had been standing on all along.