Elena told herself—firmly—that breakfast would be normal.
Normal meaning:
• No dreaming about Soren.
• No thinking about Soren.
• No looking at Soren.
• No reacting to Soren.
None of these goals survived the first three seconds.
Because the moment she entered the breakfast hall, Soren looked up from the head of the table—
and every shred of composure she had left simply died.
He didn't smile. He didn't speak. He just watched her walk toward him with the quiet, predatory attention of a man who remembered far too much about her last night.
Her pulse tripped over itself.
Elena sank into a seat two chairs away from him.
Distance. Safety. Self-preservation.
Except—
"Lady Elena," Soren said, "sit here."
He gestured to the chair at his right.
Her soul left her body.
"Oh—I'm fine over—"
"Here," he repeated.
She obeyed.
Like a fool. Like a woman with the self-preservation skills of a damp leaf.
She slipped into the chair beside him, feeling the heat of his presence like a physical force. It wrapped around her, pressed into her, remembered the shape of her.
She fixed her gaze on her plate.
Toast. Safe. Neutral. Un-seductive.
She picked up a fork. Her hand trembled.
Soren noticed. Of course he noticed.
"How did you sleep?" he asked, voice deep and maddeningly smooth.
Claire snorted tea through her nose. Elena considered faking her own death.
"I slept," she said, stabbing her toast too aggressively.
"That," Claire murmured, "is one word for it."
Soren's lips curved—just barely.
"Any troubling dreams?" he asked softly.
Her fork snapped in half.
Claire slapped a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter.
Elena's face combusted. "NO. No dreams. Zero dreams. Never dreamed in my life. I don't even know what dreams ARE."
Silence.
Then—
"Elena," Soren said, "breathe."
"I AM BREATHING."
"You are not."
She inhaled sharply.
Wrong choice.
Because she inhaled him—pine, smoke, leather, heat—and her brain immediately supplied the memory of her own voice moaning his name.
Her knees almost buckled under the table.
Claire, mercifully, stood. "I'm going to get more honey."
She left.
Elena was alone with him. Soren's hand drifted toward her plate, casually brushing the back of hers.
She froze.
"Your hands are shaking," he said.
"No they aren't."
They absolutely were.
His thumb grazed her knuckles. Elena forgot her own language.
He leaned in—not touching, but close enough she felt his breath along her cheek. "You avoided me this morning."
"I did not."
"You did."
She swallowed hard. "You're imagining things."
"No," he murmured, "I am remembering them."
Her entire spine ignited.
"Please stop talking," she whispered.
He hummed—a low, dark sound that sank into her skin.
"Tell me why you're flustered," he said quietly.
"I'm NOT flustered."
He angled his head, eyes dropping to her lips.
"Then look at me."
She stared dead ahead at her toast.
"No."
"Elena."
He said her name like a command.
She turned.
Mistake. Fatal mistake.
His eyes—winter-dark, intent, knowing—locked onto hers with the full force of a man who had heard every sound she made last night.
Her breath punched out of her lungs.
"You dreamed of me," he said softly. Not a question. A verdict.
"I—!!!—I DID NOT—!"
His mouth curved.
"I liked it."
She slammed both hands over her face. "I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"YES, I DO."
His voice dropped.
"Elena."
She peeked through her fingers.
He watched her—not predatory, not mocking—but with something too soft to name.
"You do not need to hide from me," he said. "Not your dreams. Not your thoughts."
She blinked rapidly. Her heart tripped.
"That's not fair," she whispered.
"No," he murmured, "but it is true."
Claire returned then, bless her timing, and Elena nearly fainted with relief.
But Soren kept watching her.
Not cruel. Not cold. Not amused.
Focused. Interested. Dangerously so.
And she knew—without question—that breakfast was never going to be safe again.