It had been a week since the assassination attempt.
Seven days of reinforced security.
Seven days of controlled breathing.
Seven days of pretending that the memory of cold steel inches from her throat did not replay itself every time she closed her eyes.
By the eighth morning, the manor had returned to its elegant rhythm. Servants moved normally. The tension in the corridors had softened. Even the guards no longer looked as though they expected blood at any moment.
Outwardly, everything was stable.
Inwardly, Niana was still slightly vibrating.
She was seated in the sunlit garden with a book open on her lap when she sensed it.
Not danger.
Worse.
Presence.
"You favor this corner."
She did not look up.
"…Do I?"
Eryan stepped around the hedge as though summoned by narration itself. He wore dark riding clothes today, hair tied loosely at the nape. He looked perfectly composed. Perfectly natural.
Perfectly like someone who had absolutely been observing her long enough to know her habits.
"I've noticed you sit here after breakfast," he said gently.
She slowly lifted her eyes.
"You've noticed," she repeated.
"Yes."
"That implies repetition."
"It does."
She closed her book.
"…How many times have you 'noticed'?"
He smiled faintly.
"Enough."
There was something about the way he said it that made her want to laugh and call the guards at the same time.
"It has been a week," she reminded him. "Surely you have other responsibilities."
"I do."
"And yet."
"And yet I am here."
She stared at him for a full three seconds.
"You are haunting me politely," she concluded.
Eryan did not deny it.
Instead, he sat beside her.
Too close.
The bench was large. Spacious. Built for noble dignity.
And yet somehow his shoulder brushed hers.
"You shouldn't be alone," he said quietly.
"I am not alone. There are at least four hidden guards within this radius."
"I'm not referring to them."
She sighed softly.
It had been like this all week.
He appeared in corridors. In the library. In the courtyard during her light morning walks. Not abruptly. Not dramatically.
Just… consistently.
If she paused by a window, he was somewhere in the periphery.
If she entered the music room, he appeared "coincidentally" moments later.
At first she thought it was coincidence.
By the fourth time, she had accepted that Eryan Vale did not believe in coincidence.
"Are you following me?" she asked mildly.
"No."
"You are."
"I prefer the term accompanying."
"I did not invite accompaniment."
"You didn't decline it either."
She stared at him.
That was deeply manipulative logic.
"You cannot simply insert yourself into my daily schedule."
"I can," he said calmly. "I already have."
She blinked.
He wasn't joking.
That was the unsettling part.
He said it the way someone might say, The sky is blue.
Not arrogant.
Just certain.
She leaned back slightly, examining him.
"Eryan," she said carefully, "the attack was a week ago."
"Yes."
"I survived."
"Yes."
"You do not need to circle me like an overprotective hawk."
His gaze softened.
"You were unconscious for hours."
The humor thinned slightly.
"I remember."
"I don't," he replied quietly.
She frowned.
He looked at her steadily.
"I wasn't there," he clarified. "And I don't like not being there."
There it was again.
Not anger.
Not jealousy.
Just a quiet possessiveness that felt older than this week.
Older than the attack.
"You are not my assigned guardian," she said lightly, trying to ease the pressure. "That position is currently filled by my extremely overqualified butler."
At that, something flickered in his eyes.
Subtle.
"Lucien Ardent," he said.
She stiffened slightly.
"You've met."
"Yes."
"And?"
Eryan's expression remained composed.
"He stands very close to you."
"He breathes," she replied dryly. "I find that useful."
Eryan didn't smile this time.
"He watches everything."
"So do you."
Silence.
The breeze moved through the hedges.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other.
She could joke about it. She could deflect.
But beneath it—
She felt something else.
He truly had been shaken by the attack.
Not theatrically.
Not dramatically.
Deeply.
And that made the clinginess harder to dismiss.
Still—
"Eryan," she said carefully, "if you continue appearing everywhere I go, people will begin to assume scandal."
"Let them."
"That is not how reputations work."
"Then marry me."
She choked.
"I— excuse me?"
His expression did not change.
"I said that once before too."
"Children say many alarming things," she replied quickly. "They also eat dirt."
"You didn't eat dirt."
"How do you know that?"
"I would have stopped you."
The sincerity in his voice made her stomach flip.
She groaned internally.
Why is he like this?
He leaned slightly closer.
"You don't remember," he said quietly.
There was no accusation.
Only sadness.
And that was worse.
She looked away.
Because she didn't.
And she didn't know whether that absence was her fault—or fate's.
A faint shift of movement near the garden arch caught her attention.
Lucien stood there.
At a distance.
Not interrupting.
Not approaching.
Watching.
His gaze flickered briefly between her and Eryan.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Then, as if satisfied with whatever calculation he made, he inclined his head slightly toward her before turning away.
Eryan noticed.
Of course he did.
"He doesn't trust me," Eryan murmured.
"He doesn't trust anyone."
"Does he trust you?"
She hesitated.
"…Enough."
Eryan's eyes darkened slightly.
"I trust you," he said.
The words landed heavily.
Because unlike Lucien's calculated loyalty—
Eryan's trust felt absolute.
And absolute things were dangerous.
She stood up abruptly.
"Well," she announced, clapping her hands once, "since you have appointed yourself my personal shadow, you may carry my books."
He stood immediately.
"I will."
She stared at him.
"…I was joking."
"I wasn't."
And that—
That was the problem.