After a while, Elvira rang the bell and summoned one of her maids.
"I'm starving. I want to eat something," she said, resting her head against the back of her chair.
"Yes, madam. I'll inform the cook right away."
"And I'll eat in the dining room."
"As you wish, madam," the maid said with a bow before quietly taking her leave.
Once the door shut, Elvira sighed and pulled herself up. She stepped into the powder room to change out of her stained night robes. The sight of blood on the fabric still made her stomach twist. After slipping into a fresh pale-blue gown, she winced as she touched the bandages on her legs, collarbone, and cheek. Every movement reminded her of last night—the shadow in the window, the crash, the cut, and Ronin's arms around her.
She limped through the empty halls, the faint click of her steps echoing off the high ceilings. As she passed under a tall arched window, a sudden chill swept down her spine. The light outside was dim. A strange stillness hung in the air like the hush before a storm. The cold tiles beneath her bare feet actually felt...nice. Soothing, even, against the burning pain.
Finally, she pushed open the doors to the grand dining hall. The room was empty. Silent. Almost hollow. She took the seat at the long end of the table, the high-backed chair making her feel more like a queen than a girl nursing a dozen bruises.
She waited.
Then, the doors burst open, making her flinch. A group of servants poured in, balancing trays upon trays of food. The silver platters were piled high—fluffy scrambled eggs, toast glistening with melted butter, pastries drizzled with honey, delicate cakes dusted with powdered sugar. There was coffee, strong and steaming, and fragrant black tea with hints of rose. Everything smelled warm and rich and perfect.
She should've been excited. But her stomach was a knot.
Elvira nibbled at a piece of toast and sipped her tea, glancing at the door every few minutes. She was expecting her parents… and maybe even Ronin.
But no one came.
She waited and waited, sipping her now-cold tea as crumbs sat untouched on the porcelain plate. The food that once filled the table looked dull now, like a feast left behind by ghosts.
She sighed, quietly disappointed, and pushed her plate away. As she went to wipe her cheek, she realized her fingers were wet. Tears. She hadn't even noticed she was crying.
With a deep breath, Elvira stood, her vision blurry. She didn't care about the pain anymore. She just wanted to get out of that room.
Head down, thoughts swirling, she walked toward the door and—
Bumped into someone.
She gasped and lost balance, but before she could hit the ground, strong arms caught her mid-fall. Her breath hitched.
She opened her eyes and met the most hauntingly beautiful pair of violet eyes she had ever seen. They were deep, still, and cold—like a lake at midnight. They belonged to Anson.
For a moment, she froze, captivated. Those eyes had no warmth, no spark—just silence. But something in them made her heart skip.
"Elvira," he said in his calm, unreadable voice.
She blinked rapidly, snapped out of it. "I—I'm sorry," she muttered, stepping back too quickly.
And without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away—barefoot, bleeding, humiliated.
She ran.
She didn't care about the pain shooting through her foot or the blood soaking into her dress. She just needed to get away—from the dining room, from Anson, from herself.
She slammed her door shut behind her and leaned against it, cheeks burning.
Why am I blushing so hard? I don't even like this man, she thought, pressing a hand to her face. Her skin was hot to the touch, and her heart wouldn't calm down.
She needed to clear her head.
Elvira always loved the rain. But when the skies refused to weep with her, she had her own storm.
She grabbed her robe, stepped into the marble bathroom, and turned the shower on full blast. Cold water hit her like a thousand tiny daggers. She let it fall over her face, over her wounds, over everything she couldn't say out loud.
It wasn't the same as rain—but for now, it would do.
The cold shower had done its job. Elvira felt more grounded, her mind no longer spiraling. She dressed her wounds carefully, choosing a soft beige dress that hugged her lightly without clinging. The low back revealed the pale ridges of her spine and the fading bruises from the night before. Her damp brunette hair dripped down her shoulders as she padded barefoot through the quiet palace halls.
She checked her father's office. Empty.
The sitting room? Still nothing.
Growing more annoyed, she wandered down the corridor toward the one place no one ever thought to look—the private library. Her sanctuary.
As she entered, her eyes narrowed.
There he was.
Anson.
Sitting casually in her favorite armchair, in front of the hearth, flipping through her favorite romance novel—Stolen Bride. The audacity.
Without a word, she marched up and snatched the book from his hands.
He didn't flinch. In fact, he stood up slowly, sliding his hands into the pockets of his black slacks with that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips.
"I didn't peg you as the type to read this kind of novel," he said, voice smooth and teasing, eyes locked onto her like she was the only thing that existed.
"That's none of your business," Elvira snapped, gripping the book like it was a weapon. She hated how unsteady her voice sounded.
"Did I make you nervous?" Anson asked, stepping closer, smirk deepening.
Elvira's breath caught. He was too close. Not close enough.
"N-No," Elvira stuttered, caught off guard by Anson's gaze and proximity.
Anson's expression flattened. "Alright then. Lost interest. I'll take my leave."
His tone dropped back to cold, and just like that, he turned away—like he'd flicked a switch. The sudden shift left Elvira blinking, almost dizzy.
"Wait—where is everybody?" she asked quickly.
Anson paused, not turning back. "They didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?" Elvira asked, now genuinely curious.
He sighed like he couldn't believe he had to explain it. "It's a family tradition. When two people are betrothed, they get... locked in the castle for a few days. No staff, no exits. Supposedly so they can 'grow fond of each other.' Romantic, isn't it?"
Elvira stared. "So... you're saying I'm locked up in here. With you?"
"Yes. Congrats. You finally got it," Anson said dryly, his voice laced with sarcasm as he walked away.
Elvira rolled her eyes so hard it could've cracked glass. "Great. Just what I needed—an arrogant pretty boy with commitment issues."
Anson froze mid-step.
He turned around slowly, eyes locked on her, that smirk of his curving—but tighter now, like it wasn't just amusement anymore.
"Oh?" he said coolly, taking a step closer. "That's rich—coming from the girl who runs barefoot through castles and storms off before hearing half a conversation."
Elvira crossed her arms. "So what? You can flirt but you can't take the truth?"
He stepped even closer, voice dropping.
"I can take the truth just fine, Elvira. But don't mistake distance for disinterest. I don't hand pieces of myself to just anyone."
His gaze lingered, slow and intense, and for a moment it felt like the air between them crackled.
"And for the record… I'm not a 'pretty boy.' I'm the nightmare your mother warned you about—and the reason you're blushing when no one's looking."
Elvira's breath hitched. Her heart was thudding in her chest like it wanted to escape. Anson was too close again—standing like a shadow that dared her to step into it.
She tried to fire back with a witty reply, but nothing came out. Just air and heat and… want.
Before she could think, Anson stepped forward, closing the last few inches between them. His hand slipped around her waist and pulled her against him—not hard, but firmly, like he'd been holding back all this time and couldn't anymore.
Her hands instinctively went to his chest to push him away. But she didn't.
They stood there—chests touching, breath mingling.
"You want me to stop?" he asked, voice low, lips barely brushing her cheek.
She didn't answer.
He leaned in further, his mouth grazing the corner of her lips. "Say the word, Elvira."
Still, she was silent—but she wasn't moving away either.
His hand slid up her back, fingers splaying across her bare spine. The contact made her knees wobble.
Finally, she whispered, "You talk too much."
Anson let out a dark, amused chuckle. "Then shut me up."
That's all it took. His lips crashed onto hers—hot, demanding, but not careless. It was the kind of kiss that tasted like frustration and stolen time. His other hand found her thigh and gripped it, lifting her slightly so she was pressed against the bookshelf.
Books thudded softly to the floor around them, but neither noticed.
Elvira wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. He bit her bottom lip, and she gasped—he used the moment to slip his tongue against hers.
The world blurred.
His hands explored the dip of her waist, the curve of her back, memorizing her. She clutched his shirt like she'd fall if she let go.
But even in the chaos of it, there was something… gentle. Like they both knew this wasn't just heat. It was something more—something neither of them was ready to admit.
Finally, Anson pulled back slightly, forehead resting against hers, both of them breathless.
"I told you," he murmured, voice hoarse, "I'm not safe."
Elvira smirked through her pounding heartbeat. "Good. I'm done playing safe."