She was hiding something.
He could feel it the moment her eyes met his. The slight shift in her steps. The tension beneath her skin. Her pulse—a little too fast. Her scent—faintly tinged with panic.
Darius had lived long enough to recognize guilt when he saw it.
Elena descended the stairs slowly, her gaze lowered but not submissive. Guarded. As though trying to shield something invisible behind her lashes.
He didn't like it.
He'd smelled it before she entered the hall—sweet blood, fragrant as wild cherries and honey in the snow. It curled around his senses, coiled itself in his throat, a temptation he'd learned long ago to master.
But this was different.
It was hers.
She stopped before him, hands tucked neatly in front of her. He let the silence linger.
"Sleep well?" he asked, voice calm.
"Yes," she lied.
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing more. Instead, he stepped closer—close enough to hear her heartbeat stutter.
She clutched something in her dress.
Hidden.
He could tear it from her fingers without effort. But he didn't. Not yet.
Patience.
That had always been his curse—and his weapon.
"I trust you're adjusting," he said.
She nodded, still not looking at him.
"Look at me."
Her eyes rose. Wide. Beautiful. Terrified.
He shouldn't have brought her here.
He knew it the moment she crossed the auction floor.
But he couldn't walk away. Not again.
He exhaled slowly. Held his control like a blade to his own throat. The crimson in his eyes flickered beneath the surface, threatening to rise again.
Her scent was too close. Her blood too warm. And he—
No.
Not yet.
Not until she remembers.
"Come," he said, turning sharply. "There's something I want to show you."
She followed him in silence, the weight of the letter still pressed against her ribs. His pace was calm but deliberate, his tall frame casting long shadows as they moved deeper into the castle.
The halls began to change.
The walls grew darker. The air cooler. The scent of fresh roses faded, replaced by something older—ancient stone, dust, and memories.
"This part of the castle…" she whispered. "It's different."
He didn't answer at first.
"Few are allowed here," he said finally. "Even fewer return."
Her steps faltered. "Then why bring me?"
Darius stopped before a tall, arched door of dark wood—etched with markings that shimmered faintly under the light. He turned to her, studying her expression.
"You're not like the others," he said. "You don't belong in a cage."
She stared at the door. "And what's behind this one?"
He said nothing.
Instead, he opened it.
The room beyond was vast—round and echoing, with high, vaulted ceilings. In the center stood a massive stone table covered in books, scrolls, and strange crystal vials. Candles flickered without flame.
Paintings lined the walls—portraits, torn and faded.
One of them drew her in.
She stepped closer, her breath catching.
It was… a child.
A girl with tangled brunette hair. A faint smile. Eyes that looked too much like her own.
Her chest tightened.
She didn't remember this painting. Yet her body tensed, as though it had.
"Who is she?" she asked, her voice soft.
Darius didn't move from the doorway.
"Someone I once knew."
She turned to face him. "Why show me this?"
His gaze darkened, unreadable. "Because you deserve to know there's more to your life than chains."
Elena said nothing.
But her heart beat louder in her chest.
He was hiding something.
And yet… so was she.
As she turned back to the portrait, she didn't notice the way his fists curled at his sides—or how the crimson flickered briefly in his eyes again as he inhaled the scent of her blood.
She didn't see him struggle.
She only heard him whisper, "Come. I'll have someone prepare your room."
But she wasn't sure if it was kindness or control.
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