"Hello, pretty lady."
The woman before him pretended she hadn't heard, her full attention fixed on the painting in front of her.
The artwork was mesmerizing—simple yet profound. Back Steps was a masterpiece, an elegant portrayal of chaos at sunset.
The city in the painting was crumbling, its people running in frantic desperation. Darkness loomed, swallowing the streets, while the only source of illumination—the setting sun—stood proud and unbothered, like a god gazing indifferently upon his creation.
But Alaric wasn't watching the painting.
He was watching her.
He knew she had heard him. Knew she was choosing to ignore him.
Still, she moved to another painting, feigning disinterest.
Alaric wasn't the type to be ignored.
He moved closer, slipping an arm around her waist—a perfect fit beneath his palm, as if she had always belonged there.
Only then did she turn.
A slow, deliberate movement.
Her gaze dropped to his hand on her waist before lifting to meet his eyes in a glare.
Her scent was intoxicating.
"Who are you?" Her voice was sharp, edged with defiance.
"Emrick. What's your name?"
"I didn't ask for your name. I don't need it."
He simply shrugged, his smirk infuriatingly relaxed, as if to say, Your loss, beautiful.
"Tell me your name."
It wasn't a request.
It was a command.
And it pissed her off.
"You are a stranger. Let go of me." Her emerald eyes burned with challenge.
"Let's be friends."
Her glare intensified.
Without hesitation, she uncoiled his hand from her waist and turned to leave.
She didn't get far.
He caught her easily, pulling her back into his embrace.
Firm. Secure. Possessive.
He didn't even know why he was so drawn to her.
---
From the sidelines, Xavier watched in disbelief.
His expression? Utter shock.
Was this really his friend?
The same Alaric who treated women like a plague to be avoided at all costs?
This was a man who barely tolerated their presence—except for his mother, sister, grandmother, and a select few he permitted near him. Even then, they only entered his space out of necessity.
And yet here he was—voluntarily approaching a woman. Holding her.
And not just any woman.
A human.
This was history in the making.
Xavier smirked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall.
This was too good to miss.
Alaric, the untouchable prince, was flirting.
What a pity Atticus wasn't here to witness this.
Oh, how much he was missing.
---
Meanwhile, Matred was growing more and more frustrated.
"I'm not interested in being friends with a stranger."
"All friends were once strangers."
She had long since forgotten she was still in his arms.
"Matred," she finally relented, her voice clipped.
"A beautiful name for a beautiful lady."
He coiled a lock of her hair around his fingers, his touch light, teasing.
Xavier almost gagged.
Did Alaric just… flirt? Willingly?
The prince was complementing a human.
This was beyond history-making. This was terrifying.
Maybe the news from home had really messed with his head.
Xavier decided to enjoy the show while it lasted. Who knew if he'd ever see such a sight again?
"Can you let go of me now?" Matred demanded.
"Not yet, beautiful. You haven't told me if you accept my offer of friendship."
"I do. Now let me go."
She was too eager to leave, as if something dangerous would happen if she stayed any longer.
"Why the rush?" His voice dipped lower, dominance rolling off him in waves. "Let's exchange digits."
The intensity thickened, lacing his words with an undeniable pull.
Any weak creature would have caved, knees buckling in submission. Even Xavier felt the weight of it pressing down on him.
But Matred?
She held her ground.
She glared at him, eyes flashing in challenge.
"Is that a command?"
Alaric blinked, realizing he had let his power slip through unconsciously. He reined it back in, suppressing the pull.
But he did not apologize.
One didn't change overnight.
"No," he said smoothly. "It's a request."
---
Victoria
Victoria sipped her dandelion tea, the rosemary essence adding a soothing fragrance.
It was the only thing offering her comfort in these trying times.
As elegant as ever, her face revealed nothing, but inside?
A storm raged.
Her heart ached.
The one person who should have been her peace was the very person dragging her into hell.
Ambrosia.
What had she done in her past life to deserve this?
She knew she was being childish, ungrateful even.
But could anyone blame her?
Her husband had spoiled her, loved her so deeply that she had forgotten he was a man with desires.
She had forgiven him when he brought Ambrosia into their home.
She had thanked the gods that she never had to see her.
No one—not even the servants—knew what she looked like.
And she didn't want to know.
With a sigh, she took another sip, dismissing the servant with a lazy wave of her hand.
The girl wasted no time in scampering away, leaving Victoria alone with her thoughts.
Alone with her pain.
---
Elisabeta
Elisabeta followed her mother's scent, finding her seated in the garden.
"Mother."
Victoria looked up, watching as her daughter gracefully took a seat across from her.
Elisabeta had already heard the whispers.
Servants were servants, and news traveled fast.
She knew what had transpired between her parents the previous night.
She also knew her mother would bottle it up.
Would pretend everything was fine.
But Elisabeta wasn't a child.
And she wasn't blind.
"Are you alright, Mother?"
Victoria smiled.
"I'm fine, my little girl. And you?"
Elisabeta rolled her eyes.
Her mother always did this—used soft endearments to distract her.
"I'm fine, Mother. But you don't look fine."
Victoria raised an eyebrow.
"I know you don't look sick," Elisabeta continued, "but I'm your daughter. I can feel when you're in pain."
Silence.
Victoria simply watched her daughter.
How had she grown so much?
"It's nothing," she finally said, dismissively. "Just the ups and downs of marriage. You'll understand when you find yourself a husband."
She smiled, teasing.
Elisabeta blushed furiously.
She knew her mother was trying to change the subject.
And though she wanted to push, to make her talk—
She let it go.
For now.
---
"He took the news better than I thought."
"That's my worry, honey." Adira sighed, shifting slightly in her husband's lap. "We all knew he'd stay calm, but that only means he'll pay us back in his own way."
She knew her son well.
Alaric didn't explode—he never did.
Not because he was patient, but because he had learned young that when his temper snapped, it destroyed.
That's why he had mastered the art of composure.
But beneath that calm?
Revenge brewed.
And once he set his sights on vengeance, nothing—not blood, not love, not even family—could stop him.
Adira and Dante had been victims of it once before.
She had no intention of living through that twice.
"I'll handle him if he gets out of hand," Dante murmured against her ear, his voice steady.
She didn't look convinced.
Still, when he trailed a finger along her cheek and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, her worries melted—just a little.
Memories of the night before flashed between them.
Dante smirked. "I want to take you right here on my desk."
A shiver ran through her spine.
"What's stopping you then?" she whispered back.
---
"Your digit… I'm still waiting, beautiful."
Matred folded her arms, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What for?"
"We're friends now, aren't we? I'd like to check up on you from time to time."
She let out a dry chuckle.
"Thanks, but I don't need it."
His smirk didn't waver.
"And besides," she continued, "I don't recall ever accepting your friendship request."
Alaric leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower. "I don't mind spending the rest of my evening here with you."
Matred's mind immediately grasped the meaning behind his words.
Her expression darkened.
"You can't hold me here against my will." Her voice was calm, dangerously so, nearly a whisper.
He held her gaze, unfazed.
"Try me, beautiful."
It was a challenge.
And Matred?
She never backed down from a challenge.