Adrian awoke before dawn, the chill of the morning seeping into his bones, yet it offered no comfort. The estate was silent now, but silence here was more oppressive than noise. He rose from the bed, pale moonlight spilling through the tall windows, and made his way to the mirror that hung across from his chamber.
He stared at his reflection. The man who looked back was familiar and yet entirely unknown. Eyes wild, lashes damp with restless sleep; hair disheveled; cheeks flushed not with life, but with fevered shame. He saw himself as he had become: a creature divided between desire and morality, pride and humiliation, fire and rot.
He whispered, almost to himself, "What have I become?"
The voice that came back was hollow. The reflection moved as he did, yet there was a weight behind its gaze, a silent accusation. Adrian's fingers pressed against the glass, as if he could claw at it, break it, and somehow separate the man he had been from the man he had become.
The events of the last days, weeks, pressed down on him. Selene's indifferent cruelty, Liora's dominance, the teasing touches of Althea and Cassia—all of it surged in his mind. Each encounter was a scar, each glance a branding iron. He felt unworthy, diminished, yet simultaneously electrified by the fevered craving that would not leave him.
He saw his own desire clearly now. It was not noble. It was ravenous, unthinking, greedy. He had sought pleasure without restraint, attention without measure. And yet the estate's women—Selene above all—had ensnared him, made him complicit in his own unraveling.
He felt bile rise in his throat. "I am a fool," he muttered, voice breaking. "A fool… a puppet… a shadow."
His reflection did not answer. It only watched, accusing, silent, implacable. Adrian sank to his knees before the mirror, pressing his forehead against its cold surface. The glass was unyielding, reflecting only the truth he could not deny.
He recalled the duel of eyes at the ballroom, the heated touches, the whispered provocations. He had been powerless, consumed by a torrent of lust and shame. The women had claimed him, piece by piece, yet he had desired it. He had allowed it. And in that knowledge, he felt both thrill and despair.
Adrian's hands trembled. He pressed them to his face, to his mouth, as though he could erase the traces of sin from his flesh and spirit. He whispered apologies into the glass, apologies to Selene, to Liora, to himself, though he knew they would go unheard.
"What is it in me," he asked softly, "that burns so fiercely, that desires so greedily, that trembles so utterly at a glance, a touch, a smile?"
No answer came. Only the cold reflection, merciless, showing a man undone by passion and vanity, by obsession and desire.
He rose, unsteady, and began to pace. The corridors were empty, yet the eyes of the portraits seemed to follow him, their painted gazes bright with unearthly life. Adrian imagined that they whispered among themselves, mocking him, warning him. He shivered. Perhaps they had seen every man fall into the estate's claws, and now they saw him, raw, vulnerable, unraveling before them.
He stopped before one particular portrait—a young nobleman, proud, handsome, eyes burning with arrogance. Adrian felt a pang of recognition. Not of the man, but of himself: the way he had thought himself untouchable, clever, capable of resisting. The way he had believed he could command desire without being consumed.
He pressed a hand to the canvas, as though seeking counsel, comfort, or absolution. But there was none. Only the reflection of failure, the mirror of shame, the echo of desire untempered by reason.
Adrian sank onto the floor, shivering, exhausted. His body ached with the memory of every touch, every kiss, every whisper that had unsettled him, seduced him, broken him. He felt hollow, yet burning. Ashes and fire coexisted within him, and he did not know which would consume him first.
And yet, in that hollowed, fevered state, a dark thrill remained. The estate had claimed him. The women had claimed him. Desire had claimed him. And though he despised himself, he could not deny the pull, the hunger, the addictive fever that ran through his veins.
He whispered, almost in surrender, "I am yours… I am yours…"
But the words were for no one. There was no Selene, no Liora, no Althea, no Cassia. Only Adrian, kneeling in the cold glow of the morning, staring into the mirror, confronting himself: a man undone, enslaved by desire, haunted by shame, yet unable to turn away.
In that moment, Adrian understood a terrible truth: desire was not merely an indulgence, not merely pleasure. It was a chain, invisible, unbreakable, and he had thrown himself into its grasp willingly, joyfully, and yet now, with dawning horror, he saw the full cost.
The mirror showed him everything. His hunger. His weakness. His madness. His need.
And it was unrelenting.