The Valterra estate always felt like too much. All that marble glinting under heavy chandeliers, those endless hallways winding through the place like arteries, and the eyes of old, silent ancestors following your every move. People found it impressive, maybe even beautiful, but to Elara, especially tonight, it felt like a cage. Not just any cage, either. This was one lined with all sorts of danger and desire, and the kind of tension that crawls into your bones and refuses to leave.
She'd spent the whole day locked away in her room. Supposedly, she needed rest after the chaos Marcos had unleashed when he showed up. Rest? Not a chance. Her mind kept circling back to Alessio—deadly and controlled, those silver eyes of his pinning her down with a look that was half warning, half fascination. And then there was Marcos himself, unpredictable as ever, leaving a mark on her thoughts even though she promised herself she'd ignore him.
So, she did the only thing that ever made her feel free. She took out her sketchbook. It was her escape, fragile as it was. Alone in her room, she let her pencil wander. She didn't just draw what she saw—she tried to capture what she felt. The chaos, the longing, the way everything in her life was shifting. She sketched the corridors, the tangled gardens, and, every so often, a glimpse of Alessio's stiff posture—though she'd never let him see those pages. Still, something inside her burned—a stubborn need to show the world a piece of herself that nobody, not even the most dangerous man in Valterra, could steal.
A sudden knock made her jump. Her hand darted for the dagger under her pillow—old habits die hard. "Who is it?" she called out, steady even though her heart hammered.
"It's me." Alessio's voice—low and calm. "Open it."
Of course, he had a key. He had everything here. But for some reason, opening the door herself felt like a small act of rebellion. She hesitated, just a second, then stepped back and let him in. He stood there in the half-light, every line of him perfectly composed—the black coat, the sharp silver eyes, the way he seemed to take in everything at once.
"Elara," he said, softer now. "I thought you might be drawing again. Is that how you always escape?"
She hugged the sketchbook to her chest, just a little. "It helps," she said. "It's the only thing that's really mine."
He studied her, searching her face. "Are you going to show me what's yours?"
Her stomach twisted. She'd told herself she'd never let him see. But the way he asked—the careful, almost gentle way—gave her pause. Something reckless flickered in her. She wanted to show him. She wanted him to know what she could do, what she'd always done, even when the world tried to break her.
She opened the sketchbook, slow and deliberate, turning pages with a kind of ceremony. Her drawings were everywhere—people in the gardens, the estate's arches and staircases, the emotion in a stranger's eyes, a hand reaching for something just out of frame. And, near the back, the one that made her breath hitch: Alessio, drawn in secret, every line of his face, the weight of his gaze, the set of his shoulders like armor.
Alessio leaned in, looking closer. His eyes narrowed, not in anger but in focus. "You've captured more than I expected," he said, voice barely above a murmur. "You're precise. Careful. You see everything." His gaze landed on his own portrait. "And you're bold."
She felt her cheeks burn. "I wanted you to see," she said, quieter now. "Not just the house, or you, or any of this. I wanted you to see me."
He stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat from him. The air tightened, thick with everything unsaid. He didn't touch the sketchbook. He didn't have to. "You're dangerous," he said, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Not because you fight, or because you carry a knife. You're dangerous because you show people parts of yourself that make them... vulnerable."
Her heart stuttered. "Vulnerable?"
"Yes." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And I'm not immune."
The words hung there, charged and real. Elara's heart thudded—not out of fear, but out of something raw and electric. To be seen like this, by Alessio of all people, was like standing on the edge of a storm.
Before she could answer, footsteps broke the spell—deliberate, heavy, impossible to ignore. Marcos walked in.
"So," he said, his eyes dark and bright all at once, hungry for trouble. "You're showing off your talents to Alessio, are you? How very cozy."
Elara's chest tightened. Alessio went stiff beside her, something sharp and jealous flashing in those silver eyes. The tension between them was suddenly a living thing, crowding the room, making it hard to breathe.
"You should leave," Alessio said. His voice dropped, sharp and commanding, and Elara's pulse just went wild.
Marcos barely flinched. He just gave a small, lazy smile. "I'm not here to cause trouble," he said, his tone smooth as ever. "I'm just admiring the art. Tell me, Elara—do you always show off your skills for men who order you around, or is tonight special?"
Her body betrayed her. The heat rising in her cheeks, the rush of adrenaline—she hated how much she felt it, the thrill of their rivalry. Alessio's jaw tightened. She saw it then: jealousy, raw and dangerous, lit up inside him. She'd started something she couldn't control, and it could burn everything if it got out of hand.
"I don't need protection from either of you," she shot back. She forced her voice steady, tried to wrestle back control—over her body, the room, the storm she'd set off. "And I'm not playing your games. I'm not a pawn."
Alessio's eyes never left her. "Good," he said, voice soft but lethal. "Because you're not a pawn. You're something far more dangerous. And I won't let anyone—Marcos or anyone else—take that from you."
Marcos just looked amused, tipping his head. "Well, then. Looks like tonight just got interesting."
That's when it hit her, clear as day: nothing was ever going to be simple again. The tension between Alessio and Marcos, between desire and rivalry, was a storm she couldn't outrun or calm. And right in the middle of it all—she wasn't just watching anymore. She was part of the game, the spark that set it all off, and the stakes were sky-high.
She closed her sketchbook, heart hammering. The truth pressed in on her—she wasn't just making art in this house full of power and obsession. Her talent was a weapon, and Alessio and Marcos were already fighting to claim it—and her.