Why had she come here?
She didn't know.
She had run without thinking, without caring where she was going.
Heavens. She turned to leave. He was a shadow vampire. Dangerous. She shouldn't be near him, yet here she was.
She shook her head, trying to make sense of her actions. She began to walk away but stopped. The events of the day weighed on her, shattering her resolve.
Her chest tightened as the reason for her pain surged again, pulling her back to the door.
Before pushing it open, she grabbed a lamp from the wall and kicked the door in.
It had been repaired—just as if it had never been broken.
She stepped inside, the lamp casting a soft golden glow on her face. Her sobs had faded into quiet tears, though her chest still rose and fell rapidly.
He was still sitting on the sofa, his gaze fixed on the moonlight instead of her. She hadn't moved closer, but she could tell the light from the lamp unsettled him.
He shifted on the settee and finally turned to look at her. "You came back."
Why did he say those words like he knew she would return? If only he had feelings, she might have believed he was excited to see her.
She took a step forward, still gripping the lamp. Instead of running, he just sat there, as though waiting to be burned by her fiery rage.
"Why don't you run? I come with fire," her voice was ragged, croaky from the tears. "You could burn."
"Your fire will not burn me," he replied firmly, causing her to blink in surprise. "You are upset."
She laughed bitterly and shook her head. "For someone with no feelings, you certainly know how to read one."
"I know how to read only negative feelings," he said, his tone flat.
Margaret shook her head, tears continuing to fall. She bit her lip, trying to stop them, but they wouldn't stop. "Why? Why did I have to come here, of all places?"
"You cry," he said, his voice flat, as if he couldn't understand the expression. "What caused you to cry?"
She glanced at him, her lips pouted. Oh, he would never understand the depth of her pain. He would never feel it.
He stared back at her, his gaze empty, unreadable.
"Can't you feel anything? Even for just one day?" she pleaded.
"It is forbidden," he answered coldly. "One must only fulfill their task."
Margaret's shoulders trembled, and she broke down into sobs again. "Is that why you didn't come? Because you think it's my duty to pick among suitors who have no interest in knowing me?"
Damnation, she wanted to yell at him. She wanted to hurl her anger at him. How could he sit there, unmoved, when she had needed him most? If he had been present, none of this would have happened. If only he had been there, she wouldn't have to marry a man she didn't know.
"I didn't cause a scandal," she sniffed, but it was futile. Her sobs continued. "He forced himself on me. I don't want to marry him, but if I don't, it won't reflect well on the crown."
Her shoulders slumped as she looked at him, wondering if he could help. But would he? Could he? What could he do now? The damage had already been done. In a few weeks, she would be seated as the wife of a vampire king from another clan.
The thought sent a tremor through her entire body. She, who had no interest in marriage. She, who would have declined all suitors, was now trapped in this situation.
"Put out the fire," his voice was cold.
She blinked, processing his words. Now she realized he was standing, reaching for her, but the fire…
"Of course," she replied, sniffing back her tears. Then, with a soft exhale, she blew out the flame, leaving only the moonlight to illuminate the room.
"You truly planned to burn me with it because you were upset? Is that what you call feelings?" he said, his tone stoic.
Margaret nodded, her heart heavy. He moved toward her.
Her toes curled, and her grip tightened on her dress. The tears fell silently now, but she no longer sobbed. Her heart raced, unsure of what he intended to do. Instead of running away, she remained frozen in place, her eyes fixed on him.
He drew closer, his scent filling the air. All she wanted to do was rest her head against his chest and inhale more of it.
This is dangerous. You cannot be here. Remember the story of the mountain spirit.
Dante reached her and stopped in front of her. He was tall, much taller than she was, so he had to bend his head to look at her. She didn't meet his gaze; her eyes were darting about.
He didn't understand any of this—the so-called feelings that other creatures exhibited. To him, everything tied to feelings was destructive, especially what had happened to Jackson.
For Dante, it was better to focus on one's duty without distractions. Feelings were a hindrance. They could pull you back, just as they had done to Jackson, and he didn't want to end up in the same position.
But the princess—the daughter of King Draven, whom he was bound to protect as part of his duty—came into his space. He didn't know what to make of it.
Then she had left, and he found himself distracted.
He didn't understand what that distraction was. That was why he kept staring at the moon. The moon reminded him of Jackson's mountain spirit and her importance to the realm balance. He didn't understand it, but he just knew he wanted to keep looking at it.
Princess Margaret was coming to replace that moon, and he just wanted to keep staring at her.
But she had come with fire, and it reminded him once again of what he would become if he allowed himself to feel.
He should have stepped back, should have ignored her, but her face was like the moon. Her hair was so white, and he found himself wondering what it would feel like. Would it be as soft as a rose, or hard like the prickly cactus?
Instead of telling her to return to her chambers—because he didn't understand why she cried, didn't understand why she was upset—he asked instead, "How can I make you stop crying?"