Sunlight streamed through the tall obsidian-trimmed windows like judgment sent from the heavens.
Elowen stirred with a groan, her lashes fluttering as the pounding in her head made itself known with a vengeance. She tried to sit up—instantly regretted it—then blinked at her surroundings with slow horror.
She wasn't in her room.
This wasn't her room.
Dark wood shelves towered around her, lined with weathered tomes, gilded scrolls, and crystal decanters. A cold fireplace sat at the center wall, beneath a marble bust of a wolf-headed warrior. A sword hung just above it, polished to cruel beauty. The velvet curtains were drawn halfway, letting sunlight spill onto the black and silver damask sheets where she lay like a tossed ragdoll.
Julian Ravenshade's chambers.
The scent of cedar, wine, and something dangerously male lingered in the air.
"Oh no," she muttered.
She sat up quickly—too quickly. Her body protested, her head spun. She laid back down to catch a balance and when she felt better, she sat up and grabbed the first thing in sight—a crystal glass half-filled with water on the bedside table—and gulped it like salvation.
And then...
She felt like something was missing ... or perhaps forgotten.
Oh heavens! What resulted to this?
It hit... and dawned on her.
Last night.
She was clinging to Julian's chest, tears streaming down her cheeks one second, drunken giggles escaping her lips the next.
"I… I always knew he was cruel…" she laughed, breath hitching between hysterics.
Julian raised one brow, watching with unreadable amusement.
"He looked at me and drank it… that innocent boy…" She giggled again, then sobbed. "So cruel…"
She gripped his shirt tighter, her cheek pressing to his chest.
"You're a nicer person," she sniffed. "Save me... save me from him."
He smirked. The theatre unfolding before him might've been his favorite performance this week.
"He acts so cold and cruel and stubborn.
"Hmmm," was all he said.
"Save me from the cold, cruel Ravenshade…" she mumbled, melting into him.
"Hmmm," he nodded again, lips twitching.
Then her gaze lifted to him, glossy and wide.
"You're cute," she whispered, poking his cheek. "Cute little boo sugar plum."
He choked on a laugh.
"You're like Maeryn's blueberry pie…"
Julian smiled, truly now. "Such an actress you are, wildflower."
Her eyes blinked again. Then widened.
"Wait… you look like him…"
Suspicion dawned.
"You are him!"
She jerked back with dramatic horror. "I've been deceived by the Devil himself!"
She tried to escape. Her foot tangled in the sheets. She tumbled sideways onto the bed like a fallen starfish—and passed out flat, limbs sprawled.
Wildflower, indeed.
Now, in the painful light of morning, Elowen buried her face into a nearby pillow.
Shame wasn't just wearing her like a gown—it had tailored it just for her, stitched it with embroidery, and monogrammed it Miss Grantham: Property of Humiliation.
She groaned softly, hoping the mattress might swallow her whole.
"I've never been drunk in my life." She muttered to herself.
The door creaked.
She stilled.
Footsteps. Confident, slow, familiar.
And then—
"I see the actress is awake," came that familiar, smooth-as-sin voice.
She peeked over the pillow.
Julian Ravenshade.
Leaning casually against the doorframe in a black shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled. His hair was slightly mussed—annoyingly perfect. And his smirk? That was the cruelest part of all.
"Morning, wildflower," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Had a nice performance last night. Critics would call it... emotionally volatile."
She wanted to crawl into the fireplace and disappear.
"Good morning, Lord Julian," she mumbled, sitting up straighter and adjusting her dress which, to her horror, was still slightly wrinkled from her collapse.
He strode forward, arms crossed loosely as he surveyed her from head to toe.
"I must say," he added, "between calling me 'sugar plum' and comparing me to pie, I'm not sure which was the real confession."
Elowen's mouth opened. Closed. Heat climbed up her neck so fiercely she feared her head might catch fire.
He moved closer.
"You even cried," he whispered mockingly. "Held onto me like a heroine in one of those plays you pretend not to love."
"I was drunk," she snapped.
"Clearly."
He leaned a little closer, voice lowering.
"But admit it. You meant it."
"I did not," she said, flustered.
"'Save me from the cold, sly Ravenshade'—your exact words."
"That doesn't mean—!"
He came to stand in front of her and towered above her.
"And the highlight of the night—" he mimicked her voice, "'You're like Maeryn's blueberry pie.'"
She groaned, pulling the pillow back over her face.
He chuckled.
And to her horror, it was soft.
Real.
"You can take two days off," he said finally. "One for the hangover… the second for emotional recovery. You'll need both."
"Thank you, Sir," she muttered into the pillow.
He paused near the door, turned to look at her one last time.
"You look cute when you're dramatic," he said smoothly.
Then he disappeared.
Moments later, a knock.
Tomas stepped in with his usual stiff posture.
"Breakfast is ready, Miss Grantham," he said.
Elowen sat up, hair askew, dignity hanging by threads. "No thank you, Tomas. I'll just take a carriage home."
Tomas bowed. "Very well, miss."
The Ravenshade carriage moved gently beneath her. She didn't even look out the window.
Instead, she replayed every mortifying second of last night—every word, every giggle, every time she clutched Julian like a child lost in the marketplace.
And the worst part?
He hadn't mocked her cruelly.
He hadn't taken advantage of her. Hadn't teased her with fangs bared or voice dripping venom.
He had just…
Let her be.
And maybe even—liked it.
Whatever this strange web between them was, it was beginning to tangle.
And Elowen wasn't sure she wanted to be free of it.
He'd simply let her be.
And now… now she couldn't stop wondering what it meant.
But for today, she promised herself only one thing:
She would never, under any circumstances, drink wine given by Seraphine again.