Chapter 4 - Adrian

I sat in the garden, the night air cool against my skin, the crackling of the campfire breaking the silence around us. Nick, my childhood buddy, was sitting across from me, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, his eyes half-closed as the warm glow from the flames danced across his face.

But my mind wasn't on fire. It was on her.

The scene from the bedroom kept replaying in my head—the sight of Seraphina's face twisted in anger, her hand burning as she tried to assert control in a way that shattered me. The flames licking at her skin, the way she held Natasha's neck with such venom, and the pain that flickered in her eyes when the fire burned through her flesh—it gnawed at me.

I couldn't get that image out of my head. The look on her face, the desperate need to hurt something, to make me feel it. And then the fire. The fire that burned both of us in different ways.

Without thinking, I reached for the nearest burning stick, my hand trembling slightly as I held it in my grasp. Before I even knew it, I pressed the flaming end to my own palm, right where she had burned herself. The pain shot through me, searing and immediate, but I welcomed it.

I felt it. I needed to feel it. Because as much as I tried to ignore it, I was guilty. Guilty for what happened between us, guilty for the way things had turned out.

Nick's voice broke through my haze of self-inflicted pain. "Adrian, what the hell are you doing?" His voice was laced with disbelief as he jumped to his feet, clearly panicked.

The fire bit into my skin, but I didn't flinch, didn't pull away. It was nothing compared to the burning in my chest, nothing compared to the wreckage I had caused in her life, in mine. The searing pain in my hand felt almost... deserved.

"Adrian! Stop!" Nick shouted, grabbing my wrist and yanking the stick from my hand. He then hurried to summon a couple of maids to bring ice, his face tense with concern.

I couldn't bring myself to look at him, so I focused on the fire. The flames flickered and danced, just like my thoughts, like the chaos that was swirling inside me. Nick let out a short sigh as he handed me the ice pack, pressing it gently to the burned area on my hand.

"You two are a mess," he muttered, his voice shaking his head in amusement, though there was no humor in it. "You love each other, don't you?"

I didn't answer right away. Instead, I watched the flames again, their glow brightening in the darkness.

"One burns the bed, the other burns the hand."

The words were true, and it felt like an omen—like we were locked in this destructive dance that neither of us knew how to stop.

"Maybe we do," I finally said, my voice low, a thread of bitterness curling in it. "But neither of us can admit it, Nick. Not yet."

He didn't say anything else after that, just sat back down, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the echo of Seraphina's pain in my head.

The ice pack pressed against my palm was a sharp reminder of something I couldn't escape: Seraphina. It wasn't just the burn that stung—it was the way she hadn't even bothered to care for her own injury.

I exhaled sharply, frustrated with myself, with her, with everything. I had seen the pain in her eyes when she set fire to the bed, but the bigger wound—the one I couldn't see—was the one she refused to acknowledge. The one I had caused.

I stood up abruptly, the burn still throbbing in my hand, and motioned for the maids. "Go to her room. Bring her some bandages," I ordered, my voice tight.

The maids scurried away, but I knew it was futile. They wouldn't be able to help her. She wouldn't let anyone near her, not after what happened between us.

I could feel the weight of the silence as I stood by the fire, waiting. The minutes felt like hours until the maids returned, their faces pale.

"Sir, she threw the tray at us," one of them said hesitantly. "She... she threatened us to leave."

Of course she did. Seraphina was never one to let anyone help her. I couldn't blame her. Not really. She had been forced into this mess by me, after all.

I clenched my fists, irritation bubbling beneath my skin. I couldn't let her sit there alone with her wounds. I wouldn't.

I made my way up to her room, my steps heavy with determination. I knocked once before entering, but there was no answer. When I pushed the door open, the sight that greeted me almost made my heart stop.

Seraphina stood by the window, her back to me, her arm clutched tightly to her chest, blood still staining the sleeve of her dress. The moment she heard me enter, her head snapped around, eyes cold and full of venom.

"I told you to stay away," she hissed.

Her words didn't deter me. If anything, they fueled my need to help her.

I took a step toward her, cautiously, but she was already moving—her hands pushing me away, her strength surprising me. She wanted to escape, to keep her distance.

But I couldn't let her.

In an instant, I grabbed her wrist, my grip firm, and spun her so that her back was pressed against the wall. She struggled, but I held her in place, my hands going to her waist, forcing her to stay still.

Her breath quickened, her body tense against mine, but I ignored the pounding of my own heart. This wasn't about what I wanted anymore.

I gently unwrapped the fabric of her dress, revealing the burn on her hand, the skin reddened and raw. I didn't speak. There was nothing to say.

Slowly, I bandaged her hand, the task mechanical, my fingers brushing against hers as I worked. The silence between us felt thick, heavy.

When I finished, I stepped back, keeping my distance. But I didn't leave. Not yet.

She didn't say anything. Her eyes never left mine, but for the first time, there was something different in them—a flicker of something I couldn't name.

"Are we done here?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly. But I didn't move. I just watched her, knowing that this was far from over.

The dining room was suffocatingly silent. I sat at the head of the table, my eyes fixed on the plate in front of me, though I had no appetite. Across from me, Seraphina's presence was a storm brewing—silent, yet heavy enough to command attention.

She toyed with her food, stabbing at it like it had personally wronged her. Her bandaged hand was a reminder of the chaos earlier, but I refused to let my gaze linger on it. Showing concern wasn't an option. Not for me. Not anymore.

"Eat," I said, my tone as cold as the marble floors beneath us.

Her fork paused, and her sharp gaze flicked up to meet mine. "I am eating," she snapped, her voice laced with defiance.

I leaned back in my chair, resting my elbows on the armrests as I regarded her with an impassive expression. "You're not eating. You're taking your frustration out on the food."

She smirked, but there was no humor in it. "And why does that bother you, Adrian? Is my lack of table manners suddenly an issue for you?"

I didn't respond immediately, letting the tension stretch between us. "You're under my roof now, Sera," I said finally, my voice calm but edged with steel. "Try to act like it."

Her smirk faded, replaced by a glare that could cut through stone. "Your roof?" she repeated, her tone dripping with disdain. "Let me remind you, Adrian, I didn't walk in here willingly."

"That doesn't change the fact that you're here," I said, keeping my voice steady, refusing to let her see the cracks in my armor.

She pushed her plate away, the sound of porcelain scraping against the table grating in the quiet room. "You might have forced me to sign that contract, but don't think for a second that I'll play the role you want me to."

I leaned forward, my hands clasped together on the table. "You don't have to play anything, Sera. But remember this—you're here for a reason. And until I say otherwise, you'll stay."

Her eyes narrowed, the fire in them unmistakable. She rose from her chair, the movement sharp and deliberate. "You can keep me in this house, Adrian," she said, her voice low and dangerous, "but you'll never own me."

I stood as well, towering over her, but she didn't flinch. "I don't want to own you," I said, my tone colder than I intended. "I just need you to stay alive. Whether you like it or not."

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "Alive? Don't pretend this is about my safety. We both know it's about control."

I didn't reply, couldn't reply. Because as much as I wanted to deny it, there was some truth in her words. I needed her here, close, where I could keep an eye on her. It wasn't just about her safety—it was about mine, too.

Without another word, she turned and walked out of the dining room, her footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to stay rooted in place.

I couldn't afford to show her what was really going on inside me. Not now. Not ever.

The more she hated me, the safer she'd be. Or at least, that's what I kept telling myself...