Since the letter, I hadn't slept. Not because of nightmares… but because of clarity.A part of me had awakened.And it had no intention of closing again.
My world was split in two: what I knew… and what I didn't.And what I didn't know hurt more.
I didn't speak to Declan, but I didn't avoid him. Sometimes resentment doesn't need distance. Only memory. And I had too much of it.
Lyanna found me in the central hall shortly before sunset.
"There's dinner tonight," she announced as if it were something ordinary. "The garden will be lit, and Melyra prepared root wine."
"I'm not in the mood for dinners," I said without looking at her.
"Precisely. It's not about the food," she replied, tossing a dress onto my bed that looked as if it had been designed to provoke any human being on the face of the earth.
I spread it out. The fabric was ancient but impeccable. And the neckline screamed intention. Black, soft, dangerous.
"Seriously?"
"In revenge," she smiled wickedly. "For everything they kept from you. For everything you didn't deserve. Make him see you. Make him want you… and tell him no. If he won't give you answers… at least make it hard for him to breathe."
Lyanna understood me. She was young, like me, and seemed to grasp my frustration. Perhaps she, too, was curious about what was really happening.
I looked at her, one brow raised."I'm not going to seduce him."
"It's not about him. It's about you. About reminding yourself how powerful you are… even when you're furious."
I didn't respond. But that night, I wore that damned dress.Out of rage.Out of pride.For myself.
Dinner was served in the inner garden. Suspended candles floated slowly above the long wooden table. Melyra was already seated. Declan too.
When I entered, the conversation died.
He looked at me.And didn't blink.
The neckline, the cut, the way the fabric slid over my hips… everything had been chosen to unsettle him. And it worked.I drank the first glass of wine without saying a word.
"Are you well?" Melyra asked.
"Perfectly," I replied, setting the empty glass on the table.
Declan hadn't touched his food.Neither had I.
His gaze drifted over my neck, the neckline, my waist. Then it returned to my eyes and did not move again. It was as if he were seeing me for the first time.
Not on the outside.But within.And he didn't know whether he should touch me… or kneel.
He spoke little during dinner. Melyra tried to keep the conversation light, but I noticed how he looked at me from the corner of his eye, again and again. Not with uncontrolled desire. With restraint. And that was worse.
The second glass was slower still. I savored each sip as if it were a ritual. He watched me, tension visible in his jaw. He didn't look directly at my neckline, but I could feel it. Each time he forced himself to meet my eyes, it took him more effort to keep them there.
"Melyra, this wine is strong, isn't it?" I remarked, sliding my hand from my throat down to my chest, tracing my skin.
Melyra lowered her gaze to her cup."I think… I'll leave you for a moment. I need to prepare an infusion." She rose with elegance, but her departure was so sudden that the silence she left behind was even more scandalous.
I said nothing.
I drank the rest of the wine. I wet my lips.I didn't touch him. I didn't provoke him physically. But I knew what I was doing.And he did too.
Minutes passed, but they felt like endless hours.
Without realizing it, in the midst of my performance of revenge, I had drunk more than I should. The mixture was sweet but strong. I felt as if I were floating. Not completely uninhibited, but freer.
When dinner ended, I tried to return to my room alone. But the corridor spun more than it should have.
Declan stood before I did.
"I'll walk you," he said, not waiting for my consent.
He stayed behind me without being asked.
"Don't touch me," I warned, swaying slightly.
"I'm just making sure you at least reach a door," he said, his tone… almost amused.
"I'm perfectly fine."
"I can see that."
I tripped on the rug.
"Don't say anything," I muttered, bracing myself against the wall.
"I won't."
We reached my door. I turned.
"Thanks… for nothing."
"You shouldn't dress like that," he murmured suddenly, his voice low near my ear. "Not if you don't want me to come closer than I should."
I froze.But I said nothing.
He didn't move forward. He didn't try to kiss me. He simply waited.
And when he realized I wasn't going to close the door, he entered.He remained standing, touching nothing.
"I can sleep on the divan," he said.
"Do whatever you want. I don't care."
I removed my shoes. I collapsed onto the bed, still dressed, not caring about anything.He remained still. Like a statue of flesh and fire.
"What are those scars?" I asked, not knowing why.
I looked at him. Something was different in his face. Not surprise. Not discomfort.Pain.An old pain.
He slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Not with eroticism. With honesty.
And there it was.
A curved line across his clavicle, lighter than the rest of his skin. Like a crescent moon someone had left there at birth.
"I received it during the plague," he said. "A disease that wiped out half the village. I used my blood to save them."
"How?"
"My blood heals. But not without cost."
I sat up, more sober than I expected. I approached. I touched the scar. Not out of tenderness. Out of instinct.
"And what was the price?"
"I nearly died. My body couldn't withstand it. I spent weeks between life and death. Since then… I understood that I am not eternal. That if I use what I am to save others, I can lose myself.""And if you have a child?"
"I lose everything. Immortality. My bond with the island. And probably… I would die someday like any human."
I fell silent.
I stood. Crossed the room.I was so close I could smell his skin.And still I didn't touch him… until I did.
I extended a hand and traced the scar with the tip of my fingers.Not with tenderness.With precision.Like someone studying a hidden map.
I felt his body tense beneath my touch.I followed it with my finger.Slowly, downward.And stopped just before reaching his heart.
He closed his eyes.
"Thank you for showing me this," I whispered. "Not to forgive you. Only to remind myself that you are real."
"You are too."
And then I traced the scar again with my finger, this time upward.
I knew he was burning inside.But I gave him no mercy.
"That's the most honest thing you've shown me since I arrived."
"I know."
"It's not enough. But it's something."
We looked at each other one last time.
That night we slept in the same bed.He, above the covers. I, beneath them.Without touching.
And even so, I felt that something invisible between us had begun to heal.