I was back in my real world.
And nothing awaited me here. No conversations worth having. No one worth trusting. Everyone was selfish—drawn only to money, status, the shine of things. I had learned that the hard way.
People only valued you when you had something to show.
Now, I had money. And I wasn't hiding it. I traveled, went to good restaurants, ate the food I wanted, bought the things I desired. I lived well—not to impress anyone, but because I could.
Then my old colleagues appeared again.
They had seen my pictures on Instagram—the updates, the changes. Suddenly, they wanted to talk, to meet, to plan things with me.
I didn't need that. Fake interest didn't tempt me anymore.
There was only one person from my past I still thought about—my teenage love. The one I had never confessed to.
Now, finally, I felt ready.
But even as I thought of him, my mind kept drifting elsewhere. To the other world. To the place I worked. To Lucian Ravenswood.
Tonight, I will definitely find out how Lucian looks.
Just thinking about him makes me smile—without trying, without meaning to. I'm not in a hurry. I want to know him slowly, step by step. But still… I want to know how he truly looks.
I let the thoughts go for now.
I eat.
I finish my work.
I let the day close quietly.
And when night arrives, the air around me shifts. In my dream i am standing at the gate of my demon office, the place I worked in the other world.
I complete the entry formalities and move along the corridor toward the library, softly singing to myself. The sound carries easily through the stone passage, light and unrestrained. For a brief moment, I feel genuinely happy—unburdened, almost peaceful.
Inside the library, the air greets me as I step in. The scent of old paper and polished wood lingers—familiar, grounding. Tall shelves stand in quiet order on either side. I lift my eyes to the clock above them.
12:00.
Exactly on time.
I step onto the wooden stair and reach for the black book I hide on the upper shelf yesterday. Its weight settles into my hands, heavier than I expect. I remain standing on the stair, adjusting my stance carefully, holding the book close and steadying myself so I don't lose balance.
I flip the page.
The page is blank.
I already know what I have to do.
I close my eyes briefly and slow my breathing, letting the moment settle before I speak.
"Lucian," I say.
There is no response.
I repeat the name, more carefully this time.
Still nothing.
A quiet realization follows—and I almost shake my head at myself. Of course. He has a full name.
I adjust my grip on the book, straighten slightly, and try again.
"Lucian Ravenswood."
The lights begin to flicker—steady at first, then uneven—casting broken shadows along the shelves. A faint vibration passes through the room. Several books loosen from their places and fall to the floor,
A sudden fear grips me as I realise something is wrong. I look down at the page, my hands unsteady.
The paper is no longer blank.
Lines are appearing on their own, shaping and reshaping with quiet precision. Slowly, unmistakably, a portrait begins to form.
It is Lucian Ravenswood.
The portrait settles fully into focus, and my breath catches.
He is undeniably handsome, in a controlled, unsettling way. His black hair frames his face neatly, dark and composed. His features are sharp and well-defined—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a firm chin. His lips are calm, unreadable, as though emotion is something he reveals only by choice.
His eyes draw me in next.
They are deep red—dark, steady, and intensely aware. Even on the page, they feel watchful, as if they can see beyond the moment.
He is dressed in black and red, the colours rich and regal. The black dominates, deep and authoritative, with red detailing at the collar and seams. The clothing is royal in design—old princely attire, tailored with precision, timeless rather than ornate.
I realise I have forgotten to breathe.
He is too handsome—quietly overwhelming in a way that unsettles me. My hand lifts without conscious thought, drawn forward by something I do not question.
I touch the portrait.
My fingers trace the lines of his form—the curve of his shoulder, the fall of his chest, the still strength suggested in his posture. The surface is only paper, yet it does not feel empty beneath my touch.
For a moment, the world around me fades.
The library, the shelves, the fallen books—none of it holds my attention anymore. There is only him. Only the image. Only the strange pull that makes it difficult to step back.
The surroundings begin to turn dangerous, and I realise it too late.
The air grows heavy. The shelves creak around me. The wooden stair beneath my feet starts to shake, trembling as if it might give way at any moment. Fear rises sharply in my chest.
The book slips from my hands.
It falls, and at the same instant, all the lights go out.
Darkness surrounds me.
I am terrified. My heart is pounding as I cry out, my voice breaking as it echoes through the library.
"Lucian… save me."
I shut my eyes tightly.
Then—
I feel it.A presence behind...
He catches me from behind before I can lose my balance.
One of his hands reaches past me to the shelf, gripping it tightly, as though holding the stair—and himself—steady. His other hand closes around my wrist from behind, firm and certain, drawing me back until my body rests fully against his. The closeness feels like an embrace, slow and enclosing, as if he has wrapped himself around me without haste.
He moves my hair aside with his chin and lowers his face to my neck. Warmth surrounds me. His breathing grows deep and heavy, almost heavenly, each breath deliberate, restrained, brushing my skin in a way that pulls me out of myself.
His scent closes in with him—dark and rich, like old wood, night air, and something dangerously alive beneath it. It settles around me, steady and overwhelming, as though it belongs to the darkness itself.
"I'm here, Cristina."
His voice comes low and close, carried on his breath. I feel the words against my neck, through my chest, as if they sink into me rather than reach me. His touch is dangerously gentle, intimate without urgency, holding me in place as though nothing else exists.
His shoulder angles forward, covering me completely, shielding me as if I stand within his reach alone. Even on the stair, I am small beneath his height, drawn into the space he commands.
It feels as though I am surrounded by him from every side—his breath, his scent, his voice, his darkness—until I no longer know where I end and he begins.
Suddenly, the lights return.
They flare back to life all at once, harsh and unforgiving. The library is revealed again—every shelf, every shadow, every trembling corner. His hold loosens, and his attention snaps to the fallen book on the floor.
He sees it.
The moment his eyes land on the book, something in him changes.
Anger flashes through him—sharp and violent. The entire structure collapses, books crashing down across the library floor. The sound echoes like thunder, rolling through the room as other shelves shudder in response.
"Cristina," he says sharply, his voice raised now, filled with fury.
"What have you done? What were you trying to do?"
"Are you so eager to give away your soul?" he demands. "Is that what you want?"
Anger flashes through him—sharp, violent, impossible to ignore.
He tightens his hold from behind, pressing me against him as if I could slip away. One hand grips waist, unyielding, while the other—the one that had been holding the shelf—strikes it with brutal force. The wood splinters and crashes to the floor, books tumbling with deafening impact, the library shaking as if it were alive and recoiling from his fury.
I flinch, pressed entirely against him, heart racing, shivering in the strength of his arms. I am small beneath him, caught in his heat and presence, unable to move or speak.
"Cristina," he growls, low and dangerous, every word vibrating through me. "What have you done? What were you trying to do?"
"Are you so eager to give away your soul?" His voice is sharp, raw, carrying both anger and disbelief. "Is that what you want?
I told you to follow the rules," he continues, voice cutting through the chaos of falling books and splintered wood. "I warned you."
Tears blur my vision before I can stop them.
My hands tremble as I clutch the railing, my breath uneven. The fear, the shock, the weight of his anger—it all crashes over me at once. My eyes burn, and then the tears fall.
One drop lands on his hand.
Then another.
He freezes.
My voice breaks as I speak, barely louder than a whisper.
"I just wanted to know you… and your world."
The words leave me fragile, honest, completely unguarded.
"I didn't mean to break the rules," I continued, tears slipping down my cheeks. "I wasn't trying to....
I only wanted to see how you look… and to understand who you are."
For a moment, he says nothing.
Then Lucian speaks, his voice no longer sharp. It is calm now—low, gentle—softened by my tears.
"Do you have no fear?" he asks quietly.
Lucian exhales slowly, as though steadying himself.
"There are rules for humans," he says, his voice low but firm. "You are not meant to dig deeper into our world."
His gaze holds mine, dark and conflicted.
"If you cross that line," he continues quietly, "I will have no choice.....
The words are restrained, not cruel—but they carry weight.
I break down completely.
The tears come without pause, my shoulders shaking as I whisper his name, barely able to form it through my breath.
"I'm sorry… Lucian."
He doesn't move immediately. His gaze lingers on me—from behind, because he is still holding me, his hands steady on my waist and the shelf. He sees me like this, vulnerable, trembling, and something in him softens.
Then, carefully, he lifts me from the stair. My small frame fits easily against him, and I feel the strength in his arms as he carries me down to the floor below. The movement is controlled, deliberate, protective—every inch measured, as if he does not trust anything but his own hands to keep me safe.
"Don't cry," he murmurs, calm, almost gentle, his voice carrying warmth even as the library watches silently around us.
He sets me down, his hold easing but still present in the air between us. Without another word, he turns and walks toward the cabin...
I stand there for a long moment, overwhelmed by embarrassment over everything I had done. My heart races, my hands fidgeting at my sides, and I struggle to steady my breathing.
I do not have the courage to face him again.
I sink into the wooden chair and sit there, unmoving, letting time slip past me. My thoughts circle endlessly—everything I did, everything I should not have done. The room feels heavier with each passing minute.
Then I noticed the clock.
Three o'clock.
It is time for the demons to leave.
The sound of the gate opening cuts through the silence. My heart jumps. I stand up abruptly and run toward the doorway, hope and fear colliding in my chest. But when I reach the cabin…
He is gone.
The space he occupied is empty, painfully quiet, as if he had never been there at all.
But on the table, neatly placed, lies my money. I hadn't even taken it.
I stare at it for a moment, then slowly turn away. The world around me begins to blur.
And then—I vanish.
Back to my own world.