Chapter 12: Close Enough to Burn
1001 Words
Elara’s POV
I’m not looking for trouble.
I never am.
But trouble has a way of finding me.
Always has.
Even now, with the world quiet and the storm teasing the edge of the horizon, I feel it. Crawling under my skin like static—an old, familiar hum. Half instinct, half dread… and something else I’m not ready to name.
It’s late. The kind of late that erases time, when everything softens and stretches and the earth goes quiet. The air is thick—raw and damp, with the promise of rain. Thunder murmurs somewhere out there, too far to be a warning, too close to ignore.
Behind me, the house is asleep. Candlelight flickers in the windows like old memories, casting everything in gold. It’s peaceful. Safe.
But out here on the terrace?
The night feels like it’s holding its breath.
I should be in bed.
I told myself I would be. I even tried. But rest won’t come—not with my thoughts this tangled, not with my pulse betraying me every time I hear a creak or footstep that might be him.
Because I know he’s awake.
Damien Blackwood doesn’t sleep.
He broods.
And that’s almost worse.
I stand barefoot on the cold stone, robe tied loosely around my waist, a cup of tea in my hands I haven’t touched in forever. The steam curls up into the night, glowing in the lantern light before it disappears into nothing.
I tell myself this tension in my chest is exhaustion.
That the restlessness humming in my veins has nothing to do with him.
Then—
I hear it.
Soft. Subtle. Too familiar.
The clink of ice in a glass. A faint rustle of movement. And then, the quiet exhale of a man who sounds like he’s carrying something heavy and pretending it doesn’t hurt.
And then his voice.
Low. Smooth. Dangerous.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
My heart skips—damn it, it skips—and I turn slowly, mug near my lips, pretending I’m composed when everything inside me is bracing for impact.
There he is.
Leaning against the railing like he owns the night. Like he belongs to it.
White shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the trouble underneath. Sleeves pushed up, forearms on display—tan skin, veined just right, and a glass of whiskey catching the glow of the lanterns like it’s all part of his goddamn aesthetic.
His jaw is shadowed. His eyes unreadable.
Effortless.
Unapologetic.
Undone.
And I hate that I notice.
I hate that he looks like a sin I’d almost be willing to make.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I manage, keeping my voice even.
His lips twitch. Not a smile—more like a secret he’s not ready to tell.
“I don’t sleep much,” he says.
Of course he doesn’t.
A breeze stirs the air, and my robe flutters against my legs. I see the flicker in his gaze—how it dips, lingers, then snaps back up like nothing happened.
But it did happen.
And now the air between us is buzzing.
He nods toward my mug. “Tea?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Judging?”
A smirk pulls at his mouth. “Not at all. Just… surprising.”
I take a sip, more to buy time than anything. The warmth hits my chest, but my blood’s already running hot.
“I don’t need alcohol to manage my problems.”
There. A little sharp. A little pointed.
His smirk fades for just a second. Barely a flicker—but it’s enough. I hit something.
Good.
Because he’s been poking at me since the moment he got here. Flashing that smirk like a weapon. Undressing me with every look like he’s doing me a favor.
He takes a slow sip of whiskey, watching me over the rim of his glass.
“And what problems are we handling tonight?”
I lift my chin. “The kind that come with unwanted houseguests.”
His laugh is low, smooth, and maddeningly self-satisfied.
“You wound me, Elara.”
Yeah, right. I doubt anything could.
I’m halfway to another sarcastic comeback when the wind shifts again, and suddenly I can smell him—whiskey, spice, something dark and clean and him. It curls around me, under my skin, and I hate how it makes my knees feel loose.
He’s too close.
The night’s too quiet.
My heart is too loud.
I grip the mug tighter, trying to steady myself. The space between us feels electric—like it’s charged with something we’re both pretending we don’t feel.
Then he looks at my mouth.
Just a second.
But it’s enough.
The air thickens.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
I can’t breathe.
I should say something. End this. Cut the wire before it sparks. Tell him to walk away.
But then his voice drops.
Low. Rough. So close it feels like it touches my spine.
“Tell me to leave.”
My pulse slams into my throat.
I should. I want to. I need to.
But the words don’t come.
And he knows.
Of course he knows.
Because Damien doesn’t miss anything.
He watches me like I’m a puzzle he already solved, and he’s just waiting for me to admit it.
Something shifts in his expression. His jaw tenses. His grip on the glass tightens.
Like he’s fighting himself too.
Then—just like that—he steps back.
The spell breaks.
The air rushes in. Empty. Quiet. Clean in the worst way.
“Sweet dreams, Elara,” he says, voice unreadable.
And then he’s gone. Disappearing into the house like a shadow that was never really there.
I stand there for a long time, heart hammering, tea cold in my hands.
The wind moves across the terrace, and the first drop of rain kisses my shoulder.
I don’t flinch.
I just stare at the space he left behind…
And hate how much I already miss him in it.
- Writer
