When Naiara opened her eyes that morning, the room was still dim, wrapped in that soft half-light that belonged only to the villa.
She sat up slowly, still disoriented from the night before, from the fog of emotions that the Grey always managed to stir in her… and in that moment, she saw it: a dress, laid out on the armchair near the window, as if placed there with almost reverence.
It was stunning: dark, elegant, sensual in a way that made her pulse trip over itself.
Beside it, on the silk cushion, a small card.
Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.
"Try not to tremble when you wear this. I know you will."
Her breath caught. A shiver, half irritation, half desire, ran down her spine.
Only he could make her feel like this: on the edge between fury and something dangerously close to anticipation.
She pressed the card to her chest for a moment, then she swallowed, stood up, and began to get ready.
When she descended the long staircase, her heartbeat grew faster with every step.
She hadn't seen him all day.
Not a word, not a glimpse.
An ache had bloomed inside her, sharp, maddening, impossible to ignore.
As she entered the dining hall, she stopped.
He was already there, sitting at the head of the long table, a hand resting near a glass of red wine, his posture regal and relaxed, like someone perfectly aware of the effect he had on the world around him.
When he saw her, something shifted in his eyes: a flicker, dark, incendiary.
He rose slowly.
"Naiara," he murmured, and her name on his lips sounded like a caress she wasn't ready to receive.
She felt heat rise to her cheeks.
His gaze slid along her body, deliberate, slow, unmistakably appreciative.
"You wore it well," he said, voice low. "Almost like you wanted to impress me."
She scoffed, though her pulse betrayed her.
"Don't flatter yourself."
He smiled, one of those smiles that felt like a hand closing gently around her throat.
"Come," he said, pulling back her chair.
The dinner unfolded like a dance, words pushed back and forth, grazing the skin instead of the mind.
He teased.
She retaliated.
He provoked.
She answered, sometimes trembling, sometimes bold, always dangerously close to falling somewhere she shouldn't.
The heat between them simmered under every look, every accidental brush of fingers, every silence too long for safety.
Then, suddenly, he asked:
"What do you want most right now?"
The question hit her like a blow.
Her breath faltered, her gaze dropped, her chest tightened.
"My mother," she whispered.
Something flickered in his expression, too fast to read.
He didn't reply. Instead, he lifted two fingers and gestured to a guard standing at the door.
Naiara stiffened. "What are you…?"
But then… The door opened.
A figure stepped inside: her mother.
Alive.
Whole.
Breathing.
"Mamma…"
The word broke from her throat like glass shattering.
Her mother's eyes widened, filling with tears as she saw her daughter.
She rushed to her, embracing her so tightly that Naiara's knees almost gave out.
Naiara looked over her mother's shoulder, toward him.
The Grey. He simply watched them, unreadable, carved in shadow and light but something, something faint and impossible, flickered behind his eyes. Then he turned away.
"Enjoy your evening," he said softly. "It belongs to you."
He left the room, leaving them alone, together and safe… For now and for the first time, Naiara didn't know whether the ache in her chest was relief…
…or the desperate realization that she had no idea what that man was turning her into.