I checked behind the hanging jackets.
Empty.
Too clean.
I moved to the bed.
Ran my hand under the mattress edge.
Nothing.
Checked beneath the frame.
Nothing.
The chair.
I crouched beside it, feeling along the underside, the legs, the base.
Nothing.
It felt unreal.
How could a man like Alexander Quinn live in a room this stripped down?
Where were the documents?
The devices?
The weapons?
The secrets?
I walked the perimeter of the room, pressing lightly against sections of wall.
Solid.
No hollow panels.
No hidden switches.
The bathroom attached was the same.
Black tiles.
Minimal toiletries.
One razor.
One toothbrush.
Everything arranged with mechanical precision.
No medicine bottles.
No personal items.
No second toothbrush.
No weakness.
I stood in the center of the room again.
Speechless.
This wasn't just minimalism.
This was calculated absence.
He didn't keep anything here because this room wasn't for living.
It was for sleeping.
And even that felt optional.
It hit me slowly.
Alexander didn't attach himself to spaces.
He didn't let himself exist somewhere long enough to leave traces.
Everything important—
Was somewhere else.
Or in his head.
Footsteps echoed faintly down the hallway.
My pulse snapped alert.
I moved instantly.
Out of the bathroom.
Across the room.
One last glance.
Pitch black.
Controlled.
Empty.
Then I slipped out and closed the door gently behind me.
Seconds later—
I heard another set of footsteps stop near that same door.
A pause.
The handle turning.
I didn't look back.
I just kept walking.
Calm.
Measured.
As if I had never been there at all.
But one thought stayed with me the entire way down the corridor:
If his bedroom held nothing…
Then where did he keep everything?
The garden was quieter than the rest of the estate.
Winter had begun to settle into Laysia, and the air carried that sharp, clean cold that crept into your lungs and made everything feel a little too real. The roses had been trimmed back, their thorns bare. The fountain in the center barely moved, thin streams of water catching pale moonlight.
I sat on the stone bench near the hedges, hugging my arms around myself.
I felt stuck.
Ever since I arrived here, I had been circling the same questions. Watching. Listening. Searching.
And finding nothing.
Alexander's room had been empty — not just physically, but emotionally. No cracks. No clues. No proof.
I wasn't getting anywhere.
And that realization was exhausting.
My shoulders slumped slightly.
What am I going to do?
The cold seeped through the thin fabric of my clothes, but I barely noticed.
Until suddenly—
Warmth.
A heavy, soft weight settled over my shoulders.
I startled slightly, looking down to see a dark wool blanket wrapped around me.
Before I could turn fully, someone crouched beside me.
He moved quietly, but his presence was unmistakable.
Alexander.
Of course.
He had this habit — appearing exactly when my thoughts tangled around him.
He didn't rush. Didn't hover. He simply crouched beside the bench, one knee bent, posture relaxed but composed. Even like this, in the cold night air, he looked controlled.
"What are you doing outside here in the cold?" he asked.
His voice was low, steady — not scolding. Just observant.
"I wanted to freshen up, I guess," I replied softly.
He glanced at the sky briefly, then back at me. "Well, I don't know much," he said calmly, "but I think this would lead to a cold."
A faint hint of dry humor touched his tone.
I tried to smile. "Nah, I'm all good, sir."
His brow lifted slightly.
"Sir?" he repeated. "Why formal all of a sudden?"
I looked down at my hands beneath the blanket. The warmth was spreading slowly through me, but my chest still felt tight.
"I feel like whenever you're next to me… so close…" I swallowed. "I shouldn't act like I'm your friend. Or anyone close to you."
The words sounded smaller out loud.
"Why though?" he asked.
There was no irritation in his voice. Just curiosity.
I hesitated.
Because saying it meant admitting something.
"I know I'm being a burden to you," I said quietly. "But soon… I'm going to leave."
The word leave felt heavier than I expected.
"And yeah," I continued, trying to steady myself, "I did remember some things. My childhood. And I remember we first met at the ball your family held."
His eyes didn't leave mine.
"Oh," he said softly. "I think it's all coming back. But take your time." He straightened slightly, though still close. "Besides, this mansion is empty most of the time."
Empty.
That word again.
"Thanks so much, sir," I murmured.
His gaze sharpened just slightly.
"Formal again."
"Mr. Alexander…"
"Not that either."
He studied me for a second, then said evenly, "Alexander Quinn."
I blinked. "Why don't you cut corners?"
A faint flicker of something crossed his eyes. "Like how?"
"Like this."
And before I could process it—
He leaned closer.
Not abruptly.
Not aggressively.
Deliberately.
His hand rose slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted.
I didn't.
His fingers touched the underside of my chin, tilting my face up just slightly.
The contact was light.
But it felt like electricity.
My breath caught instantly.
The night air was cold, yet my skin burned where his fingers rested. My heartbeat stuttered, then raced, pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
He lowered his voice.
"Alex," he whispered.
Just that.
Close enough that I could feel his breath brush against my lips.
"A–Alex…" I repeated softly.
My voice barely existed.
The way his fingers remained there — steady, warm — made something unfamiliar bloom in my chest. Heat spread through my body in slow waves, starting from where he touched me and radiating outward.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't exactly comfort.
It was awareness.
Of him.
Of how close he was.
Of how my body reacted without permission.
What is happening to me?
His thumb shifted slightly — barely — but the movement sent another shiver through me.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Like that."
His tone remained calm. Controlled. As if he hadn't just turned my entire world upside down with a single touch.
"Don't ever feel so out of place when you're with me."
The words were steady. Assured.
Like he meant them.
And then—
As if it were intentional — as if he had measured the exact distance —
He leaned closer, just enough that his lips brushed near my ear.
"By the way," he whispered, his voice lower now, warmer, "you looked beautiful tonight."
The words slipped into me like fire.
My lungs forgot how to function.
My fingers tightened around the blanket.
Every nerve in my body felt alive — hypersensitive. The cold night air no longer existed. All I could feel was the warmth of him, the closeness, the way his presence filled the space around me.
He wasn't rushed.
He wasn't flustered.
He remained composed.
But there was warmth there now.
Subtle.
Intentional.
And I was completely undone by it.
For a second, I thought my body might actually combust from the heat building under my skin.
And just as suddenly—
He pulled back.
The space between us returned.
Cool air rushed in where warmth had been.
"Goodnight, Evie," he said evenly.
As if nothing had happened.
As if he hadn't just set my entire nervous system on fire.
He stood smoothly, adjusting his coat, composure fully restored.
And then he walked away.
Leaving me there.
Stunned.
Breathless.
Heart racing violently against my ribs.
I sat frozen on that bench, fingers still trembling slightly beneath the blanket.
What just happened?
My chin still tingled where he had touched me.
My ear still burned from his whisper.
And the worst part?
I wanted him to do it again.
The realization made my stomach twist.
Because this—
This wasn't part of the plan.
And whatever he had just started—
It was only the beginning.