The door opened.
Eline froze.
The man standing there was Darian.
Until now, Eline had only seen him from a distance—across corridors, in passing, never close enough to truly register. Now he stood just a few steps inside the room, close enough that Eline could see details he hadn't before.
Darian wasn't built like the others.
He was tall—around six feet—but not a giant, not overwhelming. His physique didn't scream predator or monster. It was quieter than that. Balanced. Almost poetic. The kind of body shaped to endure, to stand guard, to protect rather than dominate. A soldier made for defense, not slaughter.
His presence felt… gentle.
His eyes were soft, observant, carrying none of the sharp hunger Eline had come to fear. Dark hair fell in loose waves across his forehead, slightly undone, as if sleep had only just released him. His skin was pale, and with the window still open, moonlight poured in and caught on his features, illuminating him in a way that felt unreal—like someone had painted light onto him by accident.
He wore a silk night robe, dark and elegant, the fabric flowing easily over his frame. The front didn't fully close—only a single tie held the two sides together, leaving part of his chest exposed. Not aggressively muscular. Just… softly defined. Human, in a way that unsettled Eline more than brute strength ever could.
For a moment, Darian didn't speak.
His gaze flicked—briefly, unintentionally—to Eline's bare shoulder. Then lower, to his chest, exposed to the night air. Then back to Eline's face.
Eline became painfully aware of himself.
Bare skin. Heat still crawling beneath it. His pulse loud in his ears.
Darian's eyes lingered—not greedily, not with possession —but with something closer to hunger and curiosity, maybe. As if he were seeing something fragile and dangerous at the same time.
The silence stretched.
Eline swallowed, heart hammering.
Why is he looking at me like that?
Not like prey.
Not like possession.
But something he couldn't describe at the moment.
Darian stepped closer, slowly, as if every step was something his body had already decided long before his mind caught up.
"See," he said quietly, his voice low, almost tired, "you're the reason everyone suffers at night."
Ellen stiffened.
Darian didn't sound angry. If anything, he sounded honest—too
As he spoke, Eline tried to focus on the words—to understand them, to make sense of them—but his body betrayed him. The closer Darian came, the more the warmth bloomed under his skin, creeping, tightening, coiling somewhere deep inside him.
"I didn't come here because I wanted to," Darian said. "My body brought me."
He stopped just inches away.
The heat spiked.
Before Eline could react, Darian reached out and pulled him in—not roughly, not gently either. Just firm. Certain. Like letting go was never an option he'd considered.
Eline's breath caught.
Darian held him there, unmoving, his grip steady.
"It isn't your fault," he said, almost against Eline's hair. "But you still carry it."
For a moment, he didn't let go.
Darian's jaw tightened. His grip loosened just enough to let Ellen breathe, but he didn't step away.
"Do you have any idea," he said quietly, then sharper, "how fucking dangerous it is for you to stay here?"
Eline swallowed.
"You're between two people," Darian continued, voice low, restrained, "whose bodies are already on edge every night. And yours—" his gaze flicked briefly to Eline's bare skin before forcing itself back to his face, "—your body keeps provoking them without even trying."
Eline shook his head, panic creeping in.
"I didn't choose this. Mr. Carlson told me to stay here. He said this was my room."
Darian let out a short breath. "I know."
Then, more quietly, "You couldn't stay here without Carlson's permission even if you tried."
He paused, conflicted, then added, "That doesn't make it any less dangerous."
He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a small glass bottle, dark liquid swirling inside like smoke trapped in water. He held it out.
"Take this," he said. "It'll ease the heat. Not erase it—but it'll dull the edge."
Eline stared at the bottle, then took it with trembling fingers.
"And don't just stand here like this," Darian added, irritation slipping through despite himself. "You look like a perfect dessert waiting to be devoured."
Eline blinked.
"Put your clothes on," Darian said, turning his face slightly away. "Because standing here bare like this will drive people mad—even without the heat."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Darian stepped back, putting distance between them again—deliberate, necessary—like a man choosing restraint over instinct.
Darian left without another word.
The door closed behind him with a soft click—and then a second, heavier sound as the lock slid into place.
Eline didn't move.
He stood there staring at the small glass bottle in his hand for a long time, as if it might speak first.
Is it poison ?, he thought.
His fingers tightened around the glass. His body still hummed faintly, heat coiled deep inside him, not raging anymore—but waiting. He remembered the way it had spiraled last night, how quickly control had slipped through his fingers, how close he'd felt to dissolving under a single touch.
I almost melted just now, he realized shakily.
He barely touched me—and I almost melted.
His chest rose and fell unevenly.
"My body's already broken," he muttered to the empty room. "I can't survive that again."he thought about last night.
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped him.
"Better to die by poison," he whispered, "than die by sex."
Before doubt could crawl back in, before fear could stop him, he uncorked the bottle and drank.
The liquid was cool—strangely so—sliding down his throat without resistance. No burning. No bitterness. Just a faint, metallic aftertaste, like rain hitting stone.
Nothing happened at first.
Then, slowly—so slowly he almost missed it—his body began to settle.
The sharp edge of the heat dulled. The constant pressure eased, retreating to something manageable, something familiar. It felt like before. Before all five of them were in the house. Before the air itself had seemed to breathe against his skin.
The heat wasn't gone.
But it was quiet enough to live with. Quiet enough to sleep.
Eline exhaled for what felt like the first time all evening.
He pulled on his night clothes with aching limbs, movements careful and slow, then crossed the room to close the window. The night air vanished, replaced by stillness. The door remained locked, solid, final.
When he lay down on the bed, his body sank into the mattress like it had finally been given permission to rest.
As his eyes slid shut, one thought lingered—heavy, unresolved.
Tomorrow morning, he promised himself.
If I'm still alive… I run.
And with that, exhaustion claimed him.