37.

A shiver ran down Alina’s spine the moment her eyes fluttered open. The air was thick with something she couldn’t name, a weight pressing down on her chest. It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t in her own bed. The sheets beneath her were silk, unfamiliar and cool against her skin. The room was dim, the soft glow of moonlight filtering through sheer curtains.

Her breath caught.

She pushed herself up on trembling arms, the world tilting for a second before steadying.

Where am I?

Then she saw him.

Caelan sat by the window, his silhouette framed by the night. His silver hair gleamed under the faint light, his posture relaxed yet eerily composed. One leg was crossed over the other, his fingers lightly tapping against the armrest of his chair.

But it was his eyes that unsettled her the most—mismatched, unreadable, and fixed directly on her.

Alina’s stomach twisted.

Memories crashed into her like a tidal wave—the suffocating silence, his touch on her wrist, the way the world had blurred into darkness at his command.

"You made me faint," she blurted, her voice hoarse.

Caelan’s fingers stilled. His gaze sharpened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before it was gone.

"You remember." His voice was calm, but there was a dangerous edge to it.

Alina’s throat tightened. She was supposed to forget?

Of course, she was.

Her pulse thundered as she forced herself to sit upright, the covers pooling around her waist. She should’ve been grateful he hadn’t restrained her, but the lack of bindings only made it worse. It meant he wasn’t afraid of her escaping.

Because he knew she wouldn’t get far.

"How—" She swallowed hard. "How did you do that?"

Caelan rose from his chair.

Alina flinched.

He moved with an unsettling grace, his long coat barely shifting as he closed the distance between them. Every step was deliberate, slow, as if he were savoring the fear rolling off her in waves.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alina’s heart slammed against her ribs.

What?

"What do you mean?" she stammered.

Caelan stopped at the edge of the bed, his towering presence making her feel impossibly small.

"You shouldn’t have been able to remember," he murmured, more to himself than to her. His gaze searched hers, as if peeling back layers she didn’t even know existed. "So tell me, Alina… who are you?"

Panic clawed at her throat.

She had no idea what he was talking about. She wasn’t special. She was just a college student, a struggling writer—nothing more, nothing less. But the way he looked at her now, the way his mismatched eyes seemed to bore into her very soul…

It made her feel like something was wrong.

Like she wasn’t supposed to be here.

Like she wasn’t supposed to exist in his world.

Alina’s breath hitched. She shook her head frantically, the weight of his question crushing her chest. "I—I don’t know what you’re talking about," she whispered.

Caelan’s gaze darkened.

She knew, instinctively, that was the wrong answer.

His fingers twitched at his side, and for a second, the air in the room felt thicker, charged with something unseen.

Terror flooded her.

"I don’t know!" she choked out, tears burning her eyes.

Caelan stilled.

The sight of her breaking apart—shoulders shaking, fingers digging into the silk sheets, her breath ragged—made something in his expression flicker.

A crack.

A hesitation.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

"Sleep," he murmured again.

"No!" Alina sobbed, scrambling backward. "Stop doing that—"

But it was too late.

The weight pressed down on her mind, dragging her back into the darkness.

And this time, there was no escaping it.