I took a sip from my glass, allowing the warmth of the wine to steady my nerves. Whether it was curiosity or the effects of the alcohol, I found myself speaking before I could stop.
“Draven,” I said, testing the weight of his name on my tongue. My voice wavered slightly, uncertain, but I pressed on. “Why were you at the river that night? The night you rescued me?”
Draven’s gaze locked onto mine, his pale blue eyes concealing a myriad of emotions that begged for deciphering. “Iwas returning home after a meal with a friend.” He spoke in a calm and distant tone.
“Well, I am grateful you were there.”
“As am I,” he replied, his tone gentle. A beat of silence passed before he tilted his head, studying me with quiet curiosity. “May I ask, though—why did you end up in the river that night?”
I knew that question would be asked eventually, though I was not prepared for it to be asked this soon. My gaze drifted from his eyes to the intricate patterns on the plate in front of me. I let my fingers trace them as I considered my response.
“My mother passed away not too long ago, and I needed some time alone. I tripped and fell … you know what came next.” I don’t know why I kept the truth from him. Perhaps admitting it out loud would have placed the crushing weight of grief back onto me. Or perhaps it was the guilt—the lingering shame that meeting with Henry was the reason the Blood Hunter killed my mother.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying to steady myself; my words and memories threatening to bring the tears I’d been holding back.
Then, I felt Draven’s hand gently settle over mine. His touch was cool and steady, and I didn’t flinch at the contact. I didn’t realize how much I needed it. How much I needed something, someone, to ground me in the present, to pull me away from the depths of my own thoughts and grief. His hand on mine was a silent reminder that I wasn’t entirely alone.
A heavy silence hung in the air, and I struggled to find something to say. I pulled my hand back and pushed the food around my plate. “What did you do today?” I asked, changing the subject.
Draven licked his lips and put down his glass. “I am currently engaged in a research project with a colleague of mine.”
A glimmer of insight into his life piqued my interest.
“Might you share more details about this project?”
A small, secretive smile played upon Draven’s lip. “I am afraid that it is classified information.”
I must have let the disappointment show on my face because he added, “Perhaps someday I may share more if it is a success.”
His comment let my mind spiral.Someday.What led him to believe that I might be staying here for an extended period? Would I be?
I studied him for a moment, my gaze not wavering on his as I tried to see if I could read his thoughts. My eyes narrowed as I studied him. “What are you thinking about, Miss Bertrand?”
“I was contemplating how mysterious you are trying to be. You saved me, brought me into your home, and when I offer a glimpse into my life, my attempts to delve into yours are met with restraint. I apologize if my straightforwardness seems brash, but you did ask,” I said as I tried to decipher the man in front of me. “And please, call me Rosalia. No need for formalities.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “There are things I cannot easily share,” he replied cryptically. “And I find your straightforwardness to be attractive. I find myself wanting to know more about you.”
Our gazes locked, and a warmth blossomed within me. I felt my cheeks heat at his words. “Why do you want to know more about me?”
Draven’s eyes held mine. “You intrigue me.”
He leaned back in his chair and pointed to a woman on the wall. “My mother passed away when I was young. Herdeath left me in great despair.” The woman in the portrait’s resemblance to him was uncanny. She had long raven-black hair and the same pale blue eyes as Draven. “This was her house, and when she passed, it became mine.”
“Do you have any siblings?” I asked.
“No. My mother and father tried for a long time. However, I was their only child. When I was young, I would hear them argue about it. One day, my mother got ill, and I was forbidden to enter her room. After she died, my father was never the same. He became a cruel man.” His voice was heavy, as if he were reliving those painful memories with each word. Draven’s vulnerability drew me in.
“I also do not have any siblings. My father was killed when I was young.” I expected him to press further, to ask about the loss I had endured, but instead, his gaze turned colder, his face becoming expressionless.
“Loss can be difficult,” he said, his voice distant and detached, as if retreating from the topic altogether.
I nodded, a flush creeping across my cheeks at the vulnerability of sharing such a painful memory with him. “You mentioned that you live alone here in Thornwood,” I said, trying to shift the focus. “Do you ever find yourself feeling lonely?”
Draven’s gaze landed momentarily on my lips before returning to my eyes. “I have grown accustomed to solitude,” he admitted, his fingers tracing the rim of his wine glass. “Though recently, it has felt different. Meeting you has been a welcoming change, Rosalia.” The way my name rolled off the tip of his tongue sent warmth throughout my body.
I looked away from him, fearing I may have indulged in too much wine, my face flushing with warmth.
“I have a proposition for you, Rosalia. If you are open to it.”
