Elara jerked away from the window, knees slamming into the edge of the tub. Pain shot through her legs, and she hissed a curse, biting back the urge to kick the damn thing.Breathe.Her hands flew up to cover her flushed face, fingers pressing into her cheeks. She had to work with him today, and the last thing she needed was to be rattled by whateverthathad been.
“Morning, morning!”
Elara froze.Tristan.
“I've brought you cake!” he hollered from her room, and she mentally cursed. Thank the gods she’d had the sense to lock the bathroom door, but still—barging in? Really? She closed her eyes, willing herself to stay calm. Maybe if she kept quiet, he’d get bored and go away.
Moving as silently as possible, Elara got dressed, pulling her dirty gown back over her damp skin. She had nothing else to wear, so it would have to do. Her fingers worked quickly, tying her hair back into a braid, yanking a strip of fabric from the hem to tie it off. She waited a few minutes, hoping he might give up and leave.
He didn’t.
Elara stepped out of the bathroom and scowled at the sight before her. Tristan was lounging on her bed, one arm propped behind his head, the other casually plopping pieces of cake into his mouth. “There you are,” he drawled, not even bothering to sit up. “I thought you’d drowned yourself in there.”
She rolled her eyes, folding her arms across her chest. “Don’t you have anything better to do than loiter in my room, eating cake?”
Another piece of cake disappeared between his lips as he shrugged lazily, crumbs dusting his shirt. “I’m a man of leisure, Elara. Eating cake is my full-time occupation. Care for one?”
Elara shook her head. “No, thanks.” Her stomach churned at the thought. After everything that had just happened, the last thing she needed was to feel any queasier.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “I thought you’d be starving.”
“The Hunter brought me something last night.”
That got his attention. He sat up, smirking. “Did he now? Well, isn’t that domestic of him?”
Elara rolled her eyes, not even bothering to hide her exasperation. Before she could get a word in, Tristan sprang from the bed, cakes in hand, and marched over to the small table by the window.
“Well, don’t dawdle. We’ve got a long day ahead of us—curse-breaking and all that. Ivan’s particularly grumpy in the mornings, so it’s wise not to be late.”
“Grumpy in the mornings and evenings, then? I bet he’s loads of fun at parties.” Elara couldn't help the dry edge to her voice, imagining him scowling amidst festive streamers and jubilant toasts.
But instead of the smirk she expected, Tristan grew thoughtful. “He’s often misunderstood, I think. People take his silence for anger, his focus for coldness. But he’s… loyal, in his own way. When it counts, he shows up.”
Elara blinked, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness. She arched a brow, leaning back. “Was that a compliment? And here I thought you were good for nothing but snide comments and unsolicited advice.”
His lips twitched. “I contain multitudes.” His gaze flicked over her dirt-streaked gown, lingering for a second before he tilted his head. “I might have some spare clothes lying around. Want them?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you live here?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
She held his gaze, suspicion creeping in, but she squashed it, deciding to think on it later. She took him in fully. He was tall and lean, not exactly her size, but anything was better than the mess she was currently wearing. “I wouldn’t owe you anything, right?”
He barked out a laugh, the sound echoing through the room. “Not everyone from Ulrith are such pricks about lending a hand. So, no, Elara, you wouldn’t owe me a damn thing.” His smile was surprisingly warm before he turned and left the room.
Minutes later, he returned, handing her a pair of well-tailored trousers and a soft linen shirt. He winked—because of course he did—before sauntering back to the door and pulling it shut behind him.
Elara stared at the clothes for a moment, shaking her head.Irritating as hell, she thought, slipping into the trousers. But then, as she adjusted the shirt, she couldn’t help but admit—just a little—that maybe he wasn’t entirely awful. Thoughtful, even.
Begrudgingly, she found herself hating him just a bit less.
Chapter 40
The library was empty when Elara finally worked up the nerve to leave her room. She’d been bracing for an encounter—Tristan sprawled somewhere with his usual smirk, the Hunter standing off to one side, brooding as always—but no one was there to meet her.
She moved farther in, boots muffled by layers of rugs. Shelves loomed on every side, chairs tucked close to tables, lamps still glowing low—but nothing. No signs of anyone. She furrowed her brow, biting her lip in thought. If ever there was a time to snoop, it was now. The stillness of the manor, the emptiness—it felt like an invitation.
With a cautious glance around, she stepped deeper into the library, weaving through the towering stacks. The faint scent of ink and worn parchment wrapped around her. She had always loved the smell of books. There was something comforting in it, something that spoke to her in a way nothing else did. Elara ran her hands along the spines, the textured bindings soft beneath her fingertips. Here, she almost felt at home. Almost. But home had never been a place—it had always been the books themselves, the quiet, scholarly sanctuaries like this one, where her mind could roam freely.
