The Past
Three years ago
Aria — First Person POV
“He was never supposed to touch me. But he did. And I let him.”
It’s 12:48 a.m. and I’m standing barefoot in a hallway lined with old paintings of men I hate.
The guards stopped bothering weeks ago. Maybe because they think I’m harmless. Maybe because they’re afraid of what my father would do if one of them tried to lay a finger on his precious daughter.
Either way, they don’t follow when I slip through the east wing and climb the stairs that creak like they’re keeping secrets.
I need air.
I need out.
Out of this house. This name. This life.
I reach the rooftop and suck in a breath like I’ve been drowning for hours. The wind cuts through the silk of my nightgown, and the city sparkles below like it’s laughing at me. Like it knows I’m not free.
And then—I see him.
He’s standing at the edge of the roof like a shadow someone forgot to erase. Tall. Quiet. Hands in his pockets like he owns the night.
I stop.
I stare.
It’s him.
Silas Raveen.
New. Silent. Hired by my father like some ghost with a knife for a smile. Everyone says he’s ex-something. Ex-mercenary. Ex-assassin. Ex-human, maybe.
I clear my throat. “You’re not supposed to be up here.”
He doesn’t turn. “Neither are you.”
His voice is low. Calm. Like cold water poured over fire. I hate that it makes my spine feel weird.
“I live here,” I say.
“I know.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you stalking me now? Or do you just have a thing for rooftops too?”
Still no movement.
God, he’s annoying.
“I thought the whole point of being a bodyguard was, you know, guarding,” I snap.
“I’m not your bodyguard,” he says.
I take a step closer. “No? Then what are you?”
His eyes finally flick to mine — sharp, unreadable. Like he’s cataloguing how fast I breathe. How fast I could fall.
“I’m here to make sure you don’t die inconveniently.”
I blink. “Wow. Romantic.”
“I’m not here to flirt.”
“No kidding.”
We stare at each other.
He’s… intense. And weirdly still. Like a bomb that hasn’t decided if it wants to go off.
My arms cross on instinct. Not because I’m cold — but because something about him makes me feel too obvious. Too seen.
I should walk away. But instead, I walk past him and sit on the edge of the rooftop. Legs swinging into nothing.
His eyes follow, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t stop me.
“Afraid I’ll jump?” I ask.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“You wore perfume.”
His tone is deadpan. “Girls who want to die don’t bother with perfume.”
I stare at him. Half offended. Half impressed.
“I’m not a girl,” I say.
He gives a small shrug. “You’re not grown either.”
Okay. Now I hate him.
“And you,” I say sharply, “aren’t exactly what I pictured when I imagined the people my father hires to keep me alive.”
“You imagined us?”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
His jaw ticks. Just barely. But I see it.
“What’s your story, Silas?” I ask. “Who do you work for, really?”
His gaze hardens. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”
“Why? Will you kill me?”
He doesn’t answer.
God. Why does that make me feel excited?
I shouldn’t want this. Not him. Not this moment. But I do.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
“Have you killed someone?” I ask.
His silence is enough.
“Do you regret it?”
Still no answer.
But his hand flexes by his side.
“You’re such a mystery,” I whisper. “It’s kind of annoying.”
“I’m not here for your curiosity, Aria.”
“You’re here because my father owns you.”
His face changes. Just a flicker. And then goes cold again.
And for the first time, I think maybe I touched a nerve.
We sit in silence. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just… alive.
The wind picks up and my hair whips across my cheek. He watches but doesn’t say anything.
I like the way he doesn’t flinch. The way he doesn’t pretend. Everyone else in this house lies with every breath.
He doesn’t lie.
He warns.
And I don’t know why I want him to warn me again.
—-
The rooftop becomes our secret.
Not officially. Not agreed upon. Just… quietly shared.
Every few nights, I find him there — same place, same posture, like the sky tells him more than people ever could. He never greets me. Never tells me to leave. But he stays.
And so do I.
Sometimes we say nothing at all.
Sometimes I push, and he lets me — just enough to keep me curious.
It’s like standing on the edge of something sharp. One wrong move and I bleed. But I’m not afraid of blood.
At a gala the next week, I catch him watching me.
He’s standing near the bar, not drinking. Not speaking. Just watching — like he’s memorizing my exits, measuring the distance between me and everyone else in the room.
Like I’m his assignment.
I drop my glass — half on purpose — just to see what he’ll do.
He’s there in a flash, hand wrapping around mine before the glass even hits the floor. His touch is rough, cold, and I feel it everywhere.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod. But I don’t let go.
Neither does he.
We stay like that for a second too long. Then he releases me and walks away before anyone notices.
I feel… breathless.
Not in a romantic way. Not in a fairytale way.
In a my-ribs-are-closing-in kind of way.
Another night, I find him smoking outside the guest wing.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me. Just tilts his head like he was expecting it.
“You’re following me now,” he says.
I smirk. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You’re wearing perfume again.”
“Maybe I just like it.”
He flicks the cigarette into the gravel. “Maybe you just want attention.”
My eyes narrow. “Maybe I want answers.”
“No, Aria,” he says. “You want trouble.”
The way he says my name — low, final — makes my stomach flip in a way I don’t like. In a way I do.
I cross my arms. “Is that what you think I am? A bored little rich girl playing with knives?”
His gaze pins me. “I think you don’t understand what kind of men you’re trying to provoke.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “And I think you don’t understand how bored I am.”
He takes a step closer — not enough to scare me. Just enough to prove he could.
“Don’t confuse me with one of your father’s guests, Aria,” he says. “I’m not here to entertain you.”
“Then why are you still here?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
It happens three nights later.
There’s a party downstairs — smoky, loud, full of men who smell like old money and secrets. I slip out before dessert, barefoot again, silk robe clutched over my slip dress. I don’t know where I’m going until I see him.
Back garden. Stone wall. Same silence.
He’s leaning there like he’s part of the night.
I walk straight up to him.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
He doesn’t answer.
I step closer. “Is it because I scare you?”
He looks down at me slowly. “No.”
“Then why?”
“You don’t scare me, Aria,” he says. “You tempt me.”
It hits me low in my stomach — not fear, not excitement — something hotter. Heavier.
I step right into his space.
“Then do something about it.”
His jaw clenches. His hand twitches at his side.
And I kiss him.
No hesitation. Just hunger. Just curiosity with nowhere left to hide.
His hand catches my wrist — tight, firm — like he’s about to push me away.
But he doesn’t.
He kisses me back.
Just once. Quick. Rough. Honest.
It steals the breath from my lungs.
Then he pulls away.
His voice is hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I do.”
“I’m not the kind of man you get to choose.”
“Then maybe I’m not the kind of girl who needs permission.”
We stare at each other — too close, too far, too late.
And then he turns and walks away.
He doesn’t look back.
But I don’t regret it.
Not yet.