Chapter 53 Cake Would Have Made This Less Weird
Bella
It starts with restlessness. The kind that crawls under your skin and refuses to be reasoned with. I’ve tried everything—pacing, reading, lying perfectly still—but none of it works. The sheets are too warm, the room too quiet, and my thoughts far too loud. I can still feel it, the steam, the heat.... The way his breath touched my skin in the library when he melted the frost from my hands. Every time I close my eyes, I see it again, the fire and ice meeting in that tiny space between us. It’s ridiculous how one man can ruin sleep so thoroughly.
“Get a grip,” I mutter to myself. Gilfred lifts his head from the pillow across the room, blinking one beady eye at me before deciding I’m not worth the effort. “Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see him.”
The memory alone sends another rush of warmth through my body. I flip my pillow over to the cool side, then immediately regret it because now the cold reminds me of him too. Gods, this is pathetic. He’s the dragon king, not some half-naked daydream come to life. Well—technically, he is half-naked in the daydream part, but that’s not the point. I toss the blankets back and sit up. My whole body hums with energy that isn’t quite magic and isn’t quite sanity either. It’s that imprint pull again, tugging low in my stomach, whispering closer.
“No,” I tell it firmly. “Absolutely not. We’re not doing this.”
There's a pause. Then the quiet, traitorous part of my mind adds, unless… I groan and stand, rubbing at my face. Fine. A walk. Maybe that will help. Just a little stretch of the legs. Not going anywhere specific. Definitely not following that faint, invisible thread pulling me through the corridors like a hooked fish.
The castle is hushed at this hour, the torches burning low, their flames soft and gold. My bare feet whisper against the marble. I tell myself I’m just wandering, but deep down, I already know where I’m going. The pull in my chest grows stronger with every turn, a quiet drumbeat guiding me through unfamiliar hallways until I stop in front of a door I’ve never seen before. It’s massive, dark wood, carved with twisting lines that look suspiciously like dragon scales. The air here feels warmer, charged somehow, it's probably that delicious dragon heat... and my heartbeat decides to abandon all subtlety.
I stare at the door for a long moment, arms folded. “This is insane,” I whisper.
Silence answers, and I take a half step back, then another forward. My hand lifts before I can stop it. The handle is cool under my palm, even though the air around it isn’t. “Just checking he’s alive,” I mutter. “Not creepy at all.”
The door creaks as I ease it open, and his scent hits me first—smoke and spice and the faintest trace of something that makes my knees weak. I slip inside, closing the door behind me as quietly as possible. The room glows with the dying firelight from the hearth. Shadows move across the walls like lazy ghosts, and in the centre of it all, Damien sleeps...And of course, he’s shirtless. The sheets are low around his hips, the gold light tracing the long lines of muscle across his stomach and chest. His hair is tousled, the faintest hint of stubble shadowing his jaw. He looks nothing like the composed king who lectures about safety and rules. This version is raw, unguarded and very dangerous.
“Unfair,” I whisper. “Completely, criminally unfair.”
My pulse thunders. I should leave. I should. Instead, I take one hesitant step closer, and then another. “Just making sure he’s breathing,” I mumble, even though I can see his chest rise and fall steadily. Up close, the heat coming off him is intoxicating. It wraps around me like an invisible blanket, coaxing me closer still. My hand lifts of its own accord, hovering above his chest. I just want to know—just once—if he feels as warm as I remember. Before I can talk myself out of it, my fingers brush his skin. He’s burning. Not in the painful way, but in the kind of way that makes your breath hitch and your thoughts scatter. The warmth seeps into me instantly, chasing away the restless ache that’s haunted me all night.
My chest loosens and the bond’s pull steadies.
“Oh gods,” I whisper, half laughing. “You’re literally pain relief.”
I should go now. I’ve confirmed he’s alive, established that he’s unreasonably hot in every possible sense of the word, and successfully humiliated myself. Perfect night’s work. Except I don’t move.
Because then he speaks.
“You shouldn’t be here, Snowflake.”
I freeze. His voice is low, rough with sleep, curling through the dark like smoke. My heart does a weird, traitorous flip.
“You—uh—you were supposed to be asleep,” I stammer.
“Was I?” His eyes open, golden even in the dim light, catching mine with lazy amusement.
“I was just—” I stop, because there’s no version of this that sounds sane. “Checking. On. You.”
He shifts slightly, one arm folding behind his head, and the movement pulls the sheet lower. I avert my gaze so fast I might sprain something.
He’s smiling now, and it’s infuriatingly soft. “Do you make a habit of checking on sleeping men?”
“Only the ones who melt furniture,” I blurt out.
He laughs quietly, the sound deep enough to make my skin prickle. “You could have sent a servant.”
“I don’t have servants.”
“You have mine.”
I blink. “That’s not the same thing.”
He studies me, eyes tracing my face like he’s memorising it. “Perhaps not.”
The silence stretches again, thick and full. I should leave. I really should. But my body doesn’t seem to remember how walking works, and gods damnit, I still have my hand on his chest.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I mumble finally.
“Neither could I.”
“You were sleeping.”
“Was I?” he says again, the corner of his mouth lifting.
That smile is a weapon. I can feel it sink straight through my good intentions. He shifts, sitting up slowly, the sheet pooling at his waist. I quickly remove my hand, though the action causes immediate discomfort. “You should go before you start another storm.”
I glare at him even as heat rises in my cheeks. “Maybe I’ll take a page out of your book and just… loiter creepily by your bed instead.”
He chuckles, low and quiet. “If that’s an invitation, I accept.”
My mouth opens, then closes again, because there is no winning against that.
I back toward the door, dignity hanging by a thread. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”
“Goodnight, Snowflake,” he says, and his voice follows me out—warm, amused and dangerous.
The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I lean against the wall, heart pounding. Perfect. Brilliant. I’ve officially reached new levels of insane. And all I can think is: why didn’t I bring cake?