Chapter 51 Melt Me
Bella
I stare at Damien across the library table, the book heavy in my hands like it's suddenly made of lead. The Maid and the Midnight Prince. What was I thinking, picking this one? The cover alone screams "steamy romance," with its swooning heroine and bare-chested prince under a full moon. And now he's asking me to read it aloud. To him. The Dragon King, my imprinted mate, whose mere presence makes my pulse race like I've run a marathon.
"Read to you?" I echo, my voice a little too high. The library around us feels too quiet, the shelves towering like silent witnesses. Torchlight flickers on the walls, casting shadows that dance across his sharp features.
He nods, leaning back in his chair with that effortless grace. "Your voice is...soothing. And I'm intrigued by your choice."
Soothing? I nearly laugh. Nothing about me feels soothing right now. But the bond hums between us, that invisible thread pulling me toward him, making it hard to say no.
"Fine," I say, flipping open the book. "But remember, no judging."
"I wouldn't dream of it, snowflake."
I take a deep breath and start reading, my words tentative in the hushed space. "'The maid slipped into the prince's chambers under the cover of night, her heart pounding like a war drum. The room was bathed in moonlight, and there he stood, his shirt discarded, muscles gleaming like sculpted marble.'"
It's innocent enough at first—a setup, some dialogue, the tension building between the characters. Damien listens intently, his gaze fixed on me, not the book. As I continue, the scene shifts. The prince draws the maid closer, his hands exploring, whispers turning to heated promises.
"'His fingers traced the curve of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. She gasped as he pulled her against him, his breath hot on her skin.'"
A flush creeps up my cheeks. I shift in my chair, trying to focus on the page, but the words blur slightly as heat pools in my belly.
I keep going, my voice gaining a reluctant rhythm. "'He kissed her fiercely, claiming her lips as if she were the air he needed to breathe. Her hands roamed his chest, feeling the fire beneath his skin.'"
A chill prickles at my fingertips. I ignore it, but as the prince in the story kneels before the maid, parting her skirts with deliberate slowness, describing how he teases her with his mouth, something inside me snaps taut. My breath hitches, escaping in a visible puff of frost that lingers in the air like a ghost.
Damien's eyes narrow slightly, but it's not his voice that speaks; it's his dragon's. "Continue," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through me.
I nod, hands trembling as I turn the page. "'His tongue flicked against her, drawing moans from her throat. She arched into him, lost in the waves of pleasure crashing over her.'"
The words taste forbidden on my tongue, too vivid, too real. My skin tingles, a mix of embarrassment and arousal swirling in my chest. I shift again, uncomfortably aware of the growing warmth between my thighs. That's when I notice tiny flurries of snow drifting from my fingertips, swirling in lazy spirals before dissolving on the table. The nearest window begins to ice over, delicate patterns spiderwebbing across the glass like frost-kissed veins. Oh gods. Not here. Not now.
I try to steady my breathing, but it only worsens. Each exhale frosts the air, turning my words into misty whispers. The story dives deeper—the maid's climax building in desperate, panting detail. My own pulse thunders in my ears, my powers reacting to the emotional storm: flustered heat clashing with icy fear. Spiderwebs of ice creep along the table's edge from where my hands rest, thin and glittering, spreading like a web toward Damien. The torches dim slightly, flickering against the chill, and I glance up at him, my voice faltering on a particularly explicit line about the prince's "throbbing desire." Will he be scared? Angry? I'm about to frost over his entire bloody castle. I've been locked in that tower half my life because of these unstable powers that flare when I feel too much. What if he sees the freak I am and regrets this whole imprint? But his expression isn't fear or anger. It's raw hunger, his golden eyes darkening to molten amber. A low growl rumbles in his chest, barely audible, but it sends a shiver through me—not entirely from the cold.
"Bella," he says, his voice husky, like smoke curling around my name.
I lower the book, my cheeks burning despite the frost nipping at my skin. "I'm sorry. The ice—it's happening again. I can't control it when I get... emotional."
He rises slowly, circling the table with predatory elegance. Before I can react, he kneels before me, his massive frame somehow fitting in the space between my chair and the table. Up close, he's overwhelming—broad shoulders straining his shirt, scales faintly shimmering along his neck, the scent of smoke and spice enveloping me like a warm embrace.
"Don't apologise," he whispers, gently prying the book from my frost-laced fingers and setting it aside. His touch is fire against my chill, sending sparks up my arms. "This is part of you. And it's beautiful."
My heart stutters as he cradles my hands in his, lifting them to his lips. He blows softly, his dragon's breath a stream of heated air that wraps around my fingers like a lover's caress. The contrast is intoxicating—his fire meeting my ice in a clash of elements. Steam rises instantly, curling up in hazy tendrils that fill the air between us, charged with magic. I feel it everywhere: hotter and colder all at once, a delicious turmoil that makes my breath catch. The flurries from my fingertips melt under his warmth, droplets beading on my skin like dew. His eyes lock onto mine, intense and unyielding. The steam thickens, the library air humming with our combined power. It's heady, this push-pull, like our magics are dancing, teasing what's possible between us. Part of me aches to lean in, to let the imprint sweep me away into whatever this could become. But reality anchors me. We've just met—days ago, really. Imprint or not, I have boundaries. Morals. I need time to process, to trust this isn't just some magical compulsion.
I pull my hands back gently, though my body protests the loss of his warmth. "I think I should head to bed," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
Damien searches my face for a moment, then nods, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He stands, offering a hand to help me up. "As you wish. Rest well, Bella."
I take his hand briefly, the lingering heat seeping into my skin, then release it. "Goodnight, Damien."
I retreat from the library, my boots echoing softly in the empty halls. The door to my room clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it, exhaling a frosty breath that fogs the air. My heart still races, the memory of that steam haunting me. It's exhilarating and terrifying all at once.