Chapter 80 No way I have feelings for him

Chapter 80 No way I have feelings for him
Elara’s Pov

A knock sounded against our door.

Raye and I exchanged a quick, nervous glance before the older housekeeper stepped inside. As always, her posture was straight as a rod, her face carefully blank, revealing nothing of what she was really thinking. Her eyes swept over the small room before settling on me.

“The guest has requested tea.”

I frowned, as she didn't take her eyes off from me. “There are dozens of servants.” I muttered to only my hearing.

“You are to serve him,” she replied, her expression unchanging. “He asked for you.”

My pulse skipped.

For one brief, stupid moment, my heart lifted with a hope I’d spent hours trying to bury. Just as quickly, I crushed it. If he wanted to pretend he didn’t know me downstairs, then he could keep pretending. I wasn’t about to make this easy for him.

The housekeeper handed me a silver tray as soon as we got to the kitchen. “A fresh pot. One cup.” She turned toward the door. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

The walk to his room felt longer than it had any right to. Every step echoed through the quiet hallway, my hands tightening around the edges of the tray until my knuckles turned white. By the time I reached the carved wooden door, I had already decided exactly how this would go. I’d place the tea on the table, keep my mouth shut, and leave. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I knocked.

“Come in.”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

I pushed the door open.

The room was dimly lit, a fire crackling lazily in the fireplace while rain tapped softly against the windows. I didn't even realize it was raining. Vincent stood near the balcony with one hand tucked into his pocket, his back partially turned toward me.

He didn’t move immediately.

Neither did I.

Finally, I crossed the room and set the tray down on the table with a soft clink.

“The tea, “Sir",”

The word tasted bitter on my tongue.

I turned toward the door, opening to leave.

“Close it.”

My hand froze on the handle.

For several long seconds, I simply stood there, debating whether to ignore him entirely. Then, against my better judgment, I shut the door. The lock clicked softly into place.

Silence.

I spun around.

“What?”

He finally looked at me.

His expression hadn’t changed much, but there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there downstairs. Relief. It disappeared almost as quickly as I noticed it.

“You shouldn’t call me ‘sir.’”

I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry.” I folded my arms across my chest. “What should I call the man who looked me in the eye and pretended I didn’t exist?”

He didn’t answer.

That only made me angrier.

“You knew it was me. I saw it. You recognized me.” My voice rose with every word. “You let him call me a servant. You stood there ignoring me. You didn’t even ask me how I ended up here.”

Every sentence came out sharper than the last until my breathing had grown uneven. “I thought…” My voice cracked despite my efforts to stop it. “I thought when you found me, I was finally going home.”

The room fell silent.

Vincent watched me for a long moment before speaking. “If I had reacted…” His voice was low. “You would’ve died.”

I frowned. “What?”

“Zacharia notices everything.” He took one slow step toward me. “If I’d shown him that you mattered to me…” Another step. “You would’ve become the easiest weapon he could ever use against me.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out.

“You think I ignored you.” His eyes never left mine. “I kept you alive.”

The certainty in his voice shook something deep inside me.

Before I could respond, he asked quietly, “Has he touch you apart from today?”

The question caught me off guard. “What?”

“Zach.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Has he touch you?”

I hesitated. “He…has only lifted my chin.”

The room became impossibly still.

Vincent closed his eyes for the briefest moment before exhaling slowly. When he looked at me again, something dangerous flickered behind his calm expression. “I should’ve broken his hand.”

I stared at him.

“You don’t sound like someone who didn’t care.”

“I never said I didn’t.” His voice softened. “There hasn’t been a single day you weren’t on my mind.”

The words stole every thought from my head.

He stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel the warmth coming from him. “I’ve been looking for you.” My heartbeat became deafening. “You disappeared. I searched every place I could think of.” His gaze searched mine. “And then I walked into that room… and there you were.”

For a second, neither of us moved.

“I was terrified.” The confession was so quiet I almost missed it. “I’ve seen battlefields that frightened me less than seeing you standing beside him.”

Something inside me cracked.

I wanted to stay angry. I wanted to remind myself of how abandoned I’d felt downstairs. Instead, I found myself staring at him, my resolve crumbling.

“You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“And I hate you for it.”

“I know.”

“I still don’t know if I can trust you.”

“You don’t have to.” He lifted one hand slowly, giving me every opportunity to step away. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from my face. “So don’t trust my words.” His thumb lingered lightly against my cheek. “Trust what I do.”

I should’ve moved. I should’ve stepped back.

Instead, I stood perfectly still.

His forehead rested gently against mine. “Elara…” He said my name like it had been trapped inside him for days.

My heart fluttered. I wasn't sure what he'd do next, then I felt his lips brushing mine like he was testing whether I’d let him.

For one stunned second, my mind screamed at me to push him away.

But then I let him kiss me.

His hand slid to my waist, fingers pressing firmly into the curve there as he pulled me closer. I rose onto my toes without thinking, my body instinctively arching into him as the kiss deepened. His mouth moved over mine with a hunger that surprised me — slow at first, then more insistent, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word, every fear, every moment of what he had told me into this one kiss.

I felt completely swallowed by him, his warmth, his scent, the solid strength of his body against mine.

This was our first kiss.

And it shocked me how much I felt.

My hands trembled as they came up to clutch his shirt, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could feel it. A rush of heat flooded through me, mixing with confusion, anger, and something deeper I didn’t want to name. I had spent days convincing myself I hated him, that his absence and silence had broken something between us.

But right now, with his hand gripping my waist and his mouth claiming mine like he’d been starving for this, all of that fell away. I kissed him back, matching his intensity, my fingers tightening in his shirt as if I was afraid he’d disappear again.

He pulled me even closer, guiding me backward until my lower back gently bumped against the table just enough to make me gasp softly against his mouth, which he took advantage of that small sound, deepening the kiss further.

His tongue brushed mine in a way that sent sparks racing down my spine. It was intense and I could feel myself leaning back. I braced both hands on the table behind me to steady myself, my body arching into him as he leaned over me.

His mouth moved from my lips to my jaw, then down to my neck, pressing slow, heated kisses along my skin that made my breath hitch. I tilted my head back without thinking, one hand sliding into his hair, the other gripping his shoulder.

Just as I realized it was getting more intimate and intense, I pulled out, breathing hard, my lips tingling, my mind spinning. I stared at him, wide-eyed and shaken.

“No.” I shook my head, stepping down and shifting from him. “No… no.”

It wasn't true.

No way I'd harbor feelings for him.

My lips still tingled. I hated that they did.
“I shouldn’t have done that.” I took another step backward. “I hate you.”

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “No, you don't." His voice remained infuriatingly calm. “You’re angry.” He held my gaze. “There’s a difference.”

I looked away before he could see the confusion in my eyes.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he’d kissed me.

The worst part… was that I’d kissed him back.
And I wasn’t sure which of us I was angrier with.