The silence that followed Alaric's departure from the dining room was heavier than the confrontation itself. Nyra stood alone, the phantom pressure of his thumb still burning against her cheek.
She retreated to the east wing, but as she passed the locked mahogany door at the end of the corridor, she froze. It was Julian's old study—the one room Alaric had forbidden her from entering.
A faint light flickered from beneath the door.
Nyra pushed it open. The room was exactly as Julian had left it: the smell of old books, the messy sketches of architectural designs on the desk, and a half-finished bottle of scotch. But Alaric was there, sitting in the shadows of his dead brother's chair.
"I told you never to come here," Alaric said, his voice a jagged rasp in the dark.
"I saw the light. I thought..." Nyra stepped inside, her heart aching at the sight of Julian's drawing board. "You haven't touched anything. You act like you hate him for leaving you with this mess, but you're keeping him alive in here."
Alaric stood up, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. He looked haunted, the chauvinistic mask slipping to reveal a man tortured by a grief he didn't know how to express.
"He was weak, Nyra. He let himself be consumed by you," Alaric said, stalking toward her. He stopped right in front of Julian's wedding photo, which sat on the desk. "Look at him. He was happy. And now he's a pile of ash in a marble box because he couldn't keep his eyes on the road while you were in the passenger seat."
"That's not fair! It was raining, the brakes—"
"I don't care about the brakes!" Alaric roared, slamming his hand onto the desk, inches from her waist. "I care that every time I look at you, I see the woman who stole my brother. And every time I close my eyes, I see the woman I want to..."
He cut himself off, his breathing heavy and ragged. The air between them was thick with a toxic mix of mourning and desire.
Alaric's gaze dropped to her neck, where a simple silver locket hung—the last gift Julian had given her. With a sudden, possessive jerk, he reached out and snapped the chain.
"Alaric! Stop!"
"No more ghosts, Nyra," he whispered, tossing the locket into a drawer and locking it. He stepped into her personal space, his chest brushing against hers. "In this house, you don't wear his jewelry. You don't speak his name. You belong to the Thorne-Vane debt now. And I am the only Thorne-Vane you have left."
He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers for a fleeting, agonizing second. Nyra could feel the tremble in his hands—the struggle of a man trying to hate a woman he was rapidly becoming obsessed with.
Then, as quickly as the moment had come, he shoved past her and disappeared into the hallway, leaving her in the dark with the ghost of the man she had lost and the shadow of the man who was claiming her.
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