The corridors of the Wolfram house were still filled with the pale shadows of morning.
Winter light slipped through the tall windows veiled with thin frost, casting cold silver lines across the wide marble floor.
Yet the house remained silent.
Too silent.
As if the old structure still carried the night within the bones of its wooden walls.
In the guest chamber, the women slept lightly.
Her body was wrapped in a white blanket.
But her sleep was far from peaceful.
The house possessed a strange stillness—
a stillness that felt alive.
As though something within its walls was always watching.
Then—
"AARRGGGHHHHHHHH—!!"
The scream tore through the house.
The sound struck the walls and rolled through the long corridors like an echo of suffering that had been trapped for far too long.
the women eyes flew open.
She sat up instantly.
Yet what startled her most—
was not fear.
But a single name that rose within her mind.
Desmond..!!
Without hesitation she stood.
The blanket slipped from her body and fell to the floor.
She rushed out of the room.
Her footsteps echoed through the vast hallway of the Wolfram house.
[Creak…]
[Creak…]
Old wood groaned beneath her hurried steps.
She reached Desmond's door.
Heavy breathing could be heard from inside.
The woman did not hesitate.
Her hand pushed the door open.
BANG!!!!
The door swung wide.
The chamber was vast.
Far larger than an ordinary bedroom.
Its ceiling soared high, supported by dark wooden beams blackened by age.
Heavy crimson velvet curtains hung from tall windows, allowing only a thin breath of winter light to seep into the room.
A stone fireplace stood along one wall, its fire long extinguished—leaving only warm ash behind.
Old bookshelves filled one side of the chamber.
And opposite them stood a dark wooden wardrobe carved with the ancient crest of the Wolfram family.
At the center of the room—
a great bed with a black wooden frame rose like an altar.
And upon that bed—
Desmond had awakened.
His body was bare.
Only a deep crimson blanket covered the lower half of his waist.
He was large.
Solid.
His skin bore the pale bronze tone of a man rarely touched by sunlight.
Yet much of his chest and abdomen were covered by thick dark hair that grew naturally along the lines of his body.
The coarse hair contrasted sharply against his skin—giving him a wild, masculine presence.
Almost like a beast struggling against something deep within himself.
Cold sweat covered his body.
Droplets slid through the dark hair across his chest.
His breathing was ragged.
His eyes stared blankly into the air.
Then his lips moved — "Adrian…"
his voice was hoarse.
Like a man awakening from a nightmare too real to escape. — "Who… are you…?"
The woman stood at the doorway.
Desmond turned abruptly.
His gaze sharpened — "What are you doing here?"
His voice turned cold — "This is none of your concern."
But the woman did not step back.
Instead, a small smile appeared upon her lips.
Warm.
Calm.
She stepped into the room.
Her movements were slow.
Her head held high.
Not with arrogance—but with grace.
Like a princess who had no need to prove her dignity.
She pulled the white blanket wrapped around her body a little tighter.
Her long pale-blonde hair flowed softly down her back.
The cold light from the window reflected across it, making the strands appear almost silver.
Her bare feet touched the cold marble floor.
Yet her steps remained light.
Quiet.
Graceful.
She stopped beside the bed.
Then sat down slowly.
Her eyes met Desmond's.
Gentle.
"I felt it since last night," — she said softly.
Desmond did not respond.
His gaze remained sharp.
"Your pain." — she said softly
[Silence]
"And your scream just now…" — The woman paused for a moment.
"…only confirmed that I was not mistaken."
Desmond remained quiet.
Inside him, something stirred.
Part of him wanted to speak.
But another part resisted.
A man should never appear weak.
Especially before a stranger.
At last Desmond spoke quietly.
"It seems true…" — "…you are someone who never lacks words."
The woman smiled faintly. — "Sometimes words can make a burden feel a little lighter."
Desmond looked down at the crimson blanket covering his waist.
[Silent]
Then the woman moved slightly closer.
The distance between them shortened.
Her voice softened into something close to a whisper. — "Let me help you…"
She paused. — "…my lord."
The words lingered in the air.
Desmond slowly raised his head.
His eyes studied the woman.
For a long moment.
"You are the first person…"
"…to call me that." — he said quietly,
Only now did Desmond truly observe the woman before him.
Long pale-blonde hair.
Smooth ivory skin.
Clear blue eyes that carried a strangely comforting warmth.
Soft full lips.
A small dimple that appeared whenever she smiled.
A slender, well-defined nose.
Graceful shoulders balanced in quiet elegance.
The beauty of a woman from the distant lands of East Europe.
But what disturbed him most—
was her gaze.
Warm.
Far too warm for a house as cold as this one.
Desmond watched her for a few seconds longer.
Then asked in a softer voice, — "By what name… does the world call you?"
The woman answered gently. — "Evelyne."
The name entered Desmond's mind like an old echo suddenly returning from a forgotten past.
He fell silent.
His gaze lowered slowly.
A few seconds passed before he finally spoke.
"Desmond." — He drew a breath.
"That is the name my parents gave me."
Suddenly the room was swallowed by silence.
Desmond and Evelyne remained still.
Then slowly, Evelyne extended her hand.
She hesitated for a moment.
And gently touched the back of Desmond's hand.
The touch was light.
Warm.
Yet enough to startle him.
His body stiffened slightly.
For the first time in a very long time—
someone touched him not out of fear.
Not out of obligation.
But out of care.
Evelyn looked at him softly.
"I do not know what wounds you carry…" — she whispered.
"…but you do not have to bear them alone."
Yet this time, the silence felt different.
No longer the cold silence that had haunted the old house for years.
But a silence filled with something unspoken.
Evelyne's hand still rested upon the back of Desmond's hand.
Warm.
Gentle.
Desmond looked at that hand for a moment, as if he could not fully believe the touch was real.
His fingers moved slightly.
Not to pull away.
But—almost unconsciously—to return the touch.
A long breath escaped his chest.
Heavy.
Yet calmer than before.
Evelyne felt it.
She did not withdraw her hand.
Instead, she shifted a little closer, sitting more comfortably beside the bed.
Her gaze remained soft.
Never demanding.
Never intrusive.
Simply… present.
The pale winter light from the window touched her long golden-pale hair, making the strands shimmer faintly like silver.
At last, Desmond lifted his eyes.
Their gazes met.
For several long seconds, neither of them spoke.
Yet something flowed between them—something that required no words.
Slowly, Desmond turned his hand.
Now the back of his fingers brushed gently against Evelyne's cheek.
His hand was large—veined and rough, shaped by years of quiet strength.Against the softness of Evelyn's skin, the contrast was striking.
The back of his fingers moved slowly along the curve of her cheek, tracing it as though committing the shape of her face to memory.
Evelyn did not move away.
Her breathing grew slightly deeper.
Desmond's thumb lifted.
For a brief moment it hovered near her lips—
then brushed them, almost absentmindedly.
A slow, thoughtful movement.
The pad of his thumb followed the delicate curve of her lower lip.
Warm.
Soft.
Evelyne's breath faltered.
Not from fear.
But from the quiet weight of the moment.
Her chest rose gently as she inhaled.
The air between them suddenly felt warmer.
Her eyes remained on his.
Unwavering.
Trusting.
The gesture carried an unspoken authority—the quiet dominance of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Yet there was no cruelty in it.
Only curiosity.
And something far more dangerous:
tenderness.
Evelyne did not resist.
Instead, her breath grew softer, slower—almost as though her body had chosen to yield to the calm gravity that surrounded him.
For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to the space between his hand and her lips.
And Desmond, without fully realizing it, had already crossed a boundary neither of them had spoken aloud
He studied her as if trying to understand something he had only just discovered.
"For what reason…" he murmured quietly,
"…do you care so deeply for someone you barely know?"
His voice was no longer as hard as before.
Something else lingered there.
Doubt.
And perhaps a weariness he had long kept buried.
Evelyne did not answer immediately.
She only looked at him, feeling the warmth of his hand against her skin.
Then a small smile appeared upon her lips.
A calm smile.
"Sometimes," she said softly,
"one does not need to know a person's entire past to see that the soul before them is wounded." — The words lingered in the air.
Desmond said nothing.
Instead, he clasped Evelyne's hand more firmly—not harshly, but like someone afraid of losing something he had only just found.
Evelyne felt it.
Her eyes remained calm.
Yet her breathing changed slightly.
Deeper.
Slower.
Desmond looked at her again.
Closer now.
As though he had only just begun to notice the details that had escaped him before.
Her pale golden hair fell softly over her shoulders.
The thin winter light touched her face, tracing the gentle curve of her cheek and the faint dimple that appeared when she smiled.
For the first time in a long while—
Desmond felt his thoughts no longer drowned in shadows.
He was simply looking at the woman before him.
"Evelyne…"
Her name left his lips quietly.
Not as a call.
But almost like an acknowledgment that she truly existed before him.
Evelyne lowered her head slightly.
As if honoring the way he had spoken her name.
Yet she did not withdraw her hand.
Instead, she moved a little closer.
Just a few inches.
Enough to make the space between them feel warm.
Desmond could feel her breath now.
Soft.
Warm.
Evelyne slowly lifted her free hand.
For a moment she hesitated.
Then gently placed it upon Desmond's chest—
upon the thick dark hair that covered it.
The touch carried no boldness.
It was almost like someone trying to soothe a wounded creature.
"Shhh…" she whispered softly, her eyes half-lidded. — "You … are a magnificent man, my lord."
Desmond stiffened slightly.
But he did not move away.
Instead, his breathing slowed.
Evelyne could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm.
Strong.
Heavy.
But no longer wild.
"It has calmed," Evelyne whispered gently.
Desmond did not reply.
He simply looked at her.
Longer than before.
Evelyne did not retreat.
Her gaze only softened further.
For several long seconds— they simply looked at one another.
Two breaths slowly blending within the cold room.
Then Desmond moved a little closer.
A slow movement.
Almost imperceptible.
Yet enough to make the distance between them nearly disappear.
Evelyne closed her eyes for a moment.
Not out of fear.
But out of trust.
Their breaths now touched.
Desmond still held her face with his large warm hand.
His touch was not demanding.
Only steady—almost as though he needed to make sure she was truly there.
His eyes traced her features once more.
Every detail.
The pale golden hair upon her shoulders.
The gentle curve of her lips.
The quiet depth of her blue eyes.
There was something in those eyes that made Desmond's chest feel strangely heavy—
not with sorrow,
but with a feeling he had not known for a very long time.
Trust.
Evelyne did not pull away.
Instead she lifted her face slightly toward him—
a silent permission.
Several long seconds passed.
Quiet.
Still.
Then Desmond moved.
Slowly.
So slowly it almost seemed uncertain.
At last, his lips touched Evelyn's.
The first contact was light.
Almost like a breath.
Evelyne inhaled softly.
"sshhh...mmh...mmh..."
A quiet sound escaping her lips.
Desmond did not rush.
He remained there, his lips resting gently against hers, as though trying to understand the feeling rising within him.
Evelyne answered the kiss with equal tenderness.
Her lips moved slowly.
"sshhh...mmh...mmh..."
Warmly.
Her hand that rested upon his chest slowly slid upward, touching his shoulder before finally settling behind his neck.
A natural movement.
Unhurried.
The kiss deepened slightly.
Yet it remained gentle.
Not wild.
Not desperate.
Only two breaths gradually finding the same rhythm.
Desmond drew Evelyne a little closer without breaking the kiss.
His hand moved from her cheek to her back, holding her carefully—
as though guarding something fragile and precious.
For a few moments, the world outside that room seemed to cease existing.
There were no sounds.
No memories of the past.
Only the quiet warmth of two souls slowly discovering one another.
When Desmond finally pulled back slightly, their breaths still mingled in the cold air of the room.
Evelyne opened her eyes.
There was no hesitation within them.
Only deep calm.
Desmond looked at her for a long time.
As if realizing that something had changed.
Not only in the woman before him.
But within himself as well.
And inside the great chamber of the Wolfram house—
which for years had known nothing but silence—
a small warmth had finally begun to glow.
Like a fragile ember newly lit in the heart of winter.
And deep within the old house of Wolfram—
something unseen began to stir.
Slowly.
Almost like a breath.
As if the house itself
was watching them.
Waiting.