CHAPTER 370: KIDNAPPED BY CLOSURE

[IRAYA]

The door was open just enough, and the low crackling of the fireplace inside reached my ears like a whispered invitation. I peeked in.

There, sprawled on the long couch before the hearth, was Lyander.

He wasn’t reading or smirking or plotting his next way to torment me.

He was sleeping.

Or—at least I thought he was.

He sat reclined, long legs stretched out, one arm resting behind his head while the other hung lazily over his lap. His coat was off, a thick wool blanket draped loosely over his shoulders. His face, half-lit by firelight, looked younger somehow. Peaceful.

The sharpness I always braced for had softened. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his skin, and the slight part of his lips made him look . . . almost breakable.

I knew I should leave.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I stepped inside quietly, letting the door close behind me with a soft click. The warmth from the fire wrapped around me instantly, far gentler than the heat of our usual arguments.

I stood there for a moment, watching him. Trying to reconcile this version of him with the version that had dragged me to this snow-covered prison of a vacation.

I stood in the quiet flicker of firelight, frozen—not from the cold, but from the sight in front of me.

Lyander was sitting in one of the armchairs near the hearth, arms draped lazily on the sides, legs slightly sprawled. His head was tilted back against the leather, dark lashes casting soft shadows over his cheeks, lips slightly parted.

For a moment, I thought he was asleep.

I stepped closer, barefoot on the cool floor, cradling the warm mug of milk in both hands. The fire popped gently beside us, casting a golden glow over the soft planes of his face. He looked peaceful. Unusually so.

"God," I murmured under my breath, not realizing I’d spoken aloud, "You’d be perfect if you were always like this . . . asleep."

A small grin tugged at my lips. "Maybe you should just sleep forever."

And then—his eyes opened.

I froze. My mug almost slipped from my hands.

"Say that again?" he drawled, voice husky with sleep and smoke.

I went completely blank. My mouth opened, then closed. I probably looked like a caught criminal. His eyes—those intense, knowing eyes—locked on mine.

"I—I wasn’t—"

But I didn’t get to finish.

Because in the next second, he leaned forward, and I felt his breath brush over my cheek—warm, slow, electric. My heart stuttered violently in my chest.

"You talk a lot when I’m asleep," he murmured, voice low and dangerous.

"I wasn’t—" I tried to move back, but my legs refused. "You weren’t supposed to hear that!"

He tilted his head. "But I did."

And then, without a single warning, his hand came up and cupped the back of my neck, pulling me down into him.

His lips found mine—hot, demanding, and nothing like the careful, almost timid kiss from before. This kiss was wildfire.

There was no hesitation, no second-guessing—just hunger. Years of tension, of teasing, of near-misses ignited into flame.

I gasped in shock, but that only gave him the chance to deepen the kiss. His mouth was warm and insistent, his tongue coaxing mine with practiced ease.

I didn’t even register the moment he pulled me down onto his lap—only that suddenly, I was straddling him, my milk long forgotten on the table.

My hands, traitorous and slow, settled on his shoulders.

I should’ve pushed away.

I didn’t.

His hands slid around my waist, tugging me closer, fitting us together like pieces that had always belonged. His kiss grew rougher, more urgent, as if he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.

My breath caught.

This was Lyander—arrogant, infuriating, maddening Lyander. But now . . . now he wasn’t saying anything, wasn’t taunting or smirking.

He was just kissing me like he meant it.

And I couldn’t pretend I didn’t want it.

Not anymore.

My breath stuttered as his lips claimed mine again, bolder this time.

Lyander didn’t hold back—his kiss was raw and full of fire, a tempest tearing through every carefully built wall I had raised between us.

I had imagined what it would be like to kiss him—secretly, silently, always in the spaces between arguments and stolen glances.

I hated myself for thinking about it, even more for craving it. But nothing, nothing could have prepared me for the way he kissed like he had been starved for years.

I barely had time to react when his hand curved around the small of my back and the other tilted my jaw up, deepening the kiss.

My body had no say in it. It melted—eager and trembling—into the heat of his. And suddenly, I was no longer just sitting on his lap.

I was tangled in him.

He tasted like midnight and fire, like secrets and promises I shouldn’t want. My fingers, stupid and reckless, curled into his shirt—gripping him, holding onto the storm we’d created in this quiet corner of the world.

He finally pulled back—just barely. His forehead rested against mine, and we both sat there, breathless.

"Still think I should be asleep forever?" he whispered, voice rough with restraint.

I should’ve shoved him away. Slapped him, maybe. Said something scathing and cold, like I usually did when he caught me off guard.

Instead, I let out a soft, breathless laugh. "Definitely. You’re much more tolerable unconscious."

He chuckled, low and dangerous. His hands hadn’t moved. Mine hadn’t either.

A heavy silence fell between us—warm, taut, and full of things we didn’t want to admit. The fire crackled softly, illuminating the sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips, still swollen from kissing me.

"Iraya," he said, voice suddenly serious.

My name sounded different from him now. Less like a weapon. More like a prayer.

"What are we doing?" I asked softly.

"I’m not sure," he murmured. "But I know I don’t want it to stop."

That honesty caught me off guard more than anything else tonight. He could be flippant. He could tease. But this?

This was dangerous.

This was real.