CHAPTER 36: THE HEARTLESS GUARDIAN

The quiet of the night seemed to press in heavier now that she was alone with him. The vast chamber suddenly felt too small beneath the weight of his undivided attention.

Placing the half-finished plate on the table, Anneliese—too aware of his presence—met his gaze, sharp and attentive, as if every rhythm of her heartbeat was being read and measured behind that impenetrable calm.

She finally asked, her voice small yet guarded, "Why did you ask for me to come here?"

Without looking away, he asked, "How are you feeling?" There was a rare softness in his tone. "I can see the strain in your eyes... and hear it in your pulse."

"You tell me," she murmured. Her fingers curled in her lap, but she didn’t look away. "I don’t... I don’t understand you. One moment I want to trust you; the next, I want to run from you. Sometimes... you seem to have a heart of kindness—even compassion—and then, the next moment, it’s as if you don’t have a heart at all."

For a long moment, he said nothing. The fire crackled in the hearth, shadows shifting across the hard lines of his face. Then, faintly, the corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile.

"I don’t, quite literally, have a heart," he said at last. "And whatever kindness or compassion you think you’ve seen... exists for you, and you alone—if such a thing exists at all."

Something inside her stilled. The air between them thickened. The fire’s warmth brushed her skin, yet a chill slid down her spine.

He began to walk toward her—each step slow, deliberate. The candlelight caught the edges of his face, his gaze never wavering. "You may question me, doubt me... even fear me," he said, each word low and resolute. "But understand this—your place here, with me, is not negotiable."

Reaching her, he braced one hand on the couch beside her head, leaning close enough that she felt the heat radiating from him. His gaze swept over her face—slow and deliberate—as if memorizing every fragile line of resistance. "You could run," he murmured, his voice low enough to catch in her bones, "but I promise you, Anneliese... I will catch you."

Her breath caught when his other hand came to rest on the back of the couch, caging her in without touching her. The faint scent of smoke clung to him, laced with something darker—something that made her pulse falter.

She couldn’t move—not because he held her, but because some instinct warned her that the smallest shift might tip the balance between safety and danger. Her heart pounded, loud enough to fill the silence, and she saw the faintest twitch of satisfaction in his gaze. She hated that he could hear it.

His eyes dipped briefly to her mouth, as though weighing a decision. Her pulse stumbled. For a heartbeat, she thought he might claim her—but instead, his hands left the couch. He stepped back, his absence almost heavier than his presence. Only then did she realize she’d been holding her breath. Even as she exhaled, the ghost of his closeness lingered, impossible to shake.

And she understood, with a clarity that made her chest tighten—he hadn’t been seeking closeness at all. He’d simply been reminding her who decided the distance.

He walked to the table and lowered himself into the chair behind it, though distance was the last thing he wanted. He hadn’t intended to draw this close, but her scent pulled him nearer than he’d meant to be. Her quickened pulse made his fangs itch, aching to sink into the velvety curve of her neck. His gaze lingered on her lips—soft, parted, vulnerable—too aware of the closeness, as though they were waiting to be claimed. Every instinct screamed to close the space, to take what was his.

He didn’t want to move away—not yet. But he knew that a second longer, and it would be too late. He was not a considerate man—but for her, he could become whatever she needed. Yet her presence near him made it unbearable to stay away, even if this distance was just for time being.

Then, remotely, his voice cut through the charged air, as if he hadn’t just stolen her breath away. "As you already know, the Dark Witches are plotting something enormous. The disappearances are only the beginning. Portals are opening in multiple locations through blood magic—a magic that could destroy everything we know. We still have no clue what they are conspiring, but it is destructive—too destructive."

Reality washed over her like cold water, worry filling her bones. "How can we stop them... from whatever they’re planning?"

A heavy sigh escaped him. "We don’t know how we can stop them, but they can’t succeed in their maneuver—at least, not yet." He looked at her, eyes unreadable. "For whatever it is they’re planning, they need the Book of Spells... and its anchor."

"The Conclave has the Book of Spells... but the anchor?" she whispered, her voice barely cutting through the thick air between them.

His eyes darkened, and his voice dropped, heavy with something unspoken. "It is you."

Her chest tightened, the weight of his words sinking in. She shook her head slightly, trying to push the thought away, but her father’s voice lingered, a ghostly whisper of fate: "You are a destined child, my dear."

"I—I don’t understand," she murmured, her fingers curling tightly in her lap. "Why would they need me? How am I connected to any of this?"

His gaze locked onto hers, his voice softening as if it could ease the weight of his words. "Because, Anneliese... you are more than just a keeper of the Book of Spells... of ancient wisdom. You are the anchor that binds its knowledge to magic, turning it into either a savior or a destructor. Without you, the Book of Spells is useless to them."

"How... how do you know all this?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

His eyes darkened, thoughtful. "I didn’t know you were the anchor until the day in the library," he said slowly. "The moment you summoned the Book... and were able to open it... I realized. That’s when it became clear—its power responds to you, and only you can control it."

Her brows knitted together. "And... how did you know the Dark Witches are searching for the Book... and its anchor?"

A shadow passed over his face, his jaw tightening. "Through the Dark Witch you dreamt about—the one I killed," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. "There were confessions. She didn’t know much, but enough for me to tie the threads together. She spoke of the Book, and of the anchor it would take to unleash whatever hell they have set in motion."

Anneliese asked, "The head leader from the South... the one you killed today at court," her voice tight with disbelief, "why was he helping them?"

A shadow darkened Vincenzo’s eyes. "A fool, blinded by the greed for power," he said, his voice low and sharp. "He had no idea that, in his stupidity, by aiding the Dark Witches in opening portals, he wasn’t paving a path for himself—he was digging a grave."

She met his gaze, a storm of questions and fear in her eyes, but Vincenzo’s gaze held a fierce certainty—he would reduce the world to ashes before it could touch her.