"I won't hurt you." He whispered softly, a gentle tone that belied his personality. From his post by the door, Deacon turned to Deva briefly, then shifted his attention back to the room and door, his gaze probing for any signs of danger.
My gaze locked onto the man sitted a few breaths away from where I lay. My eyes were wide fear as I took in the piercing darkness of his irises. His hands remained clamped firmly over my mouth, their warmth a stark contrast to the chill that ran down my spine. How could he expect me to believe his words when his dark eyes seemed to scream the opposite?
"When I remove my hands, please don't scream," He whispered. His dark eyes blinking at me. "I won't hurt you. You can trust me."
I found myself captivated by the unusual depth of his eyes, a darkness I'd never seen in someone's gaze before. This feeling felt somewhat familiar. I had felt like this at the ball and with the man with golden eyes wearing a black mask. The stranger I had seen that day had a welcoming but intimidating aura and golden eyes. But this man, he has dark eyes, like pitch dark.
Rumours spoke of dark eyes being a distinctive feature of two powerful realms, the demons of Valtoria and the werewolves of Silverhaven. Could he be a werewolve? Werewolves exuded a raw, animalistic power, but the aura surrounding him was different, a calculated, dark potency that seemed to seep from his very pores, making me realise he was the latter. A demon.
Slowly, his hands slid away from my mouth, and then fear gripped me, rendering me mute and unable to utter a single word even if I had so many questions to ask.
"You called for help." His voice spoke in whispers. I called for help? When?
I remained frozen, my gaze locked on his, unable to tear myself away from the dark intensity of his eyes.
"You called for help." He repeated.
I lowered my gaze immediately, scolding myself for gazing at him. "N..no, I didn't." I said softly.
He inched closer and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ears. "You look beautiful." His voice was gentle and calming. I couldn't help but meet his gaze once more, my eyes locked on his dark eyes.
No man has ever admired or complimented me. My heart warmed slightly, and I couldn't help but blush. Who was this man?
"The wedding, Your Highness," the man by the door said. Your Highness? My eyes widened in horror. Is he royalty?
Deva looked at the pale looking maid lying on the bed, and an idea struck in his mind. "Will you marry me?" He asked suddenly. His demons had taken control over his body.
He pondered the potential fallout of marrying this maid instead of the princess his father had picked out for him. His gaze fixed on her lying figure, her fragile form and scarred body. She was nothing compared to the noble bride his father had chosen for him. The maid's features seemed similar to the one he'd spotted at the ball. Although now, her complexion was deathly pale, and her eyes sunken, as if illness had taken its toll.
My eyes widened. "M..marry you?" I repeated, stuttering.
"Yes." He answered firmly.
"I...I.." I stuttered in shock. I didn't know what to say to him. His question was simple but I didn't know what answer to give him.
I think he noticed my hesitation. "What's your name?" he asked, his voice low and gentle.
I hesitated, my gaze faltering before murmuring. "Emma... Emma Woods," the words tumbled out reluctantly, as if dragged from my lips.
His gaze lingered on my face, his eyes seeming to bore into my very soul. A flicker of curiosity danced in the depths of his dark irises, and for a moment, I felt like a specimen under scrutiny. "Emma Woods," he repeated, his voice a low, husky whisper that sent shivers down my spine. "You are the illegitimate daughter of King Arnold Woods." He stated, his voice firm.
How did he know?
His hand slowly extended towards me. My head jerked back in a futile attempt to evade his touch, my skin prickling with unease. His fingers made contact with my forehead, and I felt a jolt of electricity run through my body. His gaze locked onto mine, his eyes narrowing slightly as he murmured, "You're burning up."
The fear that seized my heart had overshadowed the simmering discomfort within me, but his touch on my forehead reignited the fever's dull ache, allowing it to resurface with renewed intensity. A wave of weakness washed over me as if my body had been waiting for permission to succumb to the illness.
"Your Highness..." Deacon's voice cut through the air, low and urgent, his tone laced with a sense of warning.
Deva turned sharply to Deacon and stared at him for a while with annoyance, before his gaze drifted back to me. I lay limp and weak on the bed, my body slumping into the mattress. With a fluid motion, Deva rose from his seated position and reached out to scoop me up in his arms. My eyes widened in alarm as his hands closed around me, and my body stiffened in hesitation, but he didn't pause. He strode towards the door, his long strides eating up the distance, leaving me no time to process what was happening.
Emma, you shouldn't allow this. Royals are not supposed to mix with slaves. "Please put me down." I pleaded, my voice low.
"No." His stern reply came. His tone exuded an air of authority, making it clear that he was a man accustomed to giving orders, not taking them.
What gave him the audacity to think he could just reach out and touch me without my consent?
"I can walk." I protest.
He scoffed. "I doubt that."
"Please put me down." Despite my physical weakness, desperation lent me a voice, and I pleaded with him, my words tumbling out as he continued to carry me.
He ignored me. "Deacon, prepare the carriage."
"Yes, Your Highness."
A heavy sigh escaped my lips as exhaustion washed over me, and I felt my eyelids growing heavy, my body succumbing to the overwhelming fatigue that had been building for so long. "W...where are you taking me?"
His brief reply came. "Valtoria."
Exhaustion washed over me. I couldn't process his reply. Instead, I lay in his arms, exhausted and helpless, too drained to resist as he continued walking with a purposeful stride.
Deva gazed down at the woman cradled in his arms, and he was met with the sight of her pale face. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she succumbed to exhaustion. Her body, pressed against his, radiated heat, and a flicker of concern sparked within him. He inhaled deeply, the slow, deliberate breaths a testament to his struggle for control.
The darkness that had seemed to seep into his eyes receded, and gradually, the gold returned, like the warm glow of a sunset, chasing away the shadows. His gaze lingered on her face, his expression a mask of calm, but the turmoil beneath remained palpable.
Deva's mind wrestled with the weight of his decision as he cradled the woman in his arms, his thoughts drifting to his father's impending reaction. The king's fury would be grave when he discovered that Deva had chosen the illegitimate daughter of King Woods over the legitimate heir, and the consequences could be severe.
Yet, Deva's resolve remained unwavering, fueled by the haunting words of Gortha.
'You are about to make a mistake. A grave one.'
Those words hunted him. He wouldn't go with his father's instruction anymore. The menace of his father's ambition loomed large. To seize the ancient wisdom of the mortals and wield unparalleled power over the five realms. He couldn't let that happen.
Deva's determination hardened. He would forge his own path, one that defied his father's expectations and proved his own strength. The need to prove himself was a tired refrain, one he'd grown weary of. He was done justifying his worth to anyone, including his father. He would use his metrics to prove his strength, starting with defying his father's orders to marry the legitimate of the king.
Still, a glimmer of doubt lingered, whispering that his choice might lead to regret. But Deva steeled himself, knowing that he had to follow his own desires, not his father's dictates. The fate of the realms hung in the balance, and he would not be swayed.