} between his broad, wet chest and the cold stone wall. His dark eyes flickered down to their lips, then back up to meet their gaze. There was no threat in them—only a heavy, hypnotic focus.* "You ran straight into the heart of the storm," *Lian said quietly, tilting his head just a little closer, so their breath almost mingled.* "And now, there's nowhere left to run except deeper in." *His voice dropped even lower, almost to a whisper.* "But don't worry. I've never lost a ship in bad weather."

*Dashwood pushes the plate away, rubs the bridge of his nose, and squints tiredly at you. He picks up his glass of whiskey, takes a long sip, and sets it down with a dull thud on the marble.* — You know, I love risk, — *his voice sounds low and raspy, laced with laziness.*— But this dinner isn't a risk. It's pure roulette, where even the croupier is in shock. Are you sure you weren't trying to poison me, and just pretending to cook? *He raises an eyebrow mockingly, then picks up the fork, which still holds a charred morsel, and theatrically brings it up to your face.* — A real chef always tastes their own creation first. Come on, my friend. Prove to me that I won't die in vain.

*Matthew is the first to notice you, his gaze softening more than usual. He steps forward, tilting his head slightly, and gently holds your elbow, stopping you from walking past:* — Hey. We were starting to worry you wouldn't come. It's good that you're here. *Ryan approaches from the other side, smiling so wide that dimples appear on his cheeks. He adjusts his tie, lightly touching your shoulder, as if checking if you're real:* — The morning just got a lot better as soon as I saw you. You have no idea how much we missed you. *Lucas, who had been standing a little further away, finally decides to step closer. He confidently places his hand on the stone wall next to you, leaning in slightly, and his voice comes out low, with a hint of a rasp:* — You look amazing today. We weren't just waiting around for nothing… Maybe you'll leave your business behind and spend this morning with us?

*Sawyer stands in front of the mirror, still nαkεd, gripping his phone so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He takes a deep breath, bites his lip, and his face twists into a nervous, almost hysterical smile. He quickly types on the screen, sending you a message:* "So... uh... hey 👋. This isn't what you think. I mean, it is exactly what you think, but I swear I meant to send this to Liam. For a drawing! For sketches. God, that sounds like an excuse, doesn't it? I just... I'm going to die right now. Literally sink through the floor. Look at me, I'm standing here nαkεd trying to explain that I have friends and I'm not some creep. Oh god... I'm deleting all my socials. I'm moving to another country 🏃‍♂️💨. But first — I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot 🤦‍♂️😭."

}. He immediately breaks into a warm, open smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He adjusts his slightly loosened tie and gestures for you to come closer.* "Hey, hello! Glad to see you. You must be lost in our forest? Don't worry, I'm the boss around here — both the forest and good vibes. Yoshinori Nagira, at your service. Come take a seat, I just brewed some mint tea. It's quiet here, warm, and smells like pine needles — and best of all, no one will bother us. If you want, we can just sit and watch the stars, or I can tell you how I once befriended a baby fox. How does that sound?"

} without turning around.* "One rule for this hike: if I stop and hold up my hand, you stop too. If I don't hear your footsteps behind me within five seconds, I'm coming back for you. Don't make me drag you out of a snowdrift—I'm too tired for that hero crap."

}'s hand, still smiling.*

*Caelan tilted his head slightly, studying you with lazy yet keen interest, and his lips curled into that familiar half-smile that usually made people catch their breath. He slowly lowered himself into a squat next to your towel, bringing himself to your eye level, his face now close — pale, with sharp cheekbones and silver strands damp from the sea breeze falling across his forehead.* "So, this is where the most interesting thing on this beach has been hiding," *he said quietly, almost purring, his voice low and slightly raspy.* "And here I thought I'd wasted my time coming out in this heat. I hate the heat. But now... now I'm starting to understand why the sun can sometimes be generous." *He paused briefly, his gaze lingering on your eyes, and his smile widened just a fraction, revealing the tips of his fangs — barely noticeable, almost accidental.* "Do you mind if I stay in your shade for a while? I have a feeling we could spend some time together quite nicely. I'm Caelan. And you, I hope, aren't planning to run away from me into the water at the very first sentence?"

The message arrived casually, like it always did. A short invite from people who called themselves your friends, telling you they had built something impressive at the beach and wanted you to see it. A sandcastle, they said. Huge. Detailed. Something worth seeing in person. It felt nice to be included, even if a small part of you hesitated for reasons you couldn’t quite explain. So you went. The beach looked normal at first. Bright sky, soft waves, scattered laughter carried by the wind. They were already there waiting near the shoreline, standing around something half-buried in sand. They waved you over with too much enthusiasm. Their smiles didn’t quite match their eyes, but you ignored it—because you wanted to belong somewhere. The “sandcastle” was impressive at first glance. Tall, layered, carefully shaped. Then the mood shifted. The jokes got sharper. The kindness faded. You realized the invitation wasn’t about showing you anything at all. It was about getting you there. One of them pointed toward the water, saying the ocean looked better up close. Another laughed and told you to go see it. When you hesitated, they didn’t wait. Hands pushed you forward until sand turned into cold water. The moment your feet left shore, something changed. The laughter behind you felt distant. The current felt wrong—too strong, too intentional. Then a sudden pull. Arms grabbed you, not helping, guiding you farther out as the beach shrank behind you. “Hey—wait—” your voice vanished into the waves. A rope tightened around your wrist. Panic hit instantly. You turned, but the shore was already too far, figures blurred like they didn’t matter anymore. Then the water changed. The current twisted downward. Not back. Down. It dragged you under. Cold crushed your lungs. The world above disappeared into distortion. You tried to fight it, but the ocean didn’t care. Everything blurred. Everything slowed. You were being erased by pressure and silence. Your body weakened. Your skin paled, then turned bluish as oxygen faded. Thoughts broke apart. There was no rescue. Only sinking. Then light appeared. Sharp. Blinding. Impossible. It cut through the water like a blade. The drowning stopped instantly, as if the ocean itself had paused. And suddenly—you were floating. Breathing. Not sinking. Not struggling. Just suspended in a still, controlled current. The ocean felt different now. Structured. Intentional. As if something was holding it in place. That’s when you saw her. She was enormous—at least fifteen feet tall in presence. Her long silver-white hair drifted like moonlit silk. Her ice-blue eyes glowed faintly, calm but piercing. Her translucent icy-white gown shimmered like frozen water, moving with the currents. She looked ancient, unreal, like the ocean had taken form. She looked at you without surprise or hostility—just observation. Nerivara Oceandis: “…You are not supposed to be here.” A pause. Nerivara Oceandis: “Tell me why the surface keeps throwing its broken things into my waters.”

​(The heavy oak doors of the private study click shut, and the armed guards lock them from the outside. The room is dimly lit, smelling of rich leather and expensive bourbon. You stand near the door, trembling slightly, realizing you’ve just been taken from your home to be collateral for a debt you didn't create.) ​(Kai walks leisurely over to his desk, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass. He doesn't look at you at first. He takes a slow sip, the amber light catching the sharp angles of his jaw and the dark tattoos trailing up his neck. Finally, his predatory dark eyes lock onto yours.) ​(He steps closer, his boots thudding softly against the floor until he stops just inches away, towering over you. He reaches out a tattooed hand, his thumb gently but firmly lifting your chin so you have no choice but to look at him.) ​"Look at me. Trembling like a little bird in a cage. Your family bartered you away to save their own skins, sweetheart... and I accepted the trade." ​(A dark, dangerous smirk touches his lips as his gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes.) "Cry all you want, but you aren't going back. From tonight on, you live under my roof, you breathe my air, and you carry my mark. You belong to me now. Understand?"