Rina didn't stop.
Her words poured like a wildfire, an unstoppable torrent of anger, frustration, and bitter sarcasm. She barely noticed how warm the air around her had become, nor the way the boy across from her leaned in ever so slightly, drinking in every syllable as if it were sweet wine.
The small kitchen remained dim, save for the silver moonlight spilling gently through the half-open window. It struck the boy just right—his black hair shimmered like polished obsidian, and his crimson eyes gleamed like twin embers. He sat perfectly relaxed in his chair, his elbow on the table, chin nestled lazily into the palm of his leather-gloved hand.
He had not interrupted her.
Not until now.
Suddenly, with a slight shift of his weight, he tilted his head and asked in a voice smooth as velvet and light with mischief:
"Lady Rina… tell me something."
His smile widened.
A playful glint danced in his eyes.
"What if your fiancé… Jean Roché… turned out to be a rather *lustful* man?"
Rina blinked.
The room fell silent for a beat.
Then he leaned forward, elbows now on the table, and his tone dropped—still teasing, still gentle, but unmistakably suggestive.
"You know what I mean," he said, his lips curling at the edges. "A man who enjoys… *pleasure*—frequently, passionately, perhaps even obsessively. What would you do then? Could you handle such a husband?"
The question struck Rina like a slap to the face.
Her entire body tensed.
Her golden eyes flared with a molten fire, glowing so brightly they seemed to light the room. Her crimson aura flickered to life, rising like heat waves off her skin. Her red hair shimmered and twisted, animated as if alive, thickening and dancing with burning intensity.
The temperature spiked.
The floor beneath her feet cracked faintly.
The boy's smile didn't budge.
If anything—it deepened.
She clenched her fists, her lips drawing into a line so sharp it could've cut glass.
When she finally spoke, her voice was ice dipped in flame.
"If he dares touch me without my consent," she said, slowly, "I'll burn his fingers off—one by one."
The boy blinked slowly, still resting his chin on his palm. The moonlight painted his lashes silver, but his eyes remained vividly red—sparkling with amusement.
Rina took a step forward, her magic intensifying.
"I don't care if he's a prince or a god," she continued, her tone colder than ever. "If he thinks marriage is an excuse to use me as some toy to satisfy his urges… then he'll see how quickly the Phoenix turns into a *blazing storm*."
The flames curled softly along her arms now—she wasn't even trying to summon them.
They responded to her emotions on their own.
The boy's eyes followed the flickers of fire with quiet awe, not fear. He reached for his empty teacup again, rolling it between his gloved fingers.
And then—he chuckled.
Soft. Subtle. Genuine.
"You really *are* adorable when you're angry, Lady Rina," he murmured, the smile never leaving his face.
Rina narrowed her eyes at him.
But she didn't respond.
She was still breathing heavily, heart pounding, magic swirling around her like a storm ready to be unleashed.
And the boy?
Still calm.
Still composed.
Still grinning like a devil in disguise.
He tapped a finger lightly against his chin.
"I wonder…" he mused out loud, as if speaking to himself now. "If the real Jean Roché heard all this—what would he think?"
She scoffed, waving him off.
"Let him hear it. Maybe he'll finally understand that I'm not a doll. I'm *Rina Amberhart*. And no matter what my mother or the world decides—I won't be owned."
Her voice echoed into the silence, strong and bold.
The boy nodded thoughtfully, eyes never leaving her.
There was a strange warmth stirring inside him now—something unfamiliar and unwelcome. Something close to guilt… or maybe something else.
He stood, finally, his black coat whispering as he moved. The chair creaked gently behind him.
Rina blinked up at him, caught off guard by the motion.
He stepped toward the window, where the moonlight spilled brightest. For a moment, he let it wash over him—his face, pale and beautiful, looked ethereal under its glow. Crimson eyes glowed softly, the same color as blood in candlelight.
He turned back to her.
Still smiling.
Still amused.
But something behind that smile was… complicated.
"Thank you, Lady Rina," he said, voice calm and velvet-smooth. "For sharing your heart tonight."
He bowed his head slightly, as if to excuse himself.
"I think I've stolen enough of your time."
And before she could respond, he was already moving—ghosting out of the kitchen like a shadow fading at dawn.
Rina stood still, her flames flickering out one by one, confused and breathless.
She didn't know his name.
Didn't ask.
But something about his presence… lingered.
And somehow, without realizing it, she had told *everything* to the one person she swore she'd never give a chance.