It began when Ronan stared at me for more than three seconds at breakfast.
Which clearly meant he knew.
He knew I'd crept into the tower, seen the red-threaded conspiracy wall, and possibly tipped over a jar labeled Do Not Touch.
So, obviously, I decided to seduce him.
Because in books, when you're caught trespassing into dark secrets, you either die or make out. I was aiming for the latter.
I waited until nightfall. Lit just enough candles to suggest ambiance without screaming trap. Wore a gown with tragic ruffles and too much lace. Then sprawled across the drawing room chaise as if heartbreak were a performance art.
When Ronan entered, I posed. Gracefully. (I think.)
"…Are you all right?" he asked slowly.
"Never better," I purred, like a cat who'd eaten someone else's secrets.
He stood at the threshold, silent. Watching. Measuring.
I blinked at him, lashes fluttering like they had a license to kill.
"So," I said, rising—nearly catching a heel in the rug—"I was thinking… you and I don't talk enough."
He raised a brow. "We had dinner yesterday."
"Yes, but that was chewing and brooding. This is… conversation. Emotional intimacy. Connection. Possibly kissing?"
He coughed. Violently.
"Metaphorical kissing," I backpedaled. "Obviously." I thrust a goblet of wine toward him like a peace treaty written in grapes. "Drink?"
He took it without breaking eye contact. "Is something wrong?"
"Only everything," I said brightly. "But also—nothing. Just thought we should clear the air. Let's call it… courtship clarity."
"Courtship clarity," he echoed. "Is that what this is?"
I took a step closer. "It could be."
There was a flicker in his eyes. Something wary. Something curious.
"I mean, we are engaged," I added lightly. "Might as well see if we actually like each other before the tragic betrayal or bloodshed begins."
His jaw tightened, just a little. "That's quite the prediction."
"Am I wrong?"
Silence. And then—
"You're impossible," he muttered.
"I've been called worse," I said sweetly. "But you haven't answered the question."
"What question?"
I smiled slowly. "Do you like me, Ronan?"
He froze.
The quiet between us stretched taut, like a thread waiting to snap.
"I think you're dangerous," he said finally. "And foolish. And unpredictable."
I swallowed. "But?"
He stepped closer. Just enough for me to feel the air shift.
"But you're also… something I can't quite name."
My breath caught.
"And that's a problem," he added.
"For you or me?"
"Yes."
He turned then, almost abruptly—but paused in the doorway.
"If you're going to flirt with me," he said without looking back, "do it properly next time."
And then he was gone.
I stood there, heart hammering so hard it felt like treason.
A slow crunch behind me.
Beatrice emerged from behind the curtain, holding half a muffin and the entirety of her judgment.
"Well," she said dryly, "I think he's considering it."
"Considering what?" I whispered.
She shrugged. "Murder. Or kissing. Hard to say with that one."
I sank back onto the chaise, dazed. "Mark it down. Operation Chaos-Flirt: emotionally destabilizing success."