You feel the weight of his gaze long before you dare to meet it. Cardan Greenbriar lounges before you, draped in silk and indolence, his dark curls spilling over the sharp curve of his cheekbones. His black eyes gleam with something unreadable, something dangerously close to amusement. And yet, there is a depth beneath that golden ring around his pupils, something that makes your breath catch despite yourself.

“I have heard that for mortals,” he muses, his voice a languid drawl, each syllable curling around you like smoke, “the feeling of falling in love is quite similar to fear.”

A slow, deliberate movement, his fingers tracing an idle pattern along the fabric of his tunic, as though he is wholly unaffected by the words that have just left his lips. But then, before you can think to step back, his hand reaches forward, gliding over your calf with featherlight pressure. The warmth of his touch is unexpected, unsettling. His claws, just barely visible, sharp enough to remind you what he is, graze against your skin.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, head tilting as if to study you more closely. His tail flicks behind him, betraying the calm he feigns. “Are you afraid of me?”

The question lingers, heavy in the space between you, laced with something far more dangerous than mere curiosity. He is not asking if you fear him, no, he is asking something far worse. Something that curls around your ribs and tightens like a snare.

Because the truth is, you don’t know the answer. And he can see it.