Chapter 10

OLIVER’S POV

I Watch Her, Even When I Shouldn’t

I told her to stay away from my room.

I told myself the same thing.

Should have been simple.

Should have been final.

But nothing felt simple anymore, not since the night she arrived trembling and furious at a world that had thrown her to monsters.

I found myself standing at the highest balcony of the castle that evening, elbows against the cold stone railing, my gaze fixed downward—watching her. Again. I shouldn’t have been here. I shouldn’t have been observing the way she moved through the courtyard with hesitant steps, her hands brushing dust from the stone benches as she cleaned them with silent determination.

But I watched anyway.

The wind caught strands of her hair, lifting them gently as if it too was curious about her. Even from this height, I could feel her anxiety, her heartbeat, her scent—always too warm, too soft, too alive. It unsettled me. It tempted me. It made me want things I had spent centuries burying beneath armor made of numbness.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” I muttered, fingers curling over the railing. “I shouldn’t be watching her.”

But I stayed.

And I watched.

Every movement she made rippled through me like a disturbance in still water. She walked carefully, cautious of every noise, every flicker of movement, every presence around her. Part of me felt anger rising—at the fear still lodged inside her because of me, at the outcasts who dared touch her, at the universe for placing her in my path.

“Careful,” I whispered when she leaned too close to a cracked stone edge, even though she couldn’t hear me. “Pay attention.”

When she wobbled slightly, instinct surged—I almost jumped from the balcony, almost rushed to catch her, almost acted like a fool.

I stopped myself just in time.

“What are you doing?” a voice said from behind.

I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to. Gina stepped beside me, giving me a sidelong glance.

“You’re watching her again,” she said, not asking, simply stating fact.

“She needs supervision,” I replied coldly.

“She needs space,” Gina countered.

I clenched my jaw. “She wandered into the forest and nearly died. She can’t be trusted alone.”

“You’re not worried about her wandering,” Gina said softly. “You’re worried about what happens to you when she does.”

I remained silent.

She sighed. “Oliver… she’s just a girl.”

“That is exactly the problem,” I whispered, fingers tightening until small cracks formed in the stone beneath my palms. “She is just a girl. And yet—”

“And yet she affects you,” Gina finished quietly.

I hated how easily she saw through me.

Gina studied me for a moment. “Your kind were never meant to feel attachment toward humans. You know that.”

“I am aware,” I said.

“When a vampire falls for a human,” she continued, “it becomes their greatest weakness.”

I turned my head sharply. “I have not fallen for her.”

Silence.

Even the wind seemed unconvinced.

Gina raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you trembling?”

I looked down—my hands were shaking, a betrayal of everything I had spent centuries mastering. I curled them into fists until the tremors stopped.

“I am not trembling because of her,” I said.

“Then what? Hunger?” Gina asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

Fear.

Loss of control.

The threat of something too close, too bright.

But I didn’t say that.

“You’re lying to yourself,” Gina said gently. “You care. And you hate that you care.”

I exhaled slowly, staring at Amy again. “Caring is dangerous.”

“For you, or for her?” Gina asked.

Both.

But I didn’t answer.

Gina placed a hand on my arm. “At least speak to her. She thinks you regret saving her.”

My chest tightened. “Why would she think that?”

“Because you act like she is a mistake,” Gina replied. “A mistake you keep trying to erase.”

My throat tightened painfully. “She is not a mistake.”

“Then stop acting like you want to throw her out of the castle.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “She doesn’t understand what she’s doing to me.”

Gina looked toward the courtyard. “Then teach her. Don’t hide from her.”

I didn’t respond, because Amy looked up just then—her eyes scanning the walls, the windows, the shadows—searching for something, or someone. When her gaze stopped near the balcony where I stood, my entire body went rigid. Though she couldn’t see me through the shadows, something in her expression softened, as if she sensed me.

Her lips parted slightly.

She looked nervous.

Almost… hopeful.

My dead heart clenched painfully.

“I should go,” I said quickly.

“You should talk to her,” Gina insisted.

“I can’t,” I replied.

“You can,” she corrected. “You just won’t.”

---

Later that night, I found myself walking through the west wing halls, drawn by an instinct I couldn’t smother. The castle was quiet except for distant footsteps echoing across stone floors. I stopped when I sensed her heartbeat behind a partially opened door.

She was in the library.

Of course she was.

She loved the quiet places, the warm-lit corners, the shelves that smelled like dust and forgotten worlds. I stepped inside silently. She didn’t notice me at first—she was dusting a bookshelf, humming softly under her breath.

The sound struck something deep inside my chest.

“Amy,” I said.

She froze. The duster fell from her hand, landing on the floor with a soft thud. She turned slowly to face me, her eyes wide, her breath unsteady.

“Oliver,” she murmured. “I— I didn’t hear you.”

“You never hear me,” I said quietly. “Not unless I want you to.”

She swallowed nervously. “Should I— should I leave?”

“No,” I said too fast.

She blinked.

I exhaled and forced my voice to steady. “I mean… stay. You don’t need to leave.”

She hesitated. “Are you… angry at me?”

“Why would I be angry?” I asked.

Her gaze dropped. “Because I was in your room earlier. And because I keep… messing up.”

I stepped closer. “You didn’t mess up.”

“You looked upset,” she said softly. “And I don’t know how to be around you.”

Her words sliced through me. “I am the one who doesn’t know how to be around you.”

She lifted her eyes, surprised.

Another step.

Close enough to feel her breath.

Close enough to sense her pulse quickening.

“I watch you,” I confessed in a low voice. “Too often. Too closely. I know I shouldn’t.”

Her breath caught. “You watch me?”

“I can’t seem to stop.”

I forced the truth out like a wound refusing to stay closed.

“You make me… uneasy.”

“Uneasy?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

My voice roughened.

“You make me remember things I buried centuries ago. Things I don’t want. Things I cannot afford.”

Her lips parted slowly. “Like what?”

I stared at her for a moment, fighting myself, fighting instinct, fighting everything I was. My voice came out almost broken.

“Like wanting you near,” I admitted. “Even when you terrify me.”

She took a small step closer, brows drawing together. “I terrify you?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Because I don’t understand this. You. Myself. Any of it.”

Silence stretched.

Not cold, not hostile—charged.

Alive.

“Oliver…” she whispered, almost like she was afraid I would vanish.

I looked at her mouth for a moment—too long—but forced my gaze upward again.

“You need to be careful,” I said, voice trembling with restraint. “Not because of me, but because you make me forget what I am.”

Her breath hitched. “And what are you?”

“A predator,” I said quietly. “And you make me feel human.”

She blinked rapidly, her cheeks warming.

I stepped back before I crossed a line I knew I couldn’t return from.

“Go to sleep,” I said softly. “I need you alive.”

She nodded slowly, though confusion and something softer flickered in her gaze.

Before leaving, I spoke one more time, barely audible.

“And… stop being afraid of me. It makes everything harder.”

Then I vanished into the shadows before I betrayed myself again.