All Chapters of Charlotte: Fated to the White Dragon: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

I just stand there, rooted to the floor like my shoes have been glued down. My chest’s tight, and my breathing’s all jagged, like I’ve just sprinted up a hill in the rain.Evelyn.She's here? In the flesh?This is not a memory, nor a figment I keep replaying in my head, but actually standing just across the room, alive, real… and looking right at me.I don’t know whether to run to her or run for the back door.Or maybe she’s just after a brew? Nah. There’s no way she’s dragged herself all the way to Lexxton just for coffee. That’s just daft.“W-Would you like s-something to drink?” I ask, my voice wobbling like I’ve swallowed a bad note. God, I hope that’s not why she’s here.She doesn’t answer straight away, just tilts her head a little. Her face is still as striking as ever. Those soft blue eyes, that gentle jawline and her aurburn hair falling across her shoulders, it hasn't changed. It feels like it's been ages since I last saw her.I'm pretty sure I've aged since then.But there’

(Evelyn’s POV) He fixes those sapphire blue eyes on me. They're as clear as a winter’s dawn as he studies me with an observing look that borders on sinful. His gaze lingers, unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world and intends to spend it memorising every inch of me. My heart begins to gallop, quite against my better judgement, but I refuse to be the first to look away. Instead, I grant him a measured smile, polished, poised, but I'm sure the heat in my cheeks would ruin the effect. Those eyes do not so much as flicker from mine when, in a voice low and utterly certain, he says, “I want the crimson earrings, tucked in the far corner at the back.” How on earth did he even see them from here? I clear my throat softly. “Yes… of course.” His gaze follows me as I move, and it’s so unwavering, so intentionally penetrating, that I swear I can feel it pressing between my shoulder blades. Wrapping the order becomes an exercise in a slow and precise performance. Every motion

(One of the Gnoks, Kaida’s, POV) I’ve known the Princes since they were naught but squalling babes. Seen their first wails, their first steps, their first cuts and bruises; although most of those were courtesy of their father. King Oedyz was never the gentle sort; he raised his sons with a fist of iron and a heart colder than winter stone. Even after all these years, despite my service and my loyalty, getting close to them was like reaching for a viper’s head; possible, but you’d not live to tell the tale. They were raised in suspicion, taught from the cradle to trust no soul but their own shadow. The King made sure of that. In Spargia, hierarchy isn’t just a matter of pride, it’s the very marrow of survival. For us Variants, the surest way to secure one’s future is to be fated to a powerful mate. But fate’s a cruel dealer. You can be a beggar today and a crowned king tomorrow, and all it takes is the pull of those unbreakable threads. King Oedyz himself had the luck, or cun

(Damon's POV) As I pass an open doorway, somethin’ catches my eye: two silver cups on a shelf, gleamin’ in the dim room. The air in that room feels heavier somehow. It once belonged to Freya, Orlstyne's mate. Considering the door's left opened and all, he must've paid her ghost a visit. Perhaps Hades didn't change him, like Father thought; still as soft as the royal idiot he is. And I still have no idea why they do shit like that. Dead people don't talk, so it's no use killin' even. Once they're gone the fun's all over. Why live such borin' life musing over someone long gone? I step closer, the glint of the cups pulling at me. Funny, the way silver seems to hum when it catches light. Silver cups.. Silver... The thought strikes like a match, and I snap my fingers. Charlotte spoke of seeing someone with silver eyes. Is she… awakening? Maybe her powers are comin’ on faster than I thought. Would it be dangerous to claim her now? I was tryna wait till she got a grip, but if

Everyone’s rushin’ about like there's an emergency, scuttlin’ here and there, and bloody everywhere, tryin’ to keep up with the avalanche of customers. The coffeehouse feels like it’s on fire but it's in the warm cosy way. Thanks to Henry’s “bright” idea—yeah, cheers mate—I ended up hirin’ more staff. Arthur Stevenson and Cynthia Jones. Can’t say I regret it, ‘cause the chaos would’ve swallowed me whole otherwise. Arthur’s this really tall, bulky college guy. Twenty-one with dark red hair like a ruddy stop sign, and green eyes that seem to glimmer even when he’s spillin’ sugar all over the counter. Dead cheerful though, proper sunshine, but slow in business. Still, he’s dragged in a gaggle of ladies who queue up just to gawp at him like he’s some weirdo fairytale prince, instead of a clumsy barista who can’t steam milk without creatin’ Mount Everest in foam. Then there’s Cynthia. She's blonde and sharp-eyed. One of the most prettiest girls I've seen. Her sparkly blue eyes co