The night was restless, the wind howling through the corridors, carrying the scent of approaching rain. The fabric of her curtains swayed like phantom fingers reaching into the room, and Rhea swore she had heard something—something falling just outside her window.

She sat up, her pulse a steady drum against her ribs.

Another sound. Subtle. Like the weight of something—or someone—shifting below.

Rhea moved toward the window, fingers tightening around the cold edges of the wooden frame. The courtyard stretched out before her in a haze of silver and shadow, the torches flickering against the stone paths.

At first, she saw nothing.

Then—a figure.

Standing still. Unmoving.

The flickering light failed to reach him, shrouding his features in mystery, but she knew he was watching her.

Her throat tightened. Him.

Her mind flickered back to the only other man who had visited her chambers uninvited, the one who appeared like a whisper in the night and left just as quickly. She could still remember the way his scent clung to her sheets long after he was gone—sandalwood and something dark beneath it.

Was it him again?

Or someone else?

She didn't intend to wait and find out.

Her fingers curled around the nearest weapon-like object—a long, ornamental hairpin she had left on her table. Its silver tip was sharp enough to do damage if needed.

Without hesitation, she slipped out of her room, her feet barely making a sound against the cool stone as she descended the steps.

By the time she stepped outside, the first drops of rain had begun to fall.

They landed against her bare arms, cold and teasing, sending a shiver down her spine. The scent of wet earth mixed with the distant heat of smoldering torches, and every step she took was deliberate.

The figure had not moved.

The rain made it harder to see him clearly, the droplets blurring the edges of his form, but he stood there as if he had been waiting for her all along.

Rhea exhaled, tilting her chin up.

"Who are you?" Her voice was sharp, cutting through the rain like a blade.

Silence.

Her grip tightened on the pin. "Are you the same man who keeps sneaking into my room?"

A flicker of something burned in her chest—anger, frustration, the unsettled feeling of being watched.

She hated the way the memories of the previous intruder made her stomach twist. She hated even more the way she could recall the scent of sandalwood so vividly, the way it had lingered on her skin without her permission.

Why did that scent make her pulse race in a way it shouldn't?

But this man...

He smelled different.

She could sense it now, even through the storm—not sandalwood, but earthy musk.

Raw. Grounded. Unmistakably male.

Her heartbeat stuttered. Not him.

Then who?

Rhea swallowed, stepping forward. The rain was coming down harder now, soaking into her clothes, making the thin fabric cling to her skin, her hair sticking to her face. Yet he still didn't move.

Something in her snapped.

"Say something!" she demanded, the heat of her own frustration burning against the cold night.

But he did not speak.

Did not even flinch.

She didn't know if it was the storm outside or the storm inside her, but she couldn't take it anymore. This wasn't fear—this was anger. This was her patience splintering apart in the downpour.

If he wouldn't answer, then he would bleed.

She lunged.

Her hairpin sliced through the rain like lightning.

But the moment the tip of the blade grazed his skin—he moved.

Faster than she expected. Faster than he should have.

He turned just enough that her weapon barely caught his arm, tearing through fabric and drawing a thin line of blood. And still, he did not attack her back.

Instead—he let her.

Let her cut him. Let her see the wound she had inflicted.

And then—he turned his face toward her.

That was when she smelled him fully.

The scent of earth and rain.

Rich. Dark. Unshaken.

And for a moment—it drowned her.

Her breath caught, her hands still trembling from the force of her attack.

This wasn't the same man.

And yet... why did she feel just as breathless?

Rhea's chest rose and fell, her damp clothes sticking to her skin, the pin still clenched in her fingers as she stared at him. The cold bit into her, but she could feel heat curling low in her stomach, the tension between them thick enough to choke on.

He was standing too close now.

The rain slid down the sharp edges of his jaw, dripping from his chin, soaking into the fabric of his dark clothes.

Earthy musk.

The scent of someone who belonged to the storm.

Something in her wanted to step back.

Something in her wanted to step closer.

She licked her lips, blinking away the rain in her eyes. Her voice was quieter now, but still demanding.

"Who are you?"

This time, she hated how her voice sounded.

Breathless.

Like something had shifted in the air between them.

But still—he said nothing.

Only watched her.

Only let the rain soak them both, standing in the storm like it was made for them.

And somehow—she hated him more for it.

Because he wasn't just an intruder anymore.

He was a mystery.

And mysteries had a way of getting under her skin.