Leonard's mind was fogged, his temples pounding as if someone had driven nails into his skull. He stood at the edge of Eila's bed, shirt half open, the sheets in complete disarray. The air carried a heady scent—hers and his, intermingled, sharp with the unmistakable musk of mating.
His stomach dropped.
He didn't remember.
The last thing clear in his mind was slipping through her window like a thief in the night. And then—heat. A consuming fire roaring through his veins, though it wasn't even his cycle. It made no sense. He was meticulous. He never missed his medicine.
His family's heirloom trade was built upon Atropa, the rare herb that grew only within the Moon Treasure Pack. Properly brewed into a potent tea, it suppressed heat with absolute reliability. He had taken his dose just yesterday evening after dinner, as he always did. Three times a week, without fail.
So why did his body betray him? Why had his control slipped so completely?
Someone… was tampering. Manipulating.
He pressed a palm to his throbbing temple, teeth gritted against the ache.
Across from him, Eila stirred beneath the tangled sheets. Her hair spilled across her shoulders, lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed. She sat up slowly, pressing her hand to her own forehead. Even through the haze, he noticed the strain in her expression—she was hurting too.
He tried to speak, but the words came rough and broken. Only a hoarse sound escaped. Clearing his throat, he forced his voice steady.
"Do you… remember what happened last night?"
Her head snapped toward him, surprise flashing in her eyes. "I remember talking to you," she said softly, pressing her fingers against her temples as though to steady the pounding. "You came so late… I was surprised. Normally, you'd send a message. But I thought maybe you just wanted to surprise me."
Her voice faltered, and her eyes flickered downward, a blush creeping to her cheeks. "I don't remember what happened between us… but it's not really a secret anymore, is it?" she whispered, almost shyly.
The words stirred something sharp in him. Frustration. Longing. But also a deep unease that gnawed in his gut. The haze, the gaps, the unnatural pull—it wasn't right.
Eila shifted, sliding out of bed with clear effort. The way she winced at the motion, the subtle tremor in her steps, told him enough about the passion of their night—even if he could not recall it. That knowledge should have satisfied him. Instead, it hollowed him out.
"I'll bring you something for the headache," she said quietly, already reaching for her robe. "My mother always keeps remedies ready for days like this."
She disappeared down the hall, leaving him to wrestle with his fractured thoughts. Someone had stolen his memory. Someone had interfered with what should have been their moment.
When she returned, she carried a tray with a steaming cup of lemon ginger tea mixed with honey, and a small plate of banana pancakes—hastily made, by the looks of it. Her cheeks were pink with exertion, a little out of breath.
"It's… actually breakfast," she admitted with a sheepish smile. "I didn't have to work much to prepare. I thought it might help."
Leonard raised a brow but said nothing, only letting the faintest smirk tug at his lips as he accepted the cup. The tea was perfect—sharp citrus, warm ginger, smoothed by honey. Almost immediately, the pounding in his head began to ease.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he allowed himself to simply eat in silence beside someone else. The pancakes were soft, sweet, and simple, but something about them—about her—made the moment strangely grounding.
When they finished, he stood, gathering his clothes and fastening them with practiced precision. At the door, he hesitated. Then, with a quiet exhale, he bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Her eyes widened, lips parting as if to speak—but he was already gone. He vaulted through the window with silent grace, the cool predawn air biting at his skin.
The sky was only just beginning to pale. With long strides, he headed back toward Blackwell Manor. He would arrive by sunrise, long before his butler noticed his absence.
To anyone else, Leonard Blackwell would appear as he always was—collected, untouchable, in control.
But deep inside, he carried a question that refused to leave him.
Who—or what—was strong enough to bend his will, to make him forget the night he had finally held Eila in his arms?