The morning light filtered gently into the Volkov mansion, casting soft gold across the marble floors. Erin walked down the hallway with a knot of nerves resting stubbornly in her chest, the echoes of last night still lingering in her head. She hadn't slept much. Every time she closed her eyes, she could still feel Xander's hands on her shoulders, his voice assuring her that he believed her.
She'd expected the cold air of resentment to creep back between them by morning, but something had shifted. She wasn't sure what, only that she felt lighter—and more confused than ever.
She reached the kitchen, determined to start breakfast and get her mind off everything, when one of the maids passed her with a whisper of gossip on her lips.
"Did you hear?" the maid said to another as she walked by. "The young master sent Miss Thornwell away late last night. She didn't look pleased. She looked rather pissed."
Erin froze mid-step, her fingers tightening around the apron she'd just tied. Sent her away? Her heart did an involuntary leap. She quickly masked her expression and headed toward the stove like nothing had changed, but inside, her chest buzzed with quiet relief. No more fake falls. No more fake sweetness. No more taunting looks.
Still, she didn't let the relief show—not even in the way she chopped the vegetables or stirred the eggs. Her face stayed blank, her lips pressed in a flat line, but her shoulders didn't feel quite as heavy.
Just as she flipped the pancakes, she heard the distinct, lazy footsteps of none other than Xander Volkov.
"Still doing your chores I see." He said smugly.
"Still being forced to serve your spoiled master, I see." she said without turning around, a smirk tugging at her lips.
He walked in like he owned the kitchen too, arms crossed, hair still slightly messy from sleep. "You say that like it's not the easiest job in the world."
"Oh?" She glanced over her shoulder, arching a brow. "Then why don't you come here and show me how it's done?"
Xander's smirk widened like she'd just handed him a challenge. "Gladly."
Erin stepped aside, folding her arms as he rolled up his sleeves. "Let's see if you survive ten minutes."
He grabbed the whisk and bowl like a man on a mission. "This is a piece of cake."
That confidence lasted all of two minutes. He over-whisked the eggs. Accidentally turned the burner too high. And then, while trying to slice tomatoes, he hissed sharply.
"Ow—damn it."
Erin's face dropped its smirk instantly. She was at his side in a second. "Give me your hand."
"It's nothing," he muttered, mildly embarrassed. But he let her hold it.
She examined the cut. It wasn't deep, but it was bleeding enough to warrant attention. She pulled the first aid kit from the drawer like she'd done this a hundred times before and began tending to it with gentle precision.
"Hold still," she muttered, dabbing antiseptic. "This is what happens when you talk big."
Xander didn't respond. He was too busy watching her. She was frowning in concentration, her touch light, careful. It made something tighten in his chest.
Erin, feeling the weight of his gaze, looked up—and their eyes locked. Neither of them moved. The silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. Something soft, magnetic.
The only thing that broke the moment was the sudden ding of the oven timer.
Erin jolted, her hand jerking slightly, and her eyes widened. She turned to reach for the oven—but her foot slipped on a bit of flour that had scattered earlier.
She yelped.
And then she fell—right into him.
Xander instinctively caught her, hands gripping her waist as she collided with his chest.
They both froze.
Her palms were splayed against his chest. His arms still wrapped around her. Their faces were far too close. Her breath caught in her throat, and his eyes flickered down to her lips before returning to her eyes.
And just when Erin was about to jump back, they both heard the unmistakable gasp of one of the staff standing at the entrance of the kitchen.
The maid turned on her heel and scurried away like she'd just walked in on something scandalous.
Erin quickly shoved herself away from Xander, cheeks blazing. "Great. That's going to be on everyone's lips by lunch."
Xander, ever unbothered, simply leaned back against the counter. "Well, I guess we made her day."
"Don't joke." Erin grabbed the towel and threw it at him. "Just—get out. I'll finish this on my own."
He caught the towel with a smirk but obeyed, hands raised in mock surrender. "Okay fine. I'll be at the dining table, trying not to die of hunger."
"Good," she muttered, turning back to the stove as he disappeared.
But once he was gone, her hands stilled.
That moment… that look… her heartbeat still hadn't returned to normal. She could still feel where his hands had held her, warm and sure, as if he hadn't hesitated at all.
And she hated that she didn't hate it.
Meanwhile, at the dining table, Xander sat down and drummed his fingers against the wood, the usual sharpness in his eyes dimmed. He stared absently at the polished silverware, his mind replaying every second of that fall.
He hadn't meant to look at her that way. He hadn't meant to stare at her lips like that.
But somehow, it had just happened. Like it was natural. Like it was inevitable.
Erin Lane… was dangerous.
And he wasn't sure if he was ready for what that meant.