The cliffside was bathed in silver. Moonlight spilled over the jagged rocks, glinting off the restless waves crashing below. The air carried a faint tang of salt and pine, sharper at night, and each gust of wind pressed the silence heavier between them.
Elle stood close to the edge, her gaze fixed on the horizon, Vincent's jacket still draped over her shoulders. The heavy fabric shielded her from the chill, but more than that, it carried his scent—crisp, expensive, and intoxicating. A blend of bergamot, cedarwood, and something darker, like smoked leather. She didn't dare admit it aloud, but it grounded her, comforted her.
Vincent stood just a step away, hands tucked in his pockets, tall and still like a sentinel. He didn't speak, and neither did she. Somehow, it felt as if words would ruin the fragile balance between them.
"Do you always enjoy silence this much?" Vincent's voice broke through, low and smooth.
Elle turned her head slightly. "Does it bother you?"
His lips curved faintly. "Not at all. It's just… rare to find someone who doesn't run from it."
She lowered her eyes back to the sea. "Noise feels heavier to me than silence. Words… can be dangerous. Silence at least doesn't lie."
That earned her a soft laugh, though not mocking—amused, thoughtful. "Interesting perspective." His gaze lingered on her, sharp beneath the moonlight. "Most people fear silence because they can't hide in it."
"Maybe I don't want to hide," she said, her voice quieter.
His expression flickered—just for a moment—as if her words touched something he couldn't name. "Or maybe," he countered smoothly, "you're hiding better than anyone else."
Her heart skipped. She looked at him then, really looked, and found his eyes already on hers—blue, unreadable, but heavy with something unspoken. Her breath caught, the jacket suddenly feeling warmer than it should.
Before she could respond, the sound of stomping broke the moment.
Both their heads turned sharply. In the distance, a figure was retreating, shoulders stiff, feet pounding angrily against the earth toward the line of tents.
Elle blinked. "Someone's awake."
Vincent's jaw tightened slightly, but his tone was casual. "It seems so."
The weight of the interruption lingered. Elle pulled the jacket tighter around herself. "It's late. I should go back."
He gave a small nod. "I'll walk you."
They moved together, silent again, until they reached her tent. Elle paused at the entrance, fingers brushing the flap.
"Goodnight, Vincent," she murmured, her voice softer than she intended.
He inclined his head. "Goodnight, Elle." His gaze lingered one beat longer before he turned and walked away.
Inside her tent, Elle sank down on the mattress, pulling the jacket closer as if it were something precious. The scent clung to her, refreshing yet heavy, a strange comfort that made her cheeks flush.
Her heartbeat quickened as she replayed the way he looked at her—intense, silent, as though trying to unravel her piece by piece. No one had ever treated her this way. No one had ever made her feel as though every small gesture mattered.
She buried her face in the collar, breathing him in. "Vincent…" she whispered into the quiet, her stomach fluttering with an unfamiliar, overwhelming warmth.
For the first time in years, her walls didn't feel like iron. They felt… fragile. And that terrified her as much as it thrilled her.
Wrapped in the jacket, butterflies dancing in her stomach, she drifted into sleep.
Vincent's steps were slow as he returned toward his tent. The air felt sharper now, heavier with something he didn't care to name. But when his eyes caught sight of movement near his tent, his expression cooled.
Clarisse was pacing, her arms folded tightly, her face twisted into a scowl.
Vincent stopped a few paces away, his voice calm. "Clarisse. What are you doing out here at this hour?"
She turned at once, her frustration spilling over. "I couldn't sleep."
His brow lifted faintly. "So you decided to take a midnight walk?"
"I came looking for you." Her tone was clipped, but beneath it was a tremor of accusation.
"Looking for me?" His words were smooth, polite, but his eyes had already sharpened.
"I didn't find you at your tent. So I went to look. And do you know what I found instead?" Her voice cracked, laced with jealousy. "I saw you with her. Standing together as if—" Her eyes burned. "As if she means something to you. And she was wearing your jacket."
Vincent's jaw flexed, his composure unshaken but his eyes flashing with warning. "Careful."
Her fists curled at her sides, trembling. "What's so good about her, huh? Why do you defend her like this?"
Vincent stepped forward in a swift motion, catching her wrist before she could recoil. His grip was firm, unyielding.
"Not here," he muttered coldly.
He dragged her away from the tents, ignoring her protests, until the cliffside opened before them again. The moonlight cast sharp lines across his face, stripping away the charming mask he wore so easily.
When he finally released her, his voice was low, but edged with steel. "Do not raise your voice at me."
Clarisse faltered, her anger stuttering. She had never seen him like this before. His eyes—usually cold but refined—now burned with a dangerous intensity that made her chest tighten with fear.
"Vincent—" she tried, but her voice cracked.
He stepped closer, towering over her, shadows deepening across his sharp features. "Listen very carefully, Clarisse. If you ever go near Elle with your petty jealousy… if you dare spread so much as a whisper about her past… I will not spare you."
The words sliced through the air, colder than the sea breeze. Clarisse's bravado shattered. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground with a thump, trembling as fear replaced every ounce of anger.
She had never seen him like this—unmasked, stripped of restraint, terrifying.
For a long moment, he simply looked at her, his expression unreadable but his eyes merciless. Then, slowly, he inhaled and straightened, regaining control. He crouched slightly, extending his hand.
"Get up," he said smoothly, as though nothing had happened.
Her wide eyes darted to his face, then to his hand. Hesitant, she placed her trembling fingers in his. He pulled her to her feet with ease.
"Go back to your tent," Vincent ordered evenly.
She nodded quickly, too shaken to speak. Turning away, she stumbled back toward the camp, her body trembling as though the ground itself was unsteady beneath her feet.
Vincent stood alone under the moonlight, his jaw tight, his hands flexing at his sides. He had not planned to reveal so much of himself, not here. But Clarisse had left him no choice.
And more than that—he couldn't allow her to taint Elle. Not now. Not ever.
Later, lying inside his tent, Vincent finally let the mask fall. His body relaxed into the soft mattress, but his mind refused to quiet.
He thought of her—of Elle. The way she stood in the moonlight, calm yet untouchable. The way she clutched his jacket as though it was more than just fabric. The flicker of warmth in her grey eyes when she looked at him.
A slow smile curved his lips, not the polite, charming one the world always saw, but something darker. Obsessed.
He whispered her name softly into the night. "Elle."
The sound of it pleased him, igniting a hunger he hadn't felt in years.
His mask was gone, discarded, and the smile that lingered on his face was one of pure obsession.
For the first time in years, Vincent Alden fell asleep thinking not of power, not of control, but of her.