Chapter 7
SEVEN
TESS
The silence in the SUV had been a physical weight.
The moment Korran pulled into the estate’s courtyard, Tess was out of the vehicle before he could cut the engine, her boots hitting the snow with a definitive crunch.
She didn’t look back, didn’t wait for him to play the gallant prince and open her door or guide her inside.
She marched straight for the front entrance, feeling the heat of his stare on her back like a brand.
A part of her, the petty, frustrated part, hoped her swift exit stung. The rest of her was just furious. Not just at him, but at the entire, impossible situation.
She swept through the front doors, the opulent warmth of the estate doing nothing to melt the cold knot of anger in her chest. She’d worked her entire life to prove she belonged in rooms that didn’t want her—classrooms, labs, and grant review boards.
She’d faced down condescending male colleagues with nothing but superior data and a sharper intellect.
But this was different. The hostility in Varix’s lab hadn’t been about her gender or her credentials. It had been a visceral, species-level dismissal.
Human.
How could an entire society, ruled for decades by a human queen and a half-human prince, still cling to such blatant prejudice? It didn’t track. It felt less like cultural tradition and more like a cultivated infection.
Focus, Tess. You have two weeks. Prejudice is a symptom, not the disease you’re here to cure.
She reached her suite as the last rays of the sun bled across the snow-purple horizon, casting long, dramatic shadows through her windows.
She needed her notebook, her anchor in this surreal world.
She headed for the walk-in closet, her mind already churning with the questions she’d pose to Kael tomorrow.
She flicked on the light.
And froze.
The closet was no longer the spacious, empty cavern where she’d hung her modest Earth wardrobe.
It had been transformed. Racks groaned under the weight of dresses in sumptuous fabrics—velvets, silks, fine wools in deep jewel tones and winter whites.
Shelves held neat stacks of sweaters and tailored trousers.
An entire section was dedicated to outerwear, from fur-trimmed capes to sleek, insulated coats.
A jewelry armoire stood open, its velvet-lined drawers glinting with silver and polished stone.
Rows of boots and elegant shoes lined the floor.
Gabrielle had mentioned Korran wanting her sizes. Tess had pictured some spare clothes, maybe a warm pair of socks and another pair of boots. Not a boutique. The scale and speed of it were dizzying. A ridiculous, lavish overreach.
Yet, her scientist’s hands reached out almost of their own volition. Her fingers trailed over a gown the color of crushed wine. The fabric was liquid under her touch. Before she could talk herself out of it, she was pulling it from the rack.
What followed was a silent, secret rebellion.
One by one, she tried them on. A forest-green velvet that made her eyes look like emeralds.
A silver-grey silk that clung to her curves like moonlight.
Each transformation in the full-length mirror was a shock.
The woman staring back wasn’t Dr. Tess Holt, perpetually worried about rent and grants. This woman looked… regal.
Ridiculous. You’re just playing dress-up. A momentary distraction.
The final selection was a gown of flowing crimson, the neckline a tasteful sweep. It moved with a whisper when she walked. She found a necklace of woven silver strands and dark, polished stones and fastened it at her throat. In the mirror, she was a vibrant flame against the suite’s muted tones.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the fantasy.
Gabrielle.
It had to be. Tess didn’t hurry to change. Let the attendant see the extravagance; maybe she could explain how any of this was necessary. Tess swept to the door and opened it.
Prince Korran filled the doorway, a large tray laden with covered dishes balanced in his hands.
His eyes, those intense, guarded brown pools, swept over her—from the loose cascade of her hair down the crimson silk to the silver at her throat—and his entire body locked.
The careful composure vanished, replaced by a raw, palpable shock.
A muscle in his jaw jumped. The tray dipped perilously, before his grip firmed with brute strength, his knuckles whitening.
For three heartbeats, neither of them moved. The air in the corridor vanished, replaced by a thick, electric charge.
“I thought… you might want to eat in your room. While you work.” His voice was a low, rough scrape, as if the words had to fight their way past some internal barrier. His gaze finally lifted from the gown to meet hers, and the heat in it was unmistakable.
She stepped back, the motion causing the silk to swirl around her ankles. “Thank you. For thinking of me.” Her words came out softer than she intended.
He moved past her into the sitting area, his size making the spacious room seem suddenly intimate. He set the tray on the low coffee table, then straightened, turning to face her. He seemed to be gathering himself, rebuilding his walls brick by brick.
“Today in the lab,” he began, his voice more controlled now, but still edged with a tension that vibrated between them.
“I didn’t mean to overstep. Or undermine you.
” He ran a hand through his dark hair, a surprisingly agitated gesture.
“I needed them to understand your position here was non-negotiable. And you… you’d crossed galaxies today.
Diving into a hostile environment while exhausted isn’t wise. ”
She crossed her arms, unintentionally making her cleavage more pronounced. “I’ve handled hostile environments before.”
“I’m sure you have.” The corners of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile, but something more dangerous. “I see the way you carry yourself. That’s precisely why I wanted their expectations set before they made the mistake of testing you. It saves time. And… prevents problems.”
His admission disarmed her anger. He hadn’t been coddling her. He’d been clearing a path. “Thank you,” she said again, meaning it this time.
He nodded, his eyes drifting over her once more, a slow, deliberate appraisal that left a trail of fire in its wake. She became hyperaware of the feel of the silk against her skin, the weight of the necklace, the sheer exposure of standing before him like this.
“I should let you work,” he said, the words sounding dragged from him. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a slim, dark device. “If you need anything. This is a direct communicator.” He stepped closer, holding it out.
As she reached for it, their fingers brushed.
The contact was a spark, a jolt of pure, undiluted sensation that raced up her arm and straight to her core.
She gasped softly, but he didn’t pull away, his fingers lingering against hers for a heartbeat too long.
The world narrowed to that point of contact, to the darkening intensity of his eyes, to the magnetic pull that urged her to close the scant distance between them.
She snatched her hand back, the device now clutched in her grip. She took a stumbling step backward. “Right. Thank you.”
He mirrored her retreat, his body coiling with a tension that screamed of leashed hunger. “I have… duties. I may not see you tomorrow. But use that. For anything.” The command was clear, alpha and absolute.
Then he was gone, the door closing with a soft, final click.
Tess stood frozen, the crimson gown feeling suddenly absurd and the communicator warm in her palm. The ghost of his touch still tingled on her skin.
What is happening between us?
It wasn’t just professional tension or cultural friction. It was chemical, primal. And it was a catastrophic distraction.
With sheer force of will, she marched back into the closet. She stripped off the beautiful gown and the silver necklace, hanging them with a reverence that annoyed her. She changed back into her simple Earth-made black slacks and blue blouse and grabbed her notebook from her suitcase.
Then settling on the floor by the coffee table, she lifted the silver dome from the tray.
The aroma of roasted meat, herbs, and fresh bread wafted up.
He’d brought her a feast. She tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach and opened her notebook to a blank page, clicking her pen and beginning to write.
Primary Objective: Differential Diagnosis for King Voran. Hypothesis One: Mate bond-induced cellular degradation. Flaws: Single case study, no control, assumes causality…
She wrote fiercely, scribbling questions as she ate the delicious meal. The only way through this was the work. The truth was in the data, not in the dark, hungry eyes of a prince who looked at her as if she were the answer to a question he was afraid to ask.
The next morning, the grandfather clock in the grand foyer chimed eight times, its resonant notes echoing off the vaulted ceiling like a battle cry.
Tess stood beneath the massive chandelier, her winter coat already buttoned against the morning chill, notebook clutched in her gloved hands like a shield.
The pages were dense with observations scrawled in her precise handwriting—questions about cellular degradation patterns, notes on mate bond theories, and sketched diagrams of potential treatment protocols.
She’d worked until nearly three in the morning, her mind refusing to quiet after Korran’s unexpected visit.
Don’t think about him. Think about the work.
But her traitorous thoughts kept drifting to the heat in his eyes when he’d seen her in that crimson gown, and the electric shock of his fingers against hers. The communicator he’d given her sat heavy in her coat pocket, a constant reminder of the connection she was trying so hard to deny.