ＬＡＮＤＯＮ    ＡＳＨＦＯＲＤ

The noise is going to crack my skull open.

I can feel it—the pressure building behind my eyes, the static crawling up my spine like a thousand insects burrowing beneath my skin. It's Friday night at Evander's penthouse, and everyone is here. Our found family. The people I'm supposed to feel safe with.

But all I feel is the noise.

Tristan's voice cuts through the air, sharp and teasing as he argues with Iris about something trivial—philosophy or perception or some other intellectual bullshit they both pretend to care about more than each other. Iris fires back, her tone dry and unimpressed, and I can hear the smile in her voice even though I'm not looking at her. Across the room, Lucius has Skye trapped against the wall, not physically, but with that chaotic energy he wears like a second skin. She's rolling her eyes, arms crossed, refusing to give him the reaction he's hunting for. And Evander—Evander is entirely focused on Aurora, his hand possessive on the small of her back, his steel-blue eyes tracking her every movement like she's the only thing in the room worth seeing.

It's supposed to be relaxed. Comfortable. A gathering of people who've bled together, who've survived together.

But inside my skull, the static is a violent, deafening shriek.

I smile. Perfect. Practiced. The Golden Prince giving his blessing to the chaos around him.

No one notices the way my fingers dig into the armrest of the chair. No one sees the feral thing clawing at the inside of my ribs, desperate to get out, to break something, to make the noise stop.

I can't breathe.

I need to get out of this room before I shatter the illusion. Before they see what I really am beneath the polished exterior—a beast in a glass box, performing tricks for an audience that thinks I'm their perfect saint.

I stand smoothly, still smiling, and murmur something about needing water. No one questions it. Why would they? Landon Ashford doesn't have problems. Landon Ashford is the solution.

The kitchen is mercifully quiet.

I close the door behind me, and the muffled sound of laughter and conversation becomes bearable. The marble floors gleam under the soft pendant lights, and I brace my hands against the cold island, forcing air into my lungs. In. Out. In. Out.

Control it. Lock it down. You've done this a thousand times.

The static doesn't stop, but it dulls to a manageable hum. I can function like this. I can go back out there and be exactly who they need me to be.

Then I hear it—a soft exhale, the gentle clink of glass against marble.

I'm not alone.

My head snaps up, and I find her standing on the other side of the island, gripping a glass of water like it's the only thing tethering her to the ground. Hazel Bloom. The girl who hides in plain sight, who survives by making herself smaller, quieter, invisible.

She startles when she realizes I've seen her, her warm brown eyes going wide. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.

And then she looks at me.

Really looks at me.

The exact millisecond her eyes lock onto mine, the deafening static in my head flatlines into absolute, profound silence.

The chaos stops. The noise stops. The beast inside my chest goes still.

It's not gradual. It's not a slow fade. It's instantaneous—like someone reached into my skull and severed the wire feeding the madness. I can breathe. I can think. I can exist without feeling like I'm being flayed alive from the inside out.

I stare at her, and for the first time in years, my mind is quiet.

She doesn't know. She has no idea what she just did. She's looking at me with concern now, her lips parting like she's about to ask if I'm okay, and I realize she thinks she's the one intruding. That she's the one who shouldn't be here.

Ridiculous.

She is my biological cure. My salvation. My religion.

"Sorry," she says softly, setting the glass down. "I just needed a second. It's—" She glances toward the door, toward the noise beyond it. "It's a lot out there."

I force my expression into something gentle, something safe. "You don't have to apologize, Hazel."

Her name feels sacred in my mouth.

She offers a small, hesitant smile, and I watch the way her shoulders relax slightly. She trusts me. Of course she does. I've spent months building that trust, brick by careful brick. The perfect friend. The safe haven in the storm of Ardencrest's cruelty.

But now I understand why I was drawn to her in the first place. Why every instinct in my body screamed to keep her close, to protect her, to claim her.

She is the only thing standing between me and complete annihilation.

"Are you okay?" she asks, tilting her head. "You look... tense."

I let out a soft laugh, carefully measured. "Just needed a breather. You know how it is."

She nods, understanding flickering in her eyes. She does know. She's spent her entire life learning how to survive overwhelming environments, how to endure when every nerve is screaming at you to run.

We're more alike than she realizes.

But where she learned to disappear, I learned to perform.

I move around the island, closing the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps. Not threatening. Never threatening. I am her sanctuary, her safety. I cannot let her see the monster wearing my face.

"You should get back out there before they notice we're both missing," I say, keeping my voice warm. "Tristan will start making assumptions."

She laughs—a soft, genuine sound that settles something deep in my chest. "He makes assumptions about everything."

"True."

She picks up her glass and moves toward the door, pausing when she's beside me. This close, I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo—something floral and sweet. Something that doesn't belong in this world of blood and violence and calculated cruelty.

"Thanks, Landon," she says quietly.

"For what?"

"For being..." She hesitates, searching for the word. "Safe."

And then she's gone, slipping back into the noise, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen with absolute clarity burning through my veins.

They think I am their perfect saint.

They don't know I am just a beast waiting for a reason to burn their kingdom down.

But then she looks at me, and the screaming stops.

I will cage the sun itself just to keep her warm.

I make the decision right there, standing in Evander's pristine kitchen with the muffled sound of laughter seeping through the walls. It's not a choice. It's a vow. Cold. Mechanical. Absolute.

I will not just protect her.

I will treasure her.

I will use every resource at my disposal—my wealth, my name, my perfectly constructed persona—to build an impenetrable, blood-soaked glass box around Hazel Bloom. She will never have to touch the darkness. She will never have to fight. She will never have to be anything other than the gentle, warm, impossibly kind person she is.

Because if she changes, if the world breaks her the way it's tried to break me, the silence will come back.

And I will lose the only thing keeping me human.

I smooth down my shirt, check my reflection in the darkened window, and adjust my expression into something pleasant and untroubled. The Golden Prince. The paragon. The perfect heir.

Then I walk back into the noise, back into the performance.

But everything has changed.

I didn't just find a friend tonight.

I found my religion.

And Landon Ashford is a zealot who will slaughter anything that threatens his worship.

_______
If you are having trouble knowing what he is talking about. I would suggest you to just take a look at the Epilogue of the first book, "The Crown Prince |18+"
Don't drop the book. I promise this book will worth every bit of your while. Trust me and trust the process.
—EVA