Chapter 1

`Moon Child.`

Layla stiffened at the familiar, gentle, baritone voice that seemed to be whispered in her ear. She spun around, careful not to knock the blue vase she was dusting off its stand.

Sleep disappeared for her silver eyes, and they darted across the room. It was empty, saved for the numerous vases and urns of different colours and shapes arranged about. As she had expected.

It wasn’t the first, second, or third time she had had the experience that day. She had lost count of how many times she had heard the voice, but she always looked over her shoulder.

Like she was waiting for someone.

‘I just imagined it.’ She thought, biting her bottom lip and turning back to her dusting. ‘I’m so stressed and sleep deprived that I’m now imagining his voice during the day.’

It was a mantra she kept telling her each time the voice came. An imagination. She was imagining the voice of one of the men she saw in her dreams as a way her overworked body was using to ease itself.

She missed them. The two men she dreamt about. Two men—no matter how hard she tried, their faces were a constant blur when she woke up. She just knew they had come.

But their voices… She could never forget their voices. One was what was plaguing her throughout the day. Gentle and smooth, like butter. The other was gruff and commanding, yet had an edge of softness. Though they were different, their presence offered the same thing. Protection, comfort, and security. They both made her weak in the knees and warmed her stomach.

Moon Child, they called her. In reference to her silvery white curly hair and eyes, she supposed.

Layla moved to the next vase and stifled a yawn. She needed sleep, but she feared doing so. Her mystery men had deserted her for some days now.

Sleep, which was her way of escaping the troubles of the day, turned into, well… a nightmare. Nightmares she couldn’t remember but always made her wake up in the middle of the night. Drenched with sweat, with her eyes wide and her chest heaving like she had run a thousand miles,.

Then she’d stay awake till dawn, work her bones till nightfall, go to bed, and wake up again from the terrifying nightmare. It was a torturous routine.

“Stay awake. Stay awake. You can’t fall asleep here. If you break Mrs. Richardson’s vase, it’s not going to end well.” Layla mumbled under her breath, pinching her cheek. A small yawn escaped her lips, and she groaned.

“Stay awake.” She massaged her heavy eyelids with her fingers.

“Layla dear,” A man chuckled, and arms wrapped around Layla’s waist, pulling her close to a broad chest.

She screamed at the sudden breach in her personal space. Her eyes popped open, and she threw her arms in defense.

*Crash*

The fragile grey vase fell to the floor; its scattering echoed through the room.

“No!” Layla gasped, pressing her hand to her lips. Her wide eyes stared at the broken fragments of the once-beautiful vase.

‘No! No! No! How am I going to explain to Mrs. Richardson that I broke one of her priceless vases? I can’t afford to pay for it—’

“Nora won’t be happy about that.” The man chuckled, snapping her out of her panicked thoughts. Her brain finally registered the arms holding her waist in steely grips, and she froze.

There was only one man who would dare hold Layla that way. Her boss, Mr. Jonas Richardson.

Her hand gripped the handle of her feathered duster, fighting the urge to push him away. But she couldn’t. Bessy’s last wounds were still fresh in her mind.

“Mr. Richardson! It was an accident! I swear! I’m sorry.” Layla stuttered, refusing to look at the man who pressed her against his chest.

She knew he knew she was. He had startled her after all, but she didn’t dare blame him, even in her thoughts. If she had paid more attention to her surroundings instead of wallowing in thoughts about nightmares and men, she could have known he had stepped into the room.

“Sorry isn’t going to change anything, is it? You’re going to have to pay, and you know it’s quite expensive.” Jonas mumbled against her ear, happiness evidenced in his voice, and she bit back a sob of frustration.

Why was she always unfortunate? Why was it that every time she was almost free of her debt to the Richardson family, something had to happen to keep her in their grasp? She had just a few months left before her grandma’s debt was cleared, but she just had to break a vase that had more worth than her life.

“It’s so sad; you just had to be clumsy three months away from your freedom. And you were really looking forward to it. Really sad.” He mocked sympathy, slipping one of his hands under her white blouse.

‘Not again.’ Cold shudders skated across Layla’s skin, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“I could convince Blair for you. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind covering up your debt, and you go free.”

“No!” Layla gasped, and her eyes flung open. “I’ll pay it myself.”

She couldn’t give the girl more reasons to hate her. The last time was already traumatizing enough for both of them.

“Really…” Jonas’ finger traced the band of her skirt, and she breathed sharply. “Cash or kind?”

“I’ll work for you till I pay it off.” She replied that instant. Her words were as foul as venom, but better than what he had in mind.

“There are better, simpler ways than that. And more profitable to you.” He rocked his hips to her, his hard on pressing to her butt, and she pressed her hand to her mouth.

‘Just a minute or two, and he would be done. Just like he always does.’ She squeezed her eyes, trying and failing to tune out his laboured groans as he humped like a dog in heat against her.

It didn’t make her situation any more bearable. Her fingers dug into her skin, and she wished she could rip the flesh off her bones and wash it till it was rid of his touch and his feel.

She wanted to push him away, but she couldn’t. And she hated it. She felt like dirt. The lowest of being on earth.

“Mr. Richardson!” The door swung open, and a tiny voice squeaked.

“Do you want to break the door, rat?! I thought I warned you never to interrupt me and Layla!” Jonas barked, stopping his humping.

Teary silver eyes fluttered open to meet a young plump woman, trembling at the door and staring at the ground. Thank you, Layla wanted to say but her voice failed to form words.

“I’m sorry, but a man and a woman are here to see you.” She replied, clutching her black skirt.

“Are they business partners or such?”

“No—”

“Then tell them to get out. Who let them into my property?!” He let go of Layla, and her shoulders dropped.

“They’re Supernaturals!” She cried, and Jonas’ and Layla’s breaths were stolen.

‘Supernaturals?! Here?! Why?’ Layla pressed her hand against her chest as her heart raced.

“Where are they now?” Jonas cleared his throat.

“The drawing room, sir. They’re asking for the girl with silver eyes.

‘Silver eyes? Me?’ Layla gasped, taking a step back and touching the corner of her eyes.

“W-what do they want with me?”

~

“If you disgrace me, you know the consequences.” Jonas whispered as he and Layla stood in front of the door of the drawing room.

“Yes, sir.” She nodded, aware of the consequences, but, surprisingly, she wasn’t afraid.

An unfamiliar excitement rushed through her; her body tingled, and every bit of her was anticipating what was behind the door. She didn’t understand the bubbling of all sorts of wonderful emotions, and she wasn’t sure to embrace them or fear them.

The door swung open, and Jonas stepped in, and she followed him in.

It was like a force slammed into her chest, knocking the air out of her, and she gasped. The room spun, and she stumbled back, tripping on her feet.

An arm wrapped around her, stopping her from falling to the ground and pressing her to a lean, muscular chest that had a seductive, icy, and coppery scent.

The presence was nothing like she had ever felt. It was cold yet warm; it eluded power and dominion that could make men faint, yet it was safe for her. It was home. Heat flooded her body, and she let out a small, contented moan.

Layla’s eyes fluttered open, and they stared into deep ruby-red ones that seemed to glow in the lights. They belonged to a strikingly handsome man with the palest of skins that contrasted with her brown one. His hair was the darkest shade of the night, and his face had the most perfect jaw lines and angles. A small smile was across his lips, adding to his charm.

A fantasy prince, no, a dark fantasy king aura, was what he gave off. Noble yet dangerous. He wasn’t the type of man Layla was drawn to, but he pulled her in from her soul.

“Alaric?” She whispered. It was his name, but she didn’t know how she knew it. She just did.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Dele.” He said, his rich baritone voice gentle and smooth like butter, and her eyes grew wide.

“It’s you.” She breathed.

She knew that voice; she heard it for two years, every night in her dreams. It was what she heard throughout the day.

It was him. One of the men in her dreams.