Chapter 347: April’s Interest In Oliver

April lowered her head, thinking of something for a second and looked back up at Samuel.

"How many hours do we have before the final event begins today?" April asked, holding the warm porcelain cup in her hands.

"The closing ceremony and final evaluations are scheduled for twelve in the afternoon, Miss April," Samuel replied smoothly. "You have roughly three hours."

"There’s still time," she murmured, a quiet resolve settling over her features. "It’s fine. I want to speak with Oliver. Alone."

Samuel went completely silent.

His fingers, still resting near hers stilled for a fraction of a second.

A cold, heavy knot tightened in his chest. It seemed April had developed a distinct interest in the doctor—just as he had suspected, and deeply feared, ever since Oliver had begun to act differently and paid more attention to her being, than her spatial abilities.

Yet what else could he do? He was her High Steward, bound to her will, entirely at her mercy. If she wanted the clinical, arrogant Dr. Baxter, Samuel would hand him to her on a silver platter without a single word of protest.

"Shall I clear the corridor so you can meet him without interruption?" Samuel asked, his voice returning to its flawless composure, though his dark eyes behind his glasses burned with a quiet, suppressed fire.

April set the teacup down on the nightstand, her dark eyes glinting with calculating resolve as she looked up at him.

"Yes, Samuel," April murmured, her voice dropping into a raspy, dangerous register. "Clear the path."

Twenty minutes later, April glided down the grand marble hallway toward the estate’s private library. She had dressed in a sleek, emerald-green silk wrap dress that hugged her curves effortlessly, paired once more with the crystal-clear acrylic heels Oliver had fitted for her. She could never get enough of the shoes adnthey went well with everything.

Samuel had done his job clearing the path for her. The grand corridor leading to the library was completely deserted—no guards, no servants, and certainly no Nat or Xavier to interrupt them.

April pushed open the mahogany doors of the library. Honestly, it was her first time being there.

The room was vast and quiet, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and bathed in the soft, morning light filtering through high arched windows. At the far end of the room, sitting at a massive dark wood desk stacked with thick medical journals and surgical schematics, was Oliver.

He had stripped off his white lab coat, wearing only a tailored charcoal vest over a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked immaculate, yet the faint dark circles under his eyes betrayed the fact that he hadn’t slept a single minute after finishing his four-hour surgery.

As the doors clicked shut behind April, Oliver’s hand froze mid-page.

Slowly, he lifted his head. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his dark eyes locked onto her. His gaze instantly tracked down her body—taking in the emerald dress, sweeping over the bare line of her legs, and fixing squarely on the clear acrylic heels.

A subtle, microscopic pulse jumped in Oliver’s jaw. He set his gold fountain pen down on the open journal, his raspy voice breaking the library’s silence.

"You are walking with optimal posture," Oliver drawled, his voice carrying its usual clinical detachment, though his chest gave an involuntary, heavy heave. "However, your stride length indicates a mild muscle strain in your hip flexors. I assume... your night was physically demanding."

Well, she had Nat to thank for that.

April’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk as she closed the distance between them, her acrylic heels echoing crisply against the rug.

"Always the observant doctor, aren’t you, Oliver?" April murmured, stopping right in front of his desk and leaning forward, placing both hands flat on the polished wood. She tilted her head, her dark eyes pinning him to his seat. "Tell me... are you analyzing my stride, or are you just trying to rationalize why your pulse spiked the exact second I walked through that door?"

"I will deny that observation," Oliver said, clearing his throat as his hand instinctively reached up to adjust his wire-rimmed glasses with a single, rigid finger.

The pink flush on the tips of his ears betrayed him instantly, creeping down the pale column of his neck and disappearing beneath his crisp collar. He picked up his gold fountain pen again, tapping it twice against the open medical journal in a desperate attempt to anchor his fracturing composure.

"A sudden elevation in heart rate upon an unexpected entry is a standard autonomic startle response," Oliver rationalized, his raspy voice straining to maintain its cool, clinical detachment. "It bears no statistical correlation to... personal inclination."

"Is that so?" April purred softly. So many big words, but...

She didn’t back away. Instead, she rounded the desk with slow, unhurried grace, the clear acrylic heels clicking with deliberate rhythm against the hardwood floor.

Oliver’s eyes darted frantically, trying to focus on the dense medical text in front of him, but his vision blurred as her shadow fell over his desk. When she stopped right beside his leather armchair, the delicate, intoxicating scent of vanilla and warm skin swirled around him, completely dismantling his focus.

April reached out, her long, slender fingers lightly brushing against the crisp rolled-up sleeve at his forearm. She felt the sudden, involuntary tremor that rippled through his muscles beneath her touch.

"You’re shaking again, Dr. Baxter," April whispered, her voice dropping into a low, sultry tone that sent a violent shiver down his spine. "Is this another ’localized muscle spasm caused by autonomic arousal’?"

Oliver swallowed hard, his throat working as an inaudible gulp passed down his throat. His dark eyes snapped up to meet hers, the intelligent, arrogant surgeon inside him completely pinned beneath her heavy, calculating gaze.

"You are... intentionally inducing neurological stress," Oliver croaked out, his raspy voice losing every last shred of its former arrogance. His breathing grew shallow, his chest heaving as he fought to keep his hands from outright trembling. "It is entirely unscientific..."

"I’m not interested in science right now, Oliver," April murmured, leaning down until her lips were inches from his ear, her warmth brushing his skin. "I’m interested in you. Stop analyzing me... and tell me what you actually want."

Oliver froze, his gold pen slipping from his fingers and clattering against the desk. The silence in the vast library stretched thin, taut, and suffocating.

Realizing he wasn’t going to budge so easily under a direct assault, April decided to pivot, leaning back with a slow, deliberate grace.

"Doctor," she purred, her voice dripping with artificial distress, "I seem to have a problem."