Ophelia lay awake beneath silk sheets, her body still, but her mind unraveling. The room was warm, safe even, surprisingly too beautiful and comfortable for a mere slave comfirming how wealthy the Grey's are but unfortunately she couldn't relax.
Not in this house.
Not with him here.
He had bought her. Spared her. Housed her. And yet—his presence haunted her more than chains ever could. She had seen something in his eyes back at the auction. Something worse than cruelty. Something cracked.
She turned to the window, moonlight spilling across the floor like silver blood. The garden stretched beyond—lush, veiled in fog, lined with roses that seemed to breathe.
She shivered.
What kind of place was this?
What kind of man was he?
She touched her throat where his fingers had brushed her collar earlier that day. Not with malice. But with possession.
She had been a servant to Mr Alex. But He had never looked of her the way he did.
Like she was a question that needed answering.
Or a weapon that hadn't yet realized its purpose.
Maybe because she is His slave quite different from being a slave, maybe.
The walls of her room whispered things if she listened too long. Not words, exactly—just impressions. A hush too still. A breath too cold.
Ophelia sat up slowly, her bare feet brushing the edge of a rug woven with runes she couldn't name. She had tried, hours ago, to study the details. To distract herself. But the symbols made her head ache.
Everything in this house pulsed with some kind of hidden meaning.
A mansion made of secrets.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared at the flickering candle by her bedside. It sputtered despite the absence of wind, casting uneven shadows that moved like watchers on the wall.
She had overheard the servants whispering about him—Lord Lysander. A man who could rip hearts from bodies and never blink. A man who walked through fire and made it kneel.
Surprised and full of questions on why he bought a slave, a female at that.
They all kept looking at her, possibly to find something special.
And yet, he had bought her.
Not to kill. Not to break. Or maybe Not yet.
Why?
She pressed her forehead to her knees, struggling to block out the uncertainty, the fear.
A sound drew her eyes to the window again.
Movement. Near the garden's edge.
The faintest rustle—too large for an animal, too slow for wind.
She rose and crept to the window, her breath fogging the glass. The moon was full now, painting the garden in ghostlight.
And something—no, someone—stood at the far end, near the edge of the overgrown garden path.
A figure cloaked in shadow. Watching. Waiting.
Her breath caught.
It wasn't Lysander. She was sure of that. This presence felt… different. Hungrier.
As if it had been waiting for her.
Ophelia backed away, heart pounding, and let the curtain fall shut.
Something was wrong here.
And she was caught in the middle of it.
She returned to the bed, but the warmth of the sheets now felt foreign. As if the moment she'd seen that figure outside, everything in the room had changed.
No longer just cold. But watched.
She tucked her legs beneath her, arms wrapped around herself as though they could protect her from things she couldn't name.
You're safe, she told herself. He said you would be.
But safety was a lie to her or maybe a luxury she could never afford.
Mr Alex had said those words with hands still slick from cruelty, offered promises like candy, sweet until you bit down and bled.
Lysander hadn't promised her anything. That should've terrified her more.
But somehow… it didn't.
That was the part that made her stomach twist.
She should hate him. Should fear him. He was cruel, unreadable, and so powerful that even the air around him bent in submission. And yet, when he had stood in front of her—when his eyes had met hers—she hadn't felt like prey.
She had felt… seen.
And that was far more dangerous.
She wasn't used to being noticed. Not like that. Not as if she were more than just a slave. More than just a girl.
She ran a hand through her hair, fingers trembling.
Don't be stupid, Ophelia.
He didn't care about her. Men like him didn't care. They collected, possessed, used. Whatever had passed between them was nothing but an illusion—one she couldn't afford to believe in.
But the way he'd looked at her…
Like he wanted answers from her she didn't know how to give.
She stared into the dark again.
If she stayed here, in this cursed house with its burning roses and whispering walls, would she lose herself? Or worse—would she even survive?
She didn't know.
And that, more than anything, kept her from closing her eyes.
She didn't sleep. Not that night.
The sheets tangled around her like vines, too soft, too quiet. Her body knew better than to trust comfort. Her mind wouldn't stop echoing with questions.
What did he want from her?
Why had he interfered?
Why her?
She'd asked herself that same question before—years ago, on the cold floor of a stone cellar in a place without a name. Mr Alex hadn't needed her either. But he'd chosen her. Bought her. Kept her.
And before him, others. Faces blurred with time. Men who wanted nothing but silence. Obedience. Flesh. Or worse—proof that they could own something delicate.
She wasn't delicate anymore.
Not after the village. Not after the fires.
She remembered the scent of burning wheat and the stifling smoke that came before the screaming. She remembered how her mother's fingers slipped from hers in the chaos. How she'd run toward the forest barefoot, only to be pulled back by iron hands and red armor.
She remembered the auction cages. The hollow stares of girls younger than her who never spoke again.
But worst of all—she remembered His smile.
It haunted her more than any nightmare.
Even now, safe in a tower room lined with silks and glowing embers, she could feel his presence like a stain beneath her skin. That cruel voice. That freezing house where she was never touched, but never warm. Where punishment came in absence.
And still... still...
Lysander's touch hadn't felt like his. Not quite.
There had been no violence. No threat. Just something unreadable. As if he were holding a blade and trying to decide whether she was the wound or the wielder.
He's dangerous, she reminded herself.
But so were the men outside this mansion.
So was Him. And the buyers who might come again.
He scared her.
But not as much as what was waiting beyond these walls.
The world outside didn't need chains to break a girl. It used promises. Smiles. Hunger.
I could run, she thought.
I could disappear.
But another thought followed—sharper. Darker.
What if they find me again?
What if Malrec sent others?
What if Lysander wasn't the worst monster?
What if he was the only one honest enough not to hide it?
She turned to the other side, heart beating like a drum beneath her ribs.
She wouldn't run.
Not yet.
Because whatever secrets he kept…
Whatever curse walked the halls of this place…
She had a better chance surviving them—than whatever waited outside. So she thought.
She lay back down, facing the window. Wide-eyed. Breathing slow.
Waiting for dawn.