Ophelia's breath caught painfully in her throat as their gazes locked across the dim room. The silence between them stretched long, almost unbearable, pressing against her chest with an invisible weight.
His eyes—dark, sharp, unreadable—burned with an emotion she couldn't name. Something too raw, too unguarded for the cold, calculated man she thought she had figured out. Yet there it was—a faint flicker, a question lingering in the air between them.
A change?
It was as if the room itself had frozen. The fire's crackling, once warm and constant, seemed distant now. The soft rustling of the blankets barely registered in her ears. All she could hear was the heavy thrum of her heartbeat, pounding in her veins like a frantic drum.
She opened her mouth, desperate to say something—anything—but the words tangled on her tongue. Instead, she turned her face away, trying to shield herself from the unbearable storm swirling inside her.
Was this a trap? Another one of his cruel manipulations?
She had been so sure of her place here. She was a slave, nothing more. Fear was her shield, her armor. It was all she had left to cling to in a world that had stripped her of everything else.
Yet... yet there was his gaze. Searching. Questioning. It stirred something deep inside her
—a fragile spark of hope she hadn't felt in so long it almost hurt. It tasted foreign and dangerous on her tongue, and yet, she couldn't shake it.
Maybe—just maybe—he wasn't entirely the monster she had believed him to be.
Lysander stood bathed in the fire's muted glow, his tall frame casting a long, ominous shadow against the stone walls. His expression was carved from stone, but there was a tension in his stance, a tautness that suggested he was waiting for her—waiting for something she couldn't yet give.
Ophelia's fingers clutched the coarse blanket tighter around her, the fabric rough against her trembling skin. She swallowed hard.
"I'm not afraid of you," she whispered, the words raw, barely audible in the stillness. She didn't know if they were true, but she had to say them. She had to believe them—if only for her own sake.
A flicker crossed Lysander's face—surprise? Curiosity?—Within a few seconds, it was gone, smoothed away like a ripple on still water. He remained silent, his dark eyes never leaving hers.
Then, slowly, he moved.
Without a word, Lysander crossed the room and knelt beside her, his presence heavy and overwhelming. Instinctively, she flinched, expecting harshness, cruelty. But it didn't come.
Instead, he reached out and, with surprising gentleness, lifted her into his arms.
Ophelia stiffened, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. He carried her as if she weighed nothing at all, his body radiating a warmth she hadn't expected.
Carefully, Lysander placed her down on the bed, the mattress sinking under her slight weight. He hovered for a moment, as if searching for words, then finally spoke in a voice low and almost—almost—gentle.
"I don't want you catching cold," he said, his tone portraying no emotion. "I don't have the time or money to waste on your treatment. I have more important things to deal with."
The words hit her like a slap.
All the fragile hope she had nurtured in those brief seconds crumbled into dust.
Of course. How foolish she had been. How utterly stupid to believe for even a heartbeat that he might care.
He hadn't carried her out of kindness. It was simply to save his time. Nothing more.
Her chest tightened painfully as she stared up at him, her hands balled into fists beneath the blanket. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, fighting the burning sting in her eyes.
Lysander straightened slowly, his movements precise, controlled.
"Sleep now," he said curtly. "You'll need it. Tomorrow, we are going somewhere."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't spare her another glance.
Turning on his heel, he began to walk toward the door.
Ophelia could only stare after him, too stunned to move. Her thoughts churned, a whirlwind of shame and anger.
How foolish can you be, Ophelia? she cursed herself silently. Dreaming of kindness? Raising your hopes so high for nothing?
Her chest burned with the bitter taste of humiliation.
But even through her fury and pain, one thought nagged at her mind, refusing to be silenced.
If he only cared about not spending money, why carry her like that? Why not simply order her to go to bed?
What was the point of all the unnecessary drama?
She clenched her teeth, a small sound of frustration escaping her before she could stop it.
"Crazy man," she muttered under her breath, her voice unintentionally loud.
She hadn't meant for him to hear.
But he did.
Lysander froze in the doorway, his shoulders stiffening. Slowly, he turned back to her, one dark eyebrow arching dangerously.
"Really?" he said coolly. "We need to get your tongue fixed, Ophelia."
The warning in his voice was clear, but there was an odd note in it too—something almost amused.
Ophelia's eyes widened, panic surging in her chest. "I'm sorry—" she started hastily, but the door closed with a soft, final click before she could finish.
She was alone again, left with nothing but the fire's fading warmth and the storm raging inside her heart.
But sleep didn't come easily.
Long after the fire had died down to glowing embers, Ophelia lay awake, staring into the darkness, her mind refusing to quiet.
Tomorrow.
Where was he planning to take her?
And more importantly
Would she still be herself when she returned?
Somewhere deep in her chest, fear curled its sharp claws around her heart.