## Chapter One
I Told Him I Wasn't a Kid Anymore. He Didn't Answer.
The first time I kissed him, he didn't stop me.
He just stood there. Frozen. One hand still wrapped around his whiskey glass, the other clenched at his side like he wasn't sure if he should slap me or hold me.
I kissed him anyway.
Not soft. Not innocent. Not like a kid trying something for the first time.
Like I knew exactly what I wanted — and it was *him.*
His breath hitched. Not loud. Just barely.
But I heard it.
I *felt* it.
And I think he hated that I noticed.
---
It's been two days since that night.
He hasn't spoken a single word to me.
Not at dinner. Not in passing. Not even when I left my sketchbook out with that page open — the one where I drew him from memory, shirtless, with his throat exposed.
Just a flick of his eyes across the page. A muscle in his jaw ticking. Then nothing.
He used to say goodnight.
Now he locks his office door.
---
I know what people would say if they knew.
They'd say it's sick. That I've been groomed. That I don't know what love is.
But I know *what this house feels like* when he isn't looking at me.
And I know what *his hands* felt like when he grabbed my wrist that night and *didn't* let go.
And maybe I don't know what love is.
But I know what obsession feels like. And this?
This is obsession.
---
I was thirteen when I came here.
The car ride was silent. I was in the back seat, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the back of his head and wondering what kind of man took in the son of a woman he once said he hated.
He didn't ask if I was okay.
He just opened the front door and said,
"This house has rules. You'll follow them."
I did.
I followed every single one for five years. Never knocked on his bedroom door. Never asked about the locked basement. Never questioned the blood on his sleeves the night he came home with a torn lip and said nothing.
But now?
Now I want more.
---
I wait until midnight.
I wait until the whole house is quiet.
Then I go down to the study. I know he'll be there — he always is this late.
The door's unlocked. That surprises me.
He doesn't look up when I step inside.
He's sitting behind the desk, glass in hand, staring at the fireplace like it's got answers he needs.
I close the door.
"You're not going to talk to me?" I ask.
He doesn't answer.
"You think if you ignore me long enough, I'll go back to being quiet? Being good?"
Still nothing.
"I'm not thirteen anymore, Corvin."
That gets him. His shoulders go stiff. His grip tightens around the crystal tumbler in his hand until I swear I hear it *crack.*
"Say something," I whisper.
He finally looks at me.
Eyes cold. Voice colder.
"Go to bed, Silas."
I take a step closer.
"Make me."
That silence? It's not nothing.
It's rage. It's restraint. It's something dark clawing its way up his throat and begging to come out.
He sets the glass down. Carefully. Like it takes effort.
> "You think you know what you're playing with," he says, voice low and calm like a storm about to break.
"You think I haven't noticed the way you look at me."
"But you have *no idea* what I've done to stay away from you."
And then?
Then he crosses the room.
Faster than he ever has.
Slams me against the bookcase with one hand wrapped around my throat — *not tight,* just *there,* just enough to make me feel the weight of it.
His face is inches from mine. Breath warm. Whiskey on his lips.
"You want me to lose control?" he says, breathing hard. "You want to find out what I've been holding back?"
I don't answer.
I just smile.
"I already found out," I say.
He flinches. Like I hit him. But he doesn't pull back.
"You think you know what I am," he says, so low it's almost a growl. "But you haven't even opened the first door."
"Then open it," I breathe.
And then—
The lights cut out.
The whole house plunges into darkness.
And somewhere below us—
From behind that locked basement door—
Something knocks.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Slow. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat coming from under the floor.
Corvin goes completely still.
"Stay here," he says, voice suddenly sharp.
"Don't follow me. No matter what you hear."
He leaves the room. I count his footsteps until I can't hear them anymore.
But I don't listen.
Because if he won't open the door, I will.