Jemma stirred awake early, still exhausted from the day before. Her arms ached, her hands stiff from the bandage, and every muscle in her body felt heavy. She moved quietly, determined to prepare for the morning tasks before Xavier even appeared.
Lucy had already begun her own rounds, offering a brief nod to Jemma as she passed. "Try not to fall behind today," she whispered, her tone carrying both caution and concern. Jemma nodded silently, forcing a small smile.
She moved through the kitchen efficiently, preparing a tray with the breakfast she assumed he would expect. Plates were arranged, glasses filled, and the faint smell of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air. Her mind was focused, anticipating Xavier's arrival, but the hours passed in tense silence.
Finally, she heard the echo of footsteps on the main floor. She stiffened, expecting him to appear in the doorway at any moment. But when she looked, he wasn't entering the dining room.
Lucy appeared beside her, raising an eyebrow. "He's not coming," she said softly, almost cautiously. "There's something urgent he needs to handle. He left just a few minutes ago."
Jemma blinked, stunned. "He… he won't have breakfast?"
Lucy shook her head. "Not today. Don't get used to it. This is… rare."
Jemma exhaled, a mixture of relief and lingering tension washing over her. She had prepared everything meticulously, only for him to leave without a word. Her fingers flexed, aching from the effort, and she realized how tense she had been, expecting his cold glare at any second.
She set the tray aside and sat down briefly, letting the quiet settle around her. The house was still, except for the soft hum of morning activity from the other staff. Lucy lingered, her presence a gentle reminder that someone in this place understood the pressure Xavier brought.
"You did fine yesterday," Lucy said quietly, resting a hand briefly on Jemma's shoulder. "He notices… in his own way. Don't let the lack of breakfast make you think otherwise."
Jemma gave a small, tired smile. "I'll try to remember that."
Lucy nodded and left, moving back to her own duties. Jemma remained seated, finally allowing herself a moment to breathe. The house was calm for now, but she knew it wouldn't last. Xavier's demands could return at any second, ruthless and unyielding as always.
For now, she let herself rest just a little, her mind replaying the previous day, the library task, the window cleaning, the tension at dinner, each memory a mix of frustration, fear, and the faintest hint of resilience.
Even in the brief quiet, she knew she had to be ready. Xavier's presence could return without warning, and with it, the cold, strict orders that shaped every second of her life. She straightened, pushing herself to her feet, preparing to face the day, uncertain, wary, but quietly determined to endure.
The house was quiet when Xavier returned, the clock already past midnight. The faint light from the hallway lamps reflected off the polished floors as he stepped inside, his presence immediately filling the space. Jemma, exhausted from the day's tasks and the lingering soreness from earlier punishments, was still moving about quietly in the main hall, arranging things she hadn't finished.
"Jemma," he said, voice low and sharp.
She froze, her pulse spiking. She didn't turn immediately, knowing better than to face him before he wanted her to.
"Follow me," he ordered.
Her stomach twisted, but she hesitated. "I… I've been working all day," she said, voice trembling but defiant.
"Follow me," he interrupted, his tone flat and final.
"I don't have the energy—" she protested, frustration and defiance threading through her fear.
He stepped forward, dark eyes narrowing. "Now."
Her jaw tightened, resisting. "I've done enough today. I'm not—"
"You are," he cut her off. His words were short, lethal in their precision. "Do it."
Her hands trembled, but she tried to stand her ground. "No. I— I won't."
That small, rebellious defiance earned the weight of his gaze, heavy and unyielding. "Step forward," he commanded.
She flinched but stayed in place. "I… I've had a long day. I'm tired!" she snapped, frustration breaking through the fear.
He didn't flinch. "Step forward."
Every nerve in her body screamed, but she moved, slowly, reluctantly. He led her down the narrow corridor to a dim, cold room she hadn't noticed before. The air inside was heavy, sterile, oppressive. In the center, a low wooden table held a few sharp, metallic tools, gleaming in the light.
"Onto the table," he said.
Jemma hesitated, anger and fear clashing. "I won't—"
"Now," he said, the single word carrying absolute authority.
Her pulse spiked. Hands shaking, she obeyed, gripping the edges as she positioned herself.
Xavier picked a small, precise tool from the table. "Every defiance earns a scar," he said flatly.
She swallowed hard. "This is insane!" she whispered, trying to jerk her arm away.
He didn't blink. He pressed the tool to her forearm without warning. Pain lanced through her, sharp and sudden. She gasped, trying to pull back, but his grip held her firm.
"Don't move," he said.
Another strike, unpredictable, landed on a different part of her arm. Her frustration bubbled up, mingling with fear. "I can't do this!" she shouted, muscles tensing. "I won't!"
Xavier's eyes darkened. "You will," he said quietly, each word deliberate. "Or it will be worse."
She flinched at the threat but refused to comply quietly. Her chest heaved; her hands trembled. He moved with calculated precision, leaving thin, clean scars along her forearm. She tried to jerk away again, voice trembling but defiant: "This is cruel! You can't—"
He cut her off with a motion, pressing the tool to a new, unexpected spot, a sharp sting making her gasp. "Defiance leaves marks," he said, voice cold, almost casual. "Remember them."
Her body was tense, sore, trembling with every strike. Sweat dampened her hair, muscles aching, yet her eyes flicked up at him with a stubborn glare. She hadn't entirely broken.
Finally, he stepped back, tool set aside. "Don't hum, don't complain, and don't test me again," he said quietly, deadly in his calmness.
Jemma sank onto the edge of the table, breathing heavily, fingers pressing to her arm, tracing the thin red scars. Pain burned sharply, frustration burned more fiercely. She was angry, sore, and frightened, but she had survived the unpredictable cruelty of his punishment.
Outside, the other maids, who had been quietly watching from the hall, exchanged shocked glances.
Jemma stepped away when he finally allowed her to leave the room, each scar a cold reminder of the price of resisting him. Her legs shook as she walked, her body sore and mind buzzing with a mix of frustration, fear, and the unspoken defiance that hadn't fully died.