"Dinner," Xavier's voice rang from the dining room, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Jemma stiffened. She hesitated a moment, frustration bubbling under the surface. She wanted to ignore him, to retreat to her room, but the weight of his command pinned her in place. Slowly, she walked toward the dining room, each step deliberate, careful not to provoke him further.
The other maids were already serving quietly, glancing at her with sympathetic but cautious expressions. Emily and Lucy exchanged quick, worried looks as she passed. They knew what had happened earlier.
Xavier sat at the head of the table, posture rigid, gaze fixed on her as she entered. He didn't move or speak, but the air around him was heavy, filled with silent menace.
Jemma's hands shook slightly as she carried the covered trays to the table. She set each one down carefully, her eyes on the floor, trying to avoid meeting his.
"Leave it," he said finally, voice sharp. His single word made her heart pound. She froze, then stepped back.
The table was silent except for the soft clink of utensils as he began eating. Jemma lingered, muscles tense, frustrated at the position she had been forced into. Her body ached, her arm still stinging from the morning's marks, yet she couldn't move until he permitted it.
"Go," he said abruptly after a long pause, and she moved to leave, then paused, bitterness threading through her exhaustion.
"Why can't I just—" she muttered under her breath, not directed at him but loud enough to betray her frustration.
His gaze snapped to her, cold and unyielding. "Sit."
Her stomach twisted, fear and irritation clashing. She obeyed reluctantly, going over to the chair that was farthest from his gaze. The silence stretched, oppressive. She pressed her palms together, tracing the scars again, mind swirling with anger and exhaustion.
The meal continued with no words between them. The other maids worked silently, aware that any sound might draw Xavier's attention, that any mistake could have consequences far worse than before. Jemma's pride burned inside her, she hated feeling so powerless, but she also knew that defiance now would only earn another mark, another reminder.
Finally, he stood abruptly, leaving the table. "Clear it," he commanded over his shoulder, voice carrying a sharp finality that allowed no argument.
Jemma obeyed, moving quickly to gather the trays and utensils. Her movements were precise, efficient, but her body trembled from exhaustion and the lingering sting of the earlier punishment. She avoided meeting his gaze, focusing instead on completing the task as best as she could.
When the table was cleared and everything returned to its place, she allowed herself a shaky breath. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly, but the sting of humiliation and fear lingered. She wanted to retreat, to collapse in her room, but she knew Xavier would still be watching, waiting.
The other maids whispered softly as she passed them, concern evident in their faces. Lucy caught her eye, offering a small, sympathetic nod. "He's… harsh," she murmured.
Jemma only nodded, pressing her hand to her arm once more, tracing the thin red lines that had been left as reminders of defiance. She didn't answer, not trusting herself to speak without revealing the anger and frustration boiling beneath her exhaustion.
By the time she finally reached her room, she let herself sink onto the bed. Her body ached from the day's tasks and the earlier punishment, but her mind was alive with frustration, fear, and the small spark of defiance that refused to die. She closed her eyes, pressing her palm to the scars on her arm, trying to calm the thrum of adrenaline that still pulsed through her veins.
Weeks passed, each day marked by careful obedience and quiet rebellion. Jemma moved through his room with precision, arranging papers, dusting shelves, and straightening stacks of files. Her hands were steady now, her movements confident, though faint scars on her forearms still ached from earlier punishments.
She hummed softly while working, almost unconsciously. Xavier appeared in the library his presence sharp, silent.
"Stop that," he said, voice low and commanding.
Jemma met his gaze, steadying herself. "It helps me concentrate," she said, soft but firm.
He circled the desk slowly, observing her movements, noting the faint smirk of defiance in her eyes. He didn't speak again, didn't move closer. Her humming irritated him, yet for a fraction of a second, he noticed it… and noticed her. He quickly pushed the thought aside, attachment was a weakness. He didn't need weakness.
She hummed again, faintly, and he watched her carefully. She had learned to work efficiently, to balance her subtle defiance with survival. That persistent spark of independence irritated him, yet it also drew his attention, made him observe her with sharp scrutiny. Don't let it matter, he reminded himself, forcing the thought away.
When she finally finished arranging the papers, she looked up, a mixture of pride and challenge in her eyes. "All done," she said softly.
Xavier's gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary. He noted the scars, the quiet confidence, the persistence in her tone. "Don't hum again," he said, low, precise, leaving no room for negotiation.
She tilted her head, holding his gaze. "I can't promise that," she said quietly, her defiance threaded through calm words.
He didn't punish her. Not this time. He turned and left, his footsteps controlled, but in the back of his mind, a faint irritation flickered at the thought of how accustomed he had grown to her presence, to her quiet persistence. He immediately quashed it. Attachment was a weakness. He wouldn't allow himself to soften.
Alone in the room, Jemma exhaled, letting herself relax. Her confidence had grown; she moved with purpose, spoke softly but firmly, and, despite the ever-present threat of punishment, she felt a small spark of control. Her humming persisted, subtle, defiant, a thread of her independence. And though he had left without marking her this time, she knew he had noticed, he always noticed.
Other maids also noticed the change in her. She moved with more confidence, spoke with a firmer tone, and even when Xavier's sharp gaze fell on her, she didn't shrink entirely. Lucy, who had worked for him for years, gave her a small, approving nod once as she passed in the hall, a silent acknowledgment of the shift. Jemma didn't need their praise; surviving him, growing stronger in his presence, was enough.
Each day, each task, each quiet act of rebellion became a rhythm of survival. She had learned his patterns, his silences, his thresholds. And even as she pushed the smallest boundaries, she could sense him watching, calculating, ever vigilant, ever ruthless.
And somewhere, buried beneath control and calculation, a fleeting thought flared in him, dangerous and unwelcome, that he had grown… aware of her, perhaps almost too aware. He shoved it down immediately. Weakness had no place here.