The dining room was dimly lit, the chandelier casting long shadows across the polished table. Jemma moved slowly, each step careful, chest still tight from the smoke-induced strain. Her hands trembled slightly as she carried the silver tray with Xavier's dinner. She could feel the heat of residual anger from earlier, and it made her stomach churn.
Xavier was already seated, back straight, eyes narrowing at her the moment she entered. He didn't speak, just watched, eyes sharp and unyielding, making her every movement feel exposed, scrutinized.
Jemma swallowed, trying to steady her racing heart. Each breath felt like a small effort, a reminder of the punishment from earlier. She didn't want to ask him for help. He won't give me anything willingly, she thought. I have to manage this myself.
She placed the tray in front of him with as little noise as possible. Her hands shook slightly, and she clenched them together to hide it. Xavier's eyes tracked every twitch, every falter. His expression was cold, predatory, and she felt the weight of his presence like a physical force pressing down on her.
"You're slow," he said finally, voice clipped, almost casual but sharp enough to cut through her chest like ice.
"I… I'm fine," she replied quickly, avoiding his gaze, willing herself to stay calm. The words sounded weak, even to her.
He didn't answer. Instead, he picked at the food silently, eyes flicking up to her every few seconds, assessing, judging, controlling. Jemma stood there, frozen in place, waiting for the next instruction he might never give. Her chest tightened with every shallow breath, and she pressed a hand to her side, trying not to let the pain show.
Finally, she took a step back. Her body ached, lungs still burning slightly, but she couldn't let him see her weakness. Don't ask. Don't show. Her mind repeated the mantra over and over.
"You may leave when I'm done," Xavier said finally, voice flat and commanding, giving her no choice but to wait.
Jemma's shoulders tensed. She had hoped she could retreat, escape the scrutiny, but he was keeping her there deliberately, the silent weight of his presence a punishment in itself. She stood at the edge of the room, hands clasped, chest tight, wishing for the dinner to end, wishing for the oppressive heat of his gaze to relent.
Minutes dragged by. Every clink of silverware, every soft scrape of a chair sounded amplified in the silence. Jemma tried to focus on her breathing, shallow and controlled, but each inhale reminded her of the smoke, the pain, the punishment. She wanted to cry, wanted to collapse, but she forced herself to stay upright, to keep control.
Xavier's eyes flicked to her again, sharp and calculating. "Stand still," he said simply. No discussion, no conversation — just a command that made her flinch slightly.
She did, holding herself rigid, chest rising and falling with effort, wishing he would finish faster, wishing for any reprieve. The tension between them was suffocating, unspoken, each of them locked in a silent battle: her for breath and composure, him for control and dominance.
When at last he pushed back from the table, Jemma exhaled sharply, feeling as if she had been holding her lungs hostage for an eternity. She stepped forward cautiously, ready to retreat, when his voice cut through the room again:
"Go. Don't make me call you back."
Her legs moved, slow but determined, and she exited the dining room, each step deliberate. Relief and exhaustion washed over her in equal measure, chest still tight, lungs aching, but at least she was moving away from his gaze. She pressed her hand to her side again, hiding the slight tremor that remained.
Outside the dining room, she let herself inhale more deeply, slowly, trying to force her lungs to cooperate. The air felt cooler here, freer, though her chest still ached, each breath a reminder of the earlier punishment.
She didn't dare call for help. That would be weakness. And Xavier despised weakness. Instead, she leaned against the wall for support, waiting for the pounding of her heart to slow, for her chest to stop feeling like it was trapped in a vice.
The next morning, Xavier sat at the breakfast table, the sunlight catching the edges of his silverware and making the polished wood shine. The quiet of the house pressed in on him, every faint noise from the servants' quarters amplifying the unbearable absence of her. She should have been there by now. He tapped his fingers on the table, each stroke sharp, impatient, a rhythm of warning that mirrored the pounding of his heart. His jaw was tight, muscles coiled, his green eyes focused on the empty stairwell.
Minutes passed, each one stretching longer than the last. The silence felt mocking, and the usual routine of the house seemed to drag, turning every small sound into an irritation. Xavier's breathing tightened as he realized she had not appeared. He shoved back his chair, boots clicking against the floor as he stormed toward the staff quarters, each step deliberate, heavy, commanding.
He stopped at the door to the maid's quarters, a thin barrier to the storm of his fury. He hit it with a sharp shoulder, the frame rattling under the force, warning anyone within of the consequences of failure. The door flew open, and he saw her—slumped on the bed, pale, trembling, chest rising and falling rapidly in shallow, desperate gasps. Her eyes, wide and bright despite the weakness, locked onto him, refusing to look away.
Xavier's steps were quick as he crossed the threshold, assessing her immediately. Her condition was critical, he could see the pallor, the beads of sweat on her forehead, the trembling of her hands, but her eyes held that resistance that made him bristle with both anger and panic.
"Jemma," he said sharply, low, dangerous. "Get up."
She shook her head violently, gasping, trying to twist away from his gaze. "I… I can't," she wheezed, her voice strained but fierce, even in her near-collapse.
She shook her head violently, gasping, trying to twist away from his gaze. "I… I can't," she wheezed, her voice strained but fierce, defiant even in her near-collapse.
"You will," he said, voice taut and commanding, leaving no room for argument. His hands flexed, tension coiling in every muscle.
She coughed violently, shaking against the bed. "No! I… I don't need anyone!" she rasped, flaring in every word despite her trembling body.
Her refusal made a cold spike of fear run through him. She was close to collapse entirely, and every second wasted could cost her life. "Emily! Inhaler, my room" he barked, voice cutting through the room like a whip.
Xavier's voice cut through the room again, low, sharp, full of steel. "Emily. Bring it. Now."
The maid rushed off, returning moments later with the inhaler from Xavier's drawer. Xavier's hands were clenched at his sides, every muscle taut, eyes darting between the inhaler and Jemma. She lay there, trembling, chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate gasps. Her glare was fierce, full of fire, but it did little to mask the sheer strain her body was under.