The walk back to the house was silent, but it wasn't calm.
It was the kind of silence that vibrated, thick with tension, each step winding Xavier tighter.
Jemma followed a few paces behind, not because she was intimidated, but because she seemed to want him to feel her deliberate, slow pace, a reminder she wasn't rushing for him.
The moment they stepped into the main hall, the guards melted away to the edges of the room, sensing the shift in the air.
Xavier stopped halfway to the staircase and turned on her.
"Sit."
His voice was clipped, but she crossed her arms. "No."
He took one step forward, the distance between them vanishing in seconds. "Don't test me, Jemma."
"You've been gone a week, Xavier," she said, her tone almost casual. "I had to talk to someone. Or is breathing around another human now forbidden?"
His jaw locked. "You weren't just breathing. You were smiling. Laughing. You looked… comfortable."
"Comfortable," she repeated, as if tasting the word. "With someone who doesn't keep me locked up? Imagine that."
He moved closer until she had to tilt her chin to keep his gaze. "Do you have any idea what that does to me? Seeing you with him?"
Her lips curved slightly. "If I did, maybe I'd do it more."
That landed like a spark in dry grass.
For a moment, he said nothing, but the muscle in his cheek twitched, and the air between them turned razor-sharp.
"You're not funny," he said finally, but the strain in his voice betrayed the fact that he wasn't just angry, he was unsettled.
"You're right," she replied, eyes flashing. "I'm furious. You leave me here like a prisoner, watch me from your cameras like I'm some pet in a cage, and then come home acting like you have the right to be jealous?"
The words hit him harder than he expected.
He wanted to snap back, to remind her why she was here, but all he could see was the image from the footage, her leaning forward, smiling at the gardener, her eyes softer than they ever were with him.
"Do you want to be his instead?" he asked, the question low and dangerous.
"No," she shot back instantly, but then added, "I don't want to be yours, either."
That tore through him in a way nothing else could.
His hand came up to the side of her neck, not squeezing, just holding, enough for her to feel the steady pound of his pulse under his thumb.
"You're mine whether you want it or not," he said, each word deliberate.
She didn't flinch. "Maybe that's the problem."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
His anger wanted to break something, to shatter this standoff until she yielded.
But the memory of her gasping for breath on the floor, the sheer terror of almost losing her, froze that impulse in place.
He forced his fingers to relax and stepped back. "You're not leaving my sight again," he said. "Not for the garden. Not for the hallway. Not unless I'm there."
Her eyes narrowed. "That sounds more like punishment."
"It's not punishment," he said, though the steel in his tone suggested otherwise. "It's prevention."
She gave a small, cold laugh. "Prevention from what? Talking to another human?"
"Prevention from you scaring me again," he said before he could stop himself.
That caught her off guard, her brows drew together for just a heartbeat, but she quickly masked it, turning away. "You're impossible."
"And you," he replied, "are staying alive whether you like it or not."
He brushed past her, but not before saying, in a voice low enough for her to hear:
"Non dimenticare — sei mia." (Don't forget — you're mine.)
She stood in the middle of the hall long after he left, her chest tight with a hundred unspoken words.
And if he thought that would make her behave, he was wrong.
Because if Jemma was going to be kept close, she was going to find a way to make that closeness burn.
The next days were suffocating and Xavier made sure of it.
If Jemma thought "you're not leaving my sight again" was just a heated threat, she learned quickly it was a literal order.
He was everywhere.
Breakfast? He was already at the table, waiting, making sure she sat opposite him where his eyes could follow every flicker of her expression.
The garden? Only if he walked beside her, his hand either resting lightly at her back or curled around her wrist.
Even when he had meetings in the house, she was made to sit in the same room, silent, while his associates spoke in guarded tones.
The worst part? He didn't look at her with constant fury, it was worse than that. It was watchfulness.
Every time she moved too quickly, coughed, or took a deeper breath, his head would snap toward her like a hawk's.
By the third day, she felt caged in a way she hadn't before.
"Do you plan on breathing down my neck forever?" she asked that morning, folding her arms at the breakfast table.
"Yes," Xavier answered without looking up from his coffee. "Forever sounds about right."
She huffed. "What if I choke on my food? You going to Heimlich me in front of your men?"
He met her eyes now, his voice dry. "If I have to. In front of everyone."
The days blurred into one another.
He sat outside the bathroom when she showered.
He stood in the kitchen doorway when she cooked.
Even at night, she could feel his presence, he didn't sleep in her room, but his shadow lingered in the hall, the soft creak of floorboards betraying him when he shifted his weight.
On the fifth day, Jemma decided to test him.
It wasn't a grand escape, she knew the house was locked down like a fortress, but she waited until he was in the study, then slipped quietly into the far wing where the storage rooms were.
It took him six minutes to find her.
Six.
He didn't yell when he caught her, he just took her wrist and led her back to the main hall.
"Don't do that again," he said simply.
She narrowed her eyes.
"Why? Afraid I'll get lost in the broom closet?"
His gaze sharpened. "Afraid you'll disappear."
By the end of the week, the walls felt closer than ever.
Jemma sat on the windowsill of the sunroom, her legs drawn up, glaring out at the stretch of manicured lawn.
Xavier came in quietly but didn't hide his approach. "You're sulking," he remarked.
She didn't turn. "You're smothering."
He came to stand beside her, his shadow cutting across the light. "You call it smothering. I call it keeping you alive."
She shot him a sidelong look. "That's funny, because it feels a lot like keeping me yours."
His jaw flexed, but he didn't deny it. "Maybe it's both."
That night, when she finally fell asleep, he lingered longer at her door.
Her breathing was steady, her face turned toward the wall. He told himself he'd leave in a minute, that he had work to do.
But he didn't move.
Because for all his control, all his rules and walls and guards, the memory of her lying pale and gasping on the floor still clawed at him, and he couldn't risk feeling that again.