The sun had only just begun its slow crawl over the sprawling Blackwood estate, casting long golden fingers through the floor-to-ceiling windows that wrapped around the mansion like a crown.
But Killian Blackwood had been awake long before dawn.
Sleep was a luxury he no longer permitted himself—not when it dulled his edge. The world respected men who stayed sharp, men who never let their guard down.
He sat alone at the far end of the massive dining table, a sculpted figure of control and cold elegance. His black silk robe clung to his broad shoulders, hinting at the hard muscle beneath. Steam curled from the porcelain cup in his hand—black coffee, no cream, no sugar. Bitter, like his mornings. Bitter, like his thoughts.
The dining room was an altar to wealth and power—marble floors that made every footstep sound deliberate, a chandelier dripping with crystal shards that caught the light, and a long ebony table polished to a cruel shine. Around him, the house staff moved like shadows—silent, precise—setting down plates as if afraid to make the silverware chime.
Fresh croissants still warm from the oven. Smoked salmon fanned neatly across silver trays. Golden scrambled eggs flecked with truffle. Bowls of exotic fruit arranged like art. Honey the color of amber, glistening in crystal jars.
None of it mattered.
His mind was upstairs.
On her.
Lilian Monroe.
The girl he had bought.
The girl who now lived under his roof—not as a guest, but as property. Signed. Sealed. Delivered.
---
Upstairs, Clara had expected to find the young woman still asleep, perhaps curled beneath the covers in the kind of deep rest only new surroundings could bring.
But the sight that met her was not what she'd imagined.
Lilian sat on the cushioned window seat, knees drawn up slightly, her gaze turned outward toward the sweeping gardens beyond—but it was the kind of gaze that wasn't seeing anything at all. Her golden-brown hair hung loose, damp from a recent wash, framing her face in soft waves. The pale morning light picked out the faint puffiness around her eyes, the delicate redness in their rims.
She had cried.
Clara felt an unfamiliar tug of pity.
If it had been any other girl given the chance to be here—in Killian Blackwood's mansion—it would have been a dream realized, a story to tell for the rest of their lives. But not this one. This girl looked… broken.
Clara's voice was soft when she spoke, almost careful not to disturb something fragile. "Mr. Blackwood is waiting for you in the dining room."
Lilian's head turned sharply, as though she hadn't realized she wasn't alone. For a heartbeat, her eyes met Clara's—hazel with flecks of gold, dulled by exhaustion but still carrying a quiet strength. Then, almost instinctively, she looked away, brushing a quick hand beneath her eyes as though erasing evidence of what Clara had seen.
Clara said nothing more. She walked away in silence, but the image of that hollowed gaze stayed with her. She had questions—many questions—but she knew better than to voice them.
---
Downstairs, Killian had been waiting.
Minutes stretched. The steam from his coffee thinned, cooled. His patience, never abundant, wore thin.
He gestured for Clara. "Bring… the lady." He did not speak Lilian's name.
Clara had just turned toward the stairs when movement caught the edge of her vision.
---
Lilian appeared at the top of the staircase.
Her steps were slow, measured, the hem of her simple ivory dress whispering against her legs. The faint, clean scent of soap still clung to her, carried by the slight stir of air as she descended. Light from the high windows glanced over her hair, catching threads of gold and honey so that each step seemed to shift the color.
Her fingers grazed the smooth wood of the banister, trailing along it as though she needed its quiet support. Beneath the delicate fabric, her shoulder blades shifted gently with each breath. The floor below held the cool, faint scent of polished marble and the softer undertone of fresh bread drifting from the kitchens.
It was the kind of entrance that seemed to pull the air taut—like in a scene from an old film where the world stilled for a single figure. Even the faint creak of the stairs beneath her weight felt amplified.
Killian's chest tightened, his pulse quickening in spite of himself. He crushed the reaction swiftly, locking it away where it couldn't be seen.
---
As if the thought itself had summoned her, the double doors creaked open.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just turned his head, slow and sharp, making the butler freeze mid-step.
And there she was.
Lilian.
In the unforgiving clarity of morning light.
His breath caught—not that he would admit it—but enough to irritate him.
The simple ivory dress clung in soft suggestion over the curve of her waist, the subtle swell of her hips. Her golden-brown hair fell in damp waves down her back, strands catching the sun like threads of fire and honey. Her skin had that warm, untouched softness that made his gloved hand itch to confirm it.
But her eyes—
Large. Cautious. Hazel, dusted with flecks of gold.
They darted around the room, assessing, wary, before finally locking onto him.
And in that instant, the air shifted.
Electric.
Silent.
Possessive.
He didn't bother with words. Just lifted a hand, a flick of his fingers.
Sit.
She obeyed—slow, hesitant—every movement careful, as though the very air might shatter if she moved too quickly. A prey animal edging toward the predator's table. The faint rustle of fabric marked each step.
Sliding into the chair across from him, she kept her back straight, her hands folded tight in her lap. Her gaze never once dropped to the food.
Killian's jaw ticked.
"Eat."
The word was quiet but edged like a blade.
She startled, fumbling for a fork. Her hand trembled as she cut into the toast, the scrape of knife against porcelain almost too loud in the stillness. The bite she took looked reluctant, the chew mechanical—like each piece was sand and splinters.
Killian leaned back, watching her over the rim of his cup. Studying.
She was afraid.
Good.
Fear meant control. Fear meant she understood her place.
And yet… under the stiffness, under the lowered gaze, there it was. The faintest tension in her jaw. The barely-there flare in her eyes when she thought he wasn't looking.
She still believed she had a choice.
The porcelain cup clicked against marble as he set it down. The sound was deliberate.
"You'll be accompanying me to an event this weekend," he said, voice flat.
She froze mid-bite. "An event?"
"A gala," he replied. "Formal. You'll be on my arm. You'll smile when I say so. And you will not embarrass me."
She swallowed, slow and tight. The protest hovered in her throat but didn't come out.
Killian's mouth curved—not kindly. She was learning.
And then—there it was again.
Not fear.
Fire.
It was both an irritant and a lure.
Rising from his seat, he walked around the table, each step echoing in the silence. She stayed still, eyes tracking him like a trapped bird watching the shadow of a hawk.
He stopped beside her, close enough that her breath caught. She didn't raise her gaze.
So he made her.
A gloved finger slid under her chin, tipping her face up to his. Her skin was warm. Supple.
Her lips parted slightly, and he heard it—that small, involuntary hitch of breath.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
A mistake.
What stirred in his chest wasn't lust.
It was the sharper, older thing.
Possession.
Claim.
He released her abruptly, stepping back as though her touch burned. Weakness was not a luxury he entertained.
This was business.
A transaction.
She was his. But not for that.
"I expect you ready by Saturday evening," he said, already walking toward the door. "Do not disappoint me."
He was almost gone when her voice—soft but edged—cut through the air.
"I'm not a possession."
He froze.
The silence was absolute. Even the air felt still.
Slowly, he turned.
She sat rigid, her hands clenched around the table's edge, chest rising fast.
One step. Then another.
Until he was standing before her again.
She didn't look away.
Foolish girl.
Bold girl.
He reached for her chin again, slower this time, his touch almost delicate.
"You are mine, Lilian," he murmured. "Whether you accept it or not."
Her lips parted again, but no words came.
His eyes lingered, unreadable, before his hand dropped.
And this time, he walked away without stopping.
Her words followed him into the hall, a whisper that pressed itself into the back of his mind.
I'm not a possession.
A dangerous thought.
A very dangerous thought.