Lilian tensed, the heat of Killian Blackwood's hands searing through the fabric of her dress like fire against ice.
His grip was firm, unyielding, carrying her effortlessly as if she weighed nothing at all. The night air hung thick with silence, the faint scent of roses drifting from the garden, but she could barely focus on anything beyond the suffocating presence of the man holding her.
She wanted to fight him.
To push him away.
But the dull ache pulsing in her ankle made that impossible.
She balled her fists against his chest, teeth clenched.
"Put me down," she hissed, her voice low with defiance.
He didn't respond.
Didn't even acknowledge her words.
Killian's stride remained steady, his face unreadable as they crossed the dimly lit corridor. His expensive cologne lingered in the air—sharp, masculine, and almost maddening.
There was no gentleness in his touch. Only raw strength and unspoken dominance.
Lilian's breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, her body rigid against him.
The silence between them stretched unbearably, heavy with unspoken tension.
She wanted to scream.
To curse.
To tear down the silence that wrapped around her like iron chains. Anything to quiet the helplessness clawing at her chest.
But she couldn't.
Because deep down—she feared him.
No, she despised him.
Her gaze flicked to his face, searching for anything—irritation, anger, even mild concern—but found only the cold mask of indifference.
Did he not care?
Did she not matter to him in the slightest?
When they reached her room, Killian pushed the door open with his foot and strode inside, not sparing her a single glance as he moved toward the bed.
"Drop me," she snapped, voice edged with fury.
Killian's lips curled into the barest hint of amusement.
"Not like you have much of a choice."
Before she could react, he let go.
Not roughly.
But not gently either.
She landed on the mattress with a soft thud, a flush of embarrassment burning through her skin.
Lilian's hands curled into fists as she glared up at him, eyes blazing with rage.
"You bastard," she seethed.
Killian said nothing.
Didn't even flinch.
His gaze was cold—detached—as if her existence was nothing more than background noise. Without a word, he turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room felt colder the moment he left.
Lilian sat there, seething, her body trembling with frustration.
How dare he?
How dare he handle her like that and walk away as if she were nothing?
She wanted to scream. To throw something. To tear apart the walls of that elegant prison.
But instead, she pressed her lips together and swallowed the scream rising in her throat.
She hated Killian Blackwood.
Hated the way he controlled everything.
Hated the way he made her feel so small.
And yet…
Her hands gripped the bedsheets, her heart pounding in protest.
And that…
That twisted, helpless ache—she hated it even more.
---
Minutes passed.
Lilian didn't move from the bed, her ankle throbbing in dull protest. The silence of the mansion wrapped around her like a second skin, pressing into her from every side.
Her fingers traced absent patterns along the sheets, her mind looping back to earlier—his cold voice, his brutal silence, the way he carried her like she was an object. A burden.
Why did it bother her so much?
She should've been grateful he left.
She should've been relieved that he wasn't hovering around, suffocating her with his presence.
So why did the quiet feel heavier?
She barely registered the sound of the door opening.
Someone stepped in—silent, professional.
A man in his late twenties, dressed in a crisp white coat, set down a small case on the side table. His movements were efficient, but the way his eyes flicked toward her told a different story.
"I'm Dr. Roland Hale," he said evenly, his voice calm and polite. "The resident doctor here. I was asked to examine your ankle."
Lilian kept her lips pressed tight. She didn't answer.
For the briefest moment, something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe even something softer. He had expected indifference, perhaps resistance, but not silence so sharp it cut the air. Still, he didn't press.
"May I?" His voice carried quiet professionalism, though beneath it, there was something else. The moment he had entered, when her eyes lifted to meet his, something had shifted. Something he hadn't expected.
She looked away.
But she didn't stop him.
Taking her silence as permission, Adrian knelt by the bed and gently examined her ankle. His touch was careful, precise, never lingering too long. Still, his gaze occasionally flicked upward, as if drawn to her despite himself.
Lilian said nothing. She only endured it, jaw tight, shoulders rigid.
When he finished, he reached for his case and retrieved a small pill bottle. "It's a mild pain reliever," he said, setting it on the nightstand. "One every six hours. Swallow with water." He placed a folded slip of paper beside it—a prescription written in neat, efficient script.
For a second, it looked as if he might say more. But then his expression shuttered. Professional again. Detached.
"Goodnight," he said simply, gathering his case.
Without waiting for acknowledgment, he turned and left the room, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Lilian sat in silence, staring at the pills.
She hadn't said a single word.
And yet—somehow—the room didn't feel quite as empty as before.
---
The night dragged on.
But sleep didn't come.
She tossed and turned, but no matter how she shifted, the day replayed like a never-ending nightmare.
Killian's touch.
His silent, forceful presence.
The way he dismissed her like a nuisance.
It made her blood boil.
She thought about the way he made decisions without asking. The way he dictated her life with a flick of his wrist. The way he always, always had the upper hand.
And the worst part?
She was powerless to stop him.
Her fists clenched around the bedsheets.
No.
She wouldn't let him win.
She wouldn't let him break her.
Somehow, some way, she would fight back.
But as the darkness stretched endlessly around her, a small voice whispered something far more dangerous—
What if it was already too late?
---
Killian sat in his study, the firelight casting sharp shadows across the dark-paneled walls.
His fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair, slow and rhythmic.
But his thoughts were elsewhere.
Lilian.
She was a thorn buried deep.
A complication he hadn't foreseen—and couldn't ignore.
And yet…
His fingers stilled. His jaw tightened.
He'd seen the defiance in her eyes. The way she pushed back even when she was completely powerless.
She was strong.
And strength…
Strength was dangerous.
He should crush it. Break her until she was nothing more than obedience wrapped in fragile beauty.
But he hadn't.
His hand curled into a fist.
Why hadn't he?
Why had he let her get under his skin?
He exhaled slowly, eyes flickering toward the flames.
Tomorrow was another day.
And soon… she would learn her place.
Whether she wanted to or not.