It was a lie. Dinner wasn't served in thirty minutes, because Mr. Blackwood didn't return in thirty minutes. He came back after two long hours. By then, the food was cold, the cook and the staff had already gone home, and I was the only one left to wait. My body ached with exhaustion, knowing I still had to wake before dawn, before him. I was hungry too, so painfully hungry, but eating was out of the question. In this house, the rules were different for me. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. Not until Vincent Blackwood did. And so, I waited, weary and hollow, because that was all I could do.
I was alone in the kitchen when the sound of footsteps echoed toward the dining table just outside the open doorway. For the first time all evening, relief washed over me. Not because I wanted him back, but because his return meant one thing: food. Once he ate, I would finally be allowed a meal and then, eventually, sleep.
The air shifted before I even saw him, thick with the sharp, commanding scent of his cologne. And then he appeared. Vincent Blackwood always looked like he had been carved out of some ruthless, perfect ideal, a man who belonged on the cover of a magazine, not in the shadows of my punishment. His dark hair was slicked neatly back, though one rebellious strand fell across his forehead in a way that made him look even more untouchable. His jaw was sharp, his cheekbones cut like stone, his nose straight and unforgiving.
But it was his eyes, the eyes of a hawk, that unsettled me most. He rarely looked directly at me, but when he did, the weight of that stare was unbearable. Cold. Piercing. Filled with disdain so sharp it stripped me of breath. There was no charm in his beauty for me; his handsomeness was wasted, poisoned by the cruelty behind it.
I stepped out of the kitchen, pressing my hands behind my back like I had been taught, head lowered. "Good evening, Sir," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Would you like me to serve your dinner?" I asked, careful not to meet his gaze, because I already knew what I would find there.
The moment the words left my lips, his footsteps stopped. Silence stretched across the space between us, heavy and suffocating. I could feel his eyes on me, sharp as knives, though I dared not lift my head. My pulse quickened, every second of stillness clawing at my nerves.
Then, the sound of his shoes against the polished floor resumed, each step deliberate, echoing like a countdown. My body stiffened, my hands trembling behind my back, but I forced myself to remain still. He was closing the distance, and with every footfall, dread knotted tighter in my stomach.
When he was only a breath away, instinct betrayed me. I lifted my head, and an inaudible gasp escaped me. His face was carved in fury, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle pulsed, his eyes burning with something far darker than anger alone. Hatred. Pure, unmasked, searing hatred.
My chest tightened. I blinked rapidly, panic rising as I stumbled a step back, but it wasn't enough. He followed, closing the last inch of space until his presence smothered me. His shadow fell over mine, his glare so close it felt like it could strip the skin from my bones.
"Weren't you told not to speak to me unless I addressed you? Hm?" His voice cut through the air, sharp and laced with fury, making my stomach twist.
Yes. I had been told. That was another one of his rules… for me. I was only allowed to speak when spoken to. Otherwise, I was to remain silent, invisible in his presence. I usually remember. But tonight, exhaustion had blurred my thoughts, and the words had slipped out before I could stop them.
My throat tightened as I swallowed hard, forcing back the lump of fear rising inside me. Slowly, I lifted my eyes to his face. He was so close, no more than a foot away, his expression hard and merciless. The anger in his eyes made my knees weak.
I nodded quickly, wordlessly, praying he would step back and let me breathe. But he didn't.
He stood there, perfectly still, his shadow stretching over me like a storm cloud. The silence between us was deafening, heavy with the kind of tension that made the air hard to breathe. I could feel his gaze burning into the top of my head, but I didn't dare look up.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, too calm. "You," he said softly, his tone smooth as glass but just as cold. "You are the reason everything in my life fell apart."
My breath hitched. I could hear the faint rustle of his sleeve as he folded them to his elbows, deliberate and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to dissect me piece by piece.
"You ruined everything," he continued, voice steady, emotionless. The quiet venom in his tone was far worse than if he had shouted.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Don't." His voice cut through mine like ice splintering. "Do not speak unless I allow it."
My lips trembled shut.
He stepped closer, his cologne, rich and sharp, invading my senses. I felt trapped. Every instinct screamed at me to step back, but my body refused to move.
"I swear, Miss Grace," he said, my surname rolling off his tongue like a verdict. "You will regret the day you chose my punishment over the law's."
He leaned in slightly, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes steady and terrifyingly calm. "The law," he murmured, "…might have gone easy on you."
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips, one that didn't reach his eyes. "But me…" His voice dropped lower, almost intimate. "I don't believe in mercy."
The air between us felt like glass, fragile and suffocating.
"I'll make sure you wish for death," he finished, his tone chillingly matter-of-fact. "But I won't grant you that escape."
He straightened, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as if the conversation were over. I stood frozen, heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. My skin prickled with goosebumps, my chest tight with fear. He didn't need to shout… his quiet control was far more terrifying than any outburst could ever be.
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I could feel his eyes on me. Sharp, cold, dissecting. Every second under that gaze felt like standing on the edge of a blade. All I wanted was to disappear, to melt into the walls and never be seen again. His stare always carried the same weight: hate, accusation, and something far more unsettling – calculated control.
Since the day I started working here, I realized it wasn't the endless cleaning or sleepless nights that broke me. It was him. The way he watched. His silence filled every room until I could hardly breathe. I could handle exhaustion, hunger, pain… but being under Vincent Blackwood's gaze was unbearable.
Right now, I wanted nothing more than for him to look away… to leave. My pulse thudded in my ears as I waited, prayed, for him to speak.
Finally, after what felt like forever, his voice cut through the tension. "I'll be back for dinner in ten minutes."
His tone was low, detached, but it still sent a chill crawling down my spine. I lifted my head just in time to see him turn away, his tall frame retreating toward the staircase. His footsteps echoed through the hall, each one reminding me that peace only existed in his absence.
And yet, even after he was gone, the air still felt heavy – like he had never really left.
I hurried into the kitchen, forcing my trembling hands to finish setting up his dinner. The dishes were already cold from waiting, and I quickly instructed the cook to reheat them. My stomach growled at the smell, but I ignored it. I wasn't allowed to eat before him. Not until he was done.
Around twenty minutes later, the sound of his footsteps returned… slow, steady, and deliberate. When I turned, he was there.
Vincent Blackwood looked infuriatingly perfect, as always. His dark hair was freshly washed and still slightly damp, the faintest curl falling over his forehead. He had changed into a crisp black shirt, the top buttons undone just enough to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins that trailed down his forearms. He smelled clean, like expensive cologne mixed with the faint trace of soap and something darker, something distinctly him.
Even now, in the soft glow of the dining room lights, he looked every inch the devil people whispered he was… untouchable, dangerous, somewhat beautiful.
And as he sat down, his cold eyes flicked toward me. He didn't need to say a word. I immediately understood his gaze and served him his dinner. My hands shook as I stepped closer with his plate, trying not to meet his gaze. Even when he said nothing, I could feel his hatred pressing down on me like a weight.
He finished eating in silence, every movement precise. The slow scrape of his knife, the quiet clink of his fork against the plate, the measured calm of a man who never rushed for anyone. I stood behind him, unmoving, the ache in my stomach deepening with every bite he took. The smell of food was unbearable, but worse than hunger was the silence – that heavy, suffocating silence that always came when Vincent Blackwood was near.
When he finally pushed his plate away, he wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his tone low, steady, and dangerously calm.
"You won't be staying in the servants' quarters anymore."
My heart skipped a beat. I blinked, unsure if I'd heard him right. "I… I won't?"
He finally lifted his gaze to me, dark eyes sharp as glass. "No." He stood, his movements smooth and deliberate. "From tomorrow, you'll move upstairs. There's a room across from mine. That's where you'll stay from now on."
My breath caught. "Across from… your room?" I asked, barely above a whisper.
He nodded once. "I need you where I can keep an eye on you." He said it so simply, so coldly, as if the words didn't make the blood drain from my face. "You've already taken one life that mattered to me. I won't give you the chance to take anything else."
I froze, staring at him, trying to breathe. His words hit harder than any threat. He didn't raise his voice, didn't sneer… he didn't need to. His calmness was what terrified me the most.
He stepped closer, just enough for me to catch the faint scent of his cologne – clean, expensive, intoxicating in a way I hated. His height cast a shadow over me, and for a brief second, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes. Not anger. Not hate. Something colder.
He leaned slightly forward, his tone dropping to a near whisper. "Sleep well, Grace. Tomorrow, your real punishment begins."
And with that, he walked away, his footsteps echoing up the stairs. I stood there, motionless, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. I had no idea what awaited me the next day, only that whatever it was… Vincent Blackwood wasn't even near to being done with me yet.