I slammed the door shut behind me and pressed my back against it, as my pulse was still thundering like a war drum.
My palms, well, let's say they were clammy; my throat, for some reason, went dry, yet my mouth betrayed me with every cutting, sarcastic word I threw at them. Damian's brothers. Damian's mother and then Damian himself were caught in between.
I let out a ragged laugh, one part bitter, one part incredulous.
What the fuck did I just do?
My eyes immediately darted to the mirror that was opposite the bed. I barely even recognized the reflection that was staring back— eyes blazing, cheeks flushed, a defiant tilt to my chin that didn't belong to the cautious girl who'd first entered this mansion. No, this was someone else. Someone reckless.
Brilliant, Selene. You just mouthed off at the people who own this house. At the family of the man who brought you here. At the mother who could easily have you tossed out like trash. Bravo. Standing ovation for your stupidity.
I let myself collapse backward onto the mattress as I sank into its velvet embrace as if it could smother my thoughts, but my mind wouldn't quiet.
I replayed it all: Damian's younger brother sneering at me, Damian's mother throwing daggers with her tongue, the eldest brother hiding behind sarcasm. And me—me, standing there, matching them blow for blow, spitting fire I didn't even know I had in me.
I groaned and buried my face in my pillow.
"This is nuts," I muttered, muffled by the fabric. "I am nuts. They are nuts. We're all nuts."
Yet beneath the shame and the panic, something else stirred. A question. A puzzle I couldn't solve no matter how I turned it around: Why had Damian defended me?
He could have shut me down, could have let them tear me apart. But no—he had stood up, sharp and cold, like a wall between me and their scorn. Why? What was I to him? Just a guest, like he said? A pawn in some game she couldn't yet see?
The weight of it pressed harder on my chest.
"Why keep me here, Damian?" I whispered to the ceiling. "Why?"
Silence answered me. Heavy. Suffocating. Until—
KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sound startled me upright, heart leaping into my throat. Someone was at the door.
And somehow, I sounded a little more serious this time without my usual sarcasm.
--------------------------
The knock still echoed in my chest as I slid off the bed, my feet were even reluctant to touch the cold floor. I mean who knocks at this hour? Or does this household conduct midnight treats as well? My mind whispered a dozen warnings, a dozen reasons not to open the door — what if it was Damian's mother? Or one of his brothers come to gloat? Or worse, all of them, waiting to tear me apart in the hallway like wolves scenting blood?
Still, as foolish as my body was, once again, it didn't ask my brain for permission, my hand moved, trembling, toward the knob. I twisted it open just enough to peek out.
It wasn't wolves.
It was a maid, she was young, maybe even barely older than me. Her uniform was crisp and her eyes lowered in practiced humility. She curtsied lightly, voice barely above a whisper.
"Miss… Master Damian requests your presence. In his chambers."
My breath caught.
"His… room?"
The maid nodded. No explanation. No emotion. Just duty.
I leaned against the doorframe, my pulse stuttering in protest.
His room? At this hour? After everything that just happened downstairs?
My first instinct was to refuse. To slam the door, then crawl back into bed, and hide under the covers until morning. But some part of me knew that wasn't an option. This wasn't a place where no meant anything. And Damian wasn't a man who took rejection lightly.
My lips parted, but no words came out of them. Just a sharp breath and a nervous nod.
"Fine," I muttered, more to myself than the maid. "Lead the way."
The walk down the hallway was suffocating. I mean, when I was showed my room, Damian's room was looking close, but now the distance to his room was long. The mansion's silence pressed down on me, broken only by the faint rustle of the maid's skirts and my unsteady steps. Every shadow seemed to lean closer, whispering doubts. Every painting on the walls — the portraits of dead-eyed ancestors — seemed to follow me with silent judgment.
I tried to steady my thoughts, but they refused to line up neatly.
Why me? Why now? What could he possibly want?
When we finally reached the heavy double doors of Damian's chamber, the maid stepped aside, bowing her head as if to erase herself from the scene. I stared at the door, my hand hovering over the handle.
The maid didn't knock, didn't announce her. Just… left. Vanished into the corridor like mist.
I swallowed hard, gathering courage I wasn't even sure she had, and pushed the door open.
The room beyond was dimly lit, shadows stretching across expensive furniture and velvet drapes. Damian sat near the window, his posture too relaxed to be natural, like a predator feigning disinterest. His eyes found hers instantly, sharp and unreadable.
"Close the door," he said, his voice a low command that seemed to carry across the room without effort.
I hesitated, fingers still gripping the knob. I could have left it ajar, could have pretended not to hear. But his gaze pinned me, daring me to disobey.
My throat tightened as I pushed the door shut. The click of the latch sounded final, like a lock on my own damn cage.
Then his next words came, steady and deliberate:
"Lock it behind you."
My breath caught.
God, I knew this was a bad idea. Why didn't I just refuse? Pretend I was sick or busy? God, I was in trouble now. Couldn't he had left the door open, or at least closed but not locked?