"What you steal, you must keep. And what you keep, you must feed."
— Pureblood Commandment, Fifth Edition
The girl didn't flinch when the door closed behind her.
Blaise noticed that first. Not the bruises on her collarbone, not the shackles they hadn't bothered to undo, not even the blood dried in delicate rivers along the curve of her jaw. It was the stillness. The unnatural calm. The way she stood in the middle of the entrance hall like she belonged there. Like the room had been waiting for her.
She didn't look around. Didn't stumble or tremble or speak. Just stood barefoot on the marble, ankles raw from rope, wrists bound in silver thread. Her hair hung in thick, matted ropes, tangled with twigs and dried leaves. There was a faint green tint to her fingernails, like she'd clawed her way out of something poisonous.
She blinked once, slow and steady, and the movement felt wrong somehow—too measured, too clean for the rest of her. Like it was the only part of her body that hadn't been touched by ruin.
It wasn't resignation, exactly. He knew what broken looked like. This wasn't it.
It was something older. Quieter. A kind of grief that sat at the base of the spine and never moved.
She wasn't waiting to be saved. She was waiting to be used.
And the worst part was that she looked like she'd been here before. Like this hall, this house, this silence had lived in her long before she stepped inside.
Like she'd arrived here before her body did.
The two men who brought her in lingered too long.
Blaise saw it in the way one of them tilted his head, just slightly, like he thought she might lift her eyes and tremble. The other adjusted his grip on his wand with the restless eagerness of someone waiting for a command that wouldn't come. They weren't subtle. They were hoping for something. A flinch. A scream. Some fragile little display to make the delivery feel worth it.
He could smell the sweat on them, thick and sour, mixing with the scent of travel and blood. Men like that didn't care who the girl was. Just that she was pretty and silent. Just that no one had told them what they weren't allowed to touch.
"Leave," Blaise said, voice flat and final.
They hesitated. One blinked too slowly, already calculating how far he could push. The other looked at the girl again, at her bare shoulders, the thread at her wrists, the way she hadn't moved once.
Idiots.
"Now."
The chain slipped from the taller one's grip and fell with a soft, metallic thud onto the stone floor. The other muttered something low and bitter about orders as he backed away, as if Blaise gave a single cursed thought about what they'd been told.
Neither of them looked back as they stepped through the threshold. They didn't shut the door gently. It slammed with a weight that made the walls vibrate, made the crows on the top balcony scatter into the dusk.
Or maybe it wasn't the door.
Maybe the house had shuddered because she was here now.
Or maybe it was just him.
She still hadn't moved.
Pale feet planted firm against polished stone. Ankles raw. Skin blotchy from cold and travel. Her arms hung loose at her sides, wrists marked where the silver thread had bitten in. The white cotton shift they'd dressed her in looked like it belonged to a child. Thin, wrinkled, barely grazing her knees. It clung to her hips as if it remembered another body. She looked half-dead.
She looked beautiful.
He hated that thought the moment it arrived. Not because it wasn't true, but because it was too easy. Too convenient. The kind of thought a man like him could cling to until he forgot how to look at anything else.
He stayed still for a moment longer, watching the shape of her against the marble, the way the dust caught in her hair. Then he began to descend.
Blaise walked down the staircase slowly. Each step felt loud in the stillness, as if the house had been holding its breath. He didn't speak. He didn't expect her to. He watched her instead, closely, carefully, waiting for a sign of resistance. A tremble. A flinch. Even something small. A muscle twitching in her jaw. A breath held too long.
Nothing.
Only the faint tilt of her head as he reached the landing.
And then, without looking at him directly, she said—so softly it felt like it had been spoken into a dream—
"Hello."
Not like a prisoner. Not like a girl torn from the remnants of a war and delivered in chains to a place with no exits. No fear. No hate. No exhaustion that showed on her face, even if it hung heavy in the curve of her shoulders.
She sounded polite.
Like she'd walked into someone's house for tea and was waiting to be shown to the garden.
He stopped five steps from her.
"You're not afraid of me, Lovegood," he said.
His voice wasn't cruel. Just quiet. Just honest.
She looked up.
He saw her eyes for the first time.
They were clear. Unblinking. Blue like frost on a mirror, the kind of blue that didn't belong to summer or sea or anything gentle. She didn't smile. She didn't cower. She looked at him like she was trying to decide if he was real.
"No," she answered.
The word was soft. But there was no hesitation in it.
He almost smiled. It pulled at the corner of his mouth, then vanished. There was no point in showing her his teeth. Not yet.
Instead, he stepped aside and gestured toward the corridor on the right. "You'll stay in the west wing."
She moved without protest.
Her steps were slow, but there was no stumble in them. No shuffle. As if she already knew the layout. As if the stone was familiar beneath her feet. As if the house had whispered it to her on the way in.
And maybe it had.
The Moth House had always known how to keep what it was given.
The house had already begun to adjust to her.
It never did that. Not for strangers. Not for women. Not for anyone he brought back.
He wondered, in a passing moment of pure instinct, if it liked her more than it liked him.
Blaise's hand clenched at his side.
She was too quiet. That was the problem. Not just now, but always. She had been quiet during the war, and quieter after. No one even noticed when she vanished. They just assumed she'd run or died or gone mad, the way some girls do when too many bad things happen too quickly.
But she hadn't run.
She was here. In his house. Breathing his air. Being looked at by his men.
And he hadn't liked that.
The moment the one with the smirk adjusted his grip on the chain, something had gone sharp behind Blaise's ribs. Not rage exactly. Not protectiveness either. Something uglier. Possession.
He didn't want anyone else looking at her. He didn't want her spoken to or touched or seen, not unless it was on his terms.
He didn't even know why yet. And he didn't like not knowing.
She had said she wasn't afraid. And that had pleased him more than it should have. He didn't want another broken thing dragging its hands along the wall, flinching every time he breathed too loud.
But she would be. Eventually.
And when that day came, when the fear finally caught up to her, he wondered what it would sound like.
Not a scream.
Something smaller, maybe.
A whisper. A breath caught too long. Her eyes finally looking away.
He didn't want to hurt her.
Not exactly.
He just wanted to keep her.
She passed him without flinching, without hesitation, without even brushing against the edge of his sleeve.
He caught the scent of her as she moved by. It wasn't perfume. Nothing delicate or composed. It was wild. Like old gardens that had been left to rot. Dried herbs clung to her skin—sage, maybe, or something harsher, something bitter. Beneath that, blood. Not fresh. Not alarming. Just present. Like it had soaked too far into her to ever fully leave.
And then something else. Something he couldn't name.
It reminded him of crushed lavender, but sharper. Not calming. Not sweet. Like the remnants of something that had bloomed in the wrong season and died cursing the frost.
He didn't follow.
Not yet.
He stood still on the staircase, one hand resting on the banister like he might fall without it. He stared at the patch of floor where she had been, watched the faint swirl of dust her bare feet had left in the polished stone, the light smear of red where one heel had split and bled.
The hall was silent again. Not just quiet. Hollow. Like the house had sucked in a breath and wasn't sure what to do with it.
The air felt different. The walls closer. He could hear the ticking of the old grandfather clock two rooms away, the faint creak of the west wing settling as it always did in winter. But it felt sharper now. More deliberate. As if the house wasn't just responding to her presence, but acknowledging it.
The Moth House had lived through curses. Fires. Death. It had never bent. It had never shifted.
But now, it felt like it was leaning toward her.
Like it had been waiting.
The silence wrapped itself tighter around the walls, down the halls, beneath the stone floor and into the bones of the house. And for the first time in years, Blaise felt like he wasn't the one in control of it.
Somewhere deep inside him a voice stirred. Thin. Childlike. Familiar.
You shouldn't have brought her here.
He swallowed, but the taste stayed in the back of his throat. Something between ash and old flowers.
He turned his gaze toward the corridor she had vanished down.
But he still didn't move.
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The corridor didn't feel like part of the same house.
It was colder. Narrower. Less grand. The floor was clean, but not freshly. The sconces along the walls were old brass, unpolished, flickering with weak, uneven fire. The air carried a faint scent of dust and old perfume, something sharp and flowery that had long since spoiled.
Luna walked slowly. Not because she was weak, though she was. But because the house felt like it wanted to be approached carefully. Like it might shift beneath her if she stepped too hard.
She wasn't afraid. But her wrists ached, and the thread around them itched, and she didn't like how loud her breathing sounded in the quiet.
The walls were covered in peeling wallpaper—green and gold, printed with a pattern that might have once been leaves. Or veins. She couldn't tell. The shapes moved when she looked too long. Or maybe her vision was still playing tricks.
No portraits. No clocks. No mirrors.
That was the part that felt strangest.
She had expected to see herself. Even just a flash. But there were no reflections in this hallway. No eyes following her. No faces.
Only the sound of her own bare feet against stone, and the steady hum of something old living in the bones of the house.
She passed a door on her left. Closed. Heavy. The handle wrapped in red twine. A ward, maybe. A warning. She didn't touch it.
Farther down, another door stood open. She paused in the threshold.
It looked like a sitting room, or what had once been one. Dark velvet furniture. A small hearth. Shelves along one wall with nothing on them but dust and the skeletons of dead moths. The curtains were drawn but thin, so the outside light made the room feel gray and distant.
She stepped inside, slow and silent.
The rug underfoot was frayed at the edges and stained in places. She couldn't tell if it was wine or something worse. There was a broken teacup under one of the chairs. A long hair, black and fine, curled around the handle.
Someone had lived here. Or tried to.
She didn't sit.
She didn't want to know what might be waiting in the cushions.
Instead, she walked to the windows and pressed her fingers to the glass.
It was colder than it should have been. The garden beyond was overgrown and tangled. No clear paths. No symmetry. Nothing pruned. Vines crawled up the stone wall that circled the estate. A murder of crows perched along the iron gate. Watching.
Not moving.
The reflection of her face in the glass was faint and strange. The light hit it wrong. Her eyes looked too big. Her mouth too still. She didn't recognize herself.
She had known this would happen. Maybe not here, not exactly, but something like it. The way the war had ended, there were only ever a few fates left for girls like her.
And now she was here. In a west wing with no mirrors. In a house that didn't speak, but didn't feel silent either. In a place that smelled like old blood and older memory.
Still, she didn't feel afraid.
Not yet.
But she did feel watched.
And when she turned back toward the hallway, the faintest scent of crushed lavender followed her like breath on the back of her neck.
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She arrived at the room at the end of the corridor and paused in the doorway.
It was large. Larger than she expected. The ceilings arched high, with wooden beams carved in looping floral patterns that didn't quite match the decay of the hall behind her. Thick curtains draped the windows, half-open to let in the cold grey light. The walls were painted a deep, desaturated green. A four-poster bed stood in the center, heavy and ornate, draped with dark linens and silver-threaded pillows.
It should have felt like a cell. But it didn't.
It looked… prepared. Every object in its place. A basin with warm water steaming faintly on the vanity. A glass of water beside the bed. A folded nightdress resting on the footboard. Even the books on the shelf looked like ones she might have picked herself, had she been given the chance.
She stood in the center of the room, feet rooted to the rug like something had held her there. She wasn't afraid. Not quite. But there was weight to the stillness, as if the air had thickened, pressing close against her skin.
She didn't hear him approach. Only the knock. Two soft, deliberate taps against the wood.
She turned, slowly.
The door creaked open an inch. Then another.
He stepped in like he was entering a sacred space, not a room he had chosen for her.
His eyes swept over her once, then settled on her face.
"I'm not going to harm you, Lovegood."
His voice was even. Measured. Almost gentle.
She nodded. "Okay."
"I brought you here because it's safe. No one will harm you under this roof."
She answered again with the same word. "Okay."
Something about the way she said it made his brow tighten. She didn't sound scared. She didn't sound reassured either. Just accepting. As if she'd heard these kinds of promises before and learned not to expect much from them.
He took one step forward.
"Did anyone… touch you?" His voice was lower now. Not hesitant. Careful.
She didn't answer. Her gaze slid past him to the wall.
He moved toward her slowly, like approaching an injured animal. Not cautious for her sake, but his. Like he wasn't entirely sure what she might do if pushed.
When he reached her, he didn't grab her. He raised a hand first. Let her see it. Then curled his fingers gently around her jaw and tilted her face up toward him.
"Look at me, pretty witch, when I ask you a question."
Her eyes met his.
They were dull. Not from fear. From something else. Like she'd turned down the light inside herself just enough to be able to stand here and not tremble.
"Good girl," he said, almost under his breath.
He hated how easily it came out.
"Tell me. Did anyone touch you?"
She hesitated. Her lips parted slightly.
"A little bit. But… it's okay."
He froze. The skin around his knuckles tightened.
"Which one?" he asked, already knowing he wouldn't like the answer.
She looked down again. "The unfortunate-looking one."
He didn't ask who that was. He knew.
"Where?"
Her fingers brushed against her neck, then dropped.
"He just… said nasty things and—"
"And?" His voice had changed. Lower. Harder. No longer careful.
She didn't blink when she said it. "He licked my face."
A beat passed.
Then another.
He exhaled once through his nose. Not loud. Not sharp. But his entire body had gone still.
"Very well," he said softly. "Thank you for telling me."
He released her face and turned toward the bathroom without looking at her again.
She stayed where she was. Her hands twisted at her sides, unsure whether she should follow or wait. She didn't speak.
He returned with a damp towel, freshly wrung. He didn't ask. Just walked up to her again and brought it to her face. Slowly. Gently.
He wiped the skin along her cheekbone, careful not to press too hard. Then her jaw. Then the corner of her mouth.
She looked away.
He didn't.
"Thank… you. Master," she said, just above a whisper.
He froze again. The towel paused just beneath her chin.
"My name is Blaise," he said quietly. "You are not my pet. I am not your master."
Her eyes flicked up to meet his again.
"I'm here to keep you safe. No one will touch you. No one will come near you. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," she said, just as soft as before.
"The door only opens for you and me. No one else. Ever."
He tossed the towel back over his shoulder and moved across the room.
"Explore it," he said, already reaching for the knob. "It's yours now. Clean clothes are waiting. You'll find everything you need."
He paused before stepping out.
"And if you ever feel unsafe again," he added, not turning around, "you tell me. I'll make sure they never walk again."
Then he left her there, in a room too beautiful to be safe, in a silence that pressed down like velvet over something sharp.
She stood still for a long time after the door shut.
Then she crossed to the bed, sat down slowly, and reached for the glass of water.
It was warm.
Not hot. Not cold.
Just the right temperature.
Like someone had known exactly when she would arrive.
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Blaise did not rush.
He walked.
He walked through the halls of the Moth House with the same unhurried stride he used at galas and executions. One hand tucked into the pocket of his coat, the other loose at his side. His face unreadable. His breath steady. No one stopped him. No one would have dared.
The air outside had thickened. Fog pressed low along the grass, curling around the iron gates like fingers. The crows on the roof hadn't moved. They watched him pass as if they knew. As if they were waiting for blood.
He didn't care.
His steps were soundless on the back path that curved toward the guest barracks. There were only three men staying in the outer quarters this week, low-level Death Eaters cycling through for assignments, protection, whatever excuses they clung to when they needed a place to rot.
He already knew which one.
Blaise didn't knock. He opened the door and stepped into the small, dim room where the man was sitting half-dressed on his cot, boots off, wand discarded beside a chipped mug of something that smelled like old firewhisky and spit.
The man looked up. Confused. Then wary.
"Zabini?"
He didn't answer. He closed the door behind him.
"What is this about?"
Blaise's hand rested briefly on the edge of the desk. Then moved away.
"She told me what you did."
The man blinked, slowly.
"Who?"
"Do not insult me."
There was a moment of silence. Thin. Brittle.
Then the man stood.
"She's just a—"
Blaise moved.
It wasn't dramatic. There was no shout. No spell. No drawn-out confrontation. He crossed the room with the same fluid, practiced grace he used when pouring wine. When cleaning his blade. When placing a hand on the back of a woman's neck to remind her that he did not tolerate disobedience.
The knife came from the inside of his coat. Small. Plain. Sharp.
He gripped the man by the front of his shirt and pushed him back against the wall with the weight of a man who had already committed to the outcome. There was no shaking. No hesitation. Just purpose.
"You touched what is mine," he said, his voice low and even. "You looked at her. You spoke to her. You put your tongue on her skin."
The man started to speak, maybe to plead, maybe to protest. Blaise didn't give him the chance.
He pressed the blade against his throat. Not deep. Not yet. Just enough for the pressure to make the skin tense and the pulse hammer.
"Did you think she wouldn't tell me?" he asked quietly.
The man made a sound. It wasn't words.
Blaise leaned in. Close enough to smell the panic.
"She doesn't lie," he said. "You do. And you die for it."
Then he slit his throat.
Not with a flourish. Not with cruelty. Just precision.
The knife moved clean and sharp through skin and windpipe and the soft red underneath. Blood spilled in a sudden, wet rush, warm and bright. It soaked into the man's collar and splattered across the wood floor. He gurgled once, body twitching. Then he sank forward with a wet sound, hitting the ground in a heap of useless limbs.
Blaise stood over him, breathing through his nose. Calm. Focused.
He knelt, wiped the blade on the man's sleeve, and pocketed it again.
Then he reached out, closed the dead man's eyes with two fingers, and straightened.
He didn't look back.
Outside, the fog had thickened. The crows on the roof cawed once, a sound sharp enough to cut bone. He walked back into the house as though he had been out for a stroll.
The guards at the entrance did not meet his eyes.
By the time he returned to the west wing, his hands were clean. His shirt had one small dot of blood on the cuff. He flicked it away.
He didn't go into her room. Not yet.
He simply stood at the end of the corridor and watched the door.
Watched the silence.
Watched the shape of her inside, no longer trembling, no longer alone.
She was safe now.
And that man would never open his mouth again.
Not to speak. Not to taste. Not to lie.
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The bath was too warm. The steam clung to her skin, to her eyelashes, to her lips. The surface shimmered like something sacred, but she knew it was just water. Scented. Clean. Her skin was not.
Luna laid there for a long time. Not moving. Not scrubbing. Just floating in the center of the tub, her arms drifting beside her like pale ribbons, her hair spreading across the water like something dead.
This was her prison now. Not the chains. Not the silver thread.
The room. The velvet-draped bed. The polished floor. The quiet voice that told her she was safe.
This house. This body. Him.
She slid lower into the water. Slowly. Softly. Let it rise over her mouth, her nose, her eyes. She didn't shut them. Just stared at the ceiling as it rippled and disappeared above her.
The sound of the room faded. Only the thudding of her own pulse remained.
She held her breath.
Held it until her lungs burned.
Held it until it hurt.
Held it because it was the only thing she still had control over.
When her vision began to tilt sideways and the pressure behind her eyes began to crack, she welcomed it. She didn't think of anyone. She didn't panic.
She simply stayed.
And then she felt it.
A hand on her throat. Firm. Real.
Pulling her up.
She surfaced with a violent gasp, coughing once as her mouth hit the air. She blinked water from her lashes and tried to turn away, but the hand held her steady.
She didn't want this.
She didn't want the room. She didn't want the warmth. She didn't want to breathe.
She wanted to stay under.
She wanted to go still.
"Do not do that ever again."
His voice was quiet, but it struck her across the ribs.
She didn't respond at first. Then, almost absently, "Okay."
He pulled her out of the water with quiet strength and conjured a towel around her body before she had a chance to feel the cold. The towel clung to her skin, thick and dry and immediate.
She didn't move.
She felt him lower himself onto the marble floor beside the bath, and then he was pulling her into his lap, wrapping her limbs around his chest like she weighed nothing.
He didn't ask. He didn't explain. He just held her.
His arms circled her back, one hand resting at the base of her skull, the other pressed over her ribs. She didn't cry. She didn't push away. She just leaned into him. Let her cheek rest against the side of his neck.
He held her for what felt like a lifetime.
Time did not pass in a straight line after that. She didn't know how long they sat there, her skin damp and flushed, his shirt soaking through with bathwater and the scent of the oils she didn't choose. The floor was hard beneath him, but he didn't shift. He didn't complain. He didn't move at all.
Eventually, she moved.
But not away.
She shifted closer. Her arms slipped around his neck. Her legs bent up, tucked to his side. She pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder and clung to him like a child. Like someone looking for gravity.
He didn't speak at first.
Then he did.
"He's dead."
She nodded into his skin.
"I can smell it," she said softly. "It's on your shirt."
He didn't deny it. Didn't justify it.
"No one will ever touch you," he said, voice low. "Not while you live in my house. Not while I breathe. Do you understand, little witch?"
She didn't answer. Not with words.
Her arms tightened around his shoulders.
He held her closer, wrapped the towel tighter around her back, and stood with her in his arms. She was soaked and trembling and warm against him, and he carried her like something holy.
He set her gently down on the bed.
She didn't let go of his wrist.
He brushed the wet hair back from her forehead, and for a moment he just looked at her.
Her eyes were heavy. Her lips parted, tired and chapped. There was no color in her cheeks.
"Promise me you'll eat your dinner," he murmured.
"I promise," she whispered.
"Promise me you'll try to sleep. Even a little."
"I promise."
He leaned in, close enough to feel her breath.
"Good girl," he said. Soft. Final.
He touched her face once more, then stepped back.
"I'll see you in the morning."
Then he turned, walked to the door, and left her there, wrapped in silence and warmth she didn't ask for, on sheets that smelled like lavender and death.
And for the first time in weeks, she slept.
Not well.
But she did.
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The room had changed overnight.
She could feel it before she opened her eyes. The air was different. Less heavy. Less thick with steam and memory. The bedding beneath her was soft, still faintly warm where his arms had held her. The curtains had been drawn partway open while she slept, letting in the grey morning light in pale ribbons. Somewhere nearby, a fire crackled gently in the hearth, though she didn't remember hearing it lit.
She sat up slowly, limbs stiff from sleep and too much silence.
Her hair was still damp. Her skin smelled faintly of rose oil and something older. The towel had been replaced with a long linen nightgown, white and clean and soft at the sleeves. She didn't remember putting it on.
A tray had been placed beside the bed. Porridge, honey, a thick slice of dark bread, a cup of tea still steaming faintly. No meat. No blood. No excess.
She picked up the spoon and ate slowly. Not out of hunger. Just because it was there.
When she stood, her bare feet sank into the carpet with a hush. The room did not protest. The house did not shift. She crossed to the wardrobe and opened it, half-expecting nothing.
Inside were dresses.
Dozens of them.
Some new. Some clearly old. Some altered to fit a smaller frame. Nothing bright. No pinks, no yellows, no joyful lace. They were soft greys, storm-blues, forest greens. Shades of things found outside. Dresses made to melt into walls. Some still held the faint scent of another woman.
She chose a long navy dress with sleeves that hung past her wrists. It didn't feel like hers, but it didn't fight her either.
The mirror above the vanity showed her face. Not her body. Not the room behind her. Only her face.
She blinked at it.
The reflection blinked back.
She stepped out into the corridor and left the door open.
The west wing stretched long and low. The ceilings were uneven, the walls lined with faded wallpaper and unlit sconces. She moved past them quietly, fingers grazing the surface of things. A stack of spellbooks long untouched. A vase of dried flowers turned to ash. A velvet curtain tied back with a silver cord, the kind that once meant wealth and now meant nothing at all.
The first door she tried was locked.
The second opened into a library.
Small. Dusty. Lit by a high window.
There were no portraits here. Only books. And moths. She counted seven on the window glass alone, wings open, bodies still. One fluttered once as she passed, as if acknowledging her arrival.
She moved along the shelves, reading titles out loud to herself in a whisper. The books weren't all dark. Some were about gardens. Some about potions. Some written in languages she didn't know.
She took one and carried it with her.
The next room was a sitting room, or what had once been one. The furniture was covered in linen cloths, untouched. She lifted one corner to find a velvet armchair, its cushion torn, something spilled across it long ago.
She left it alone.
Farther down the hall, she found a door that led outside.
It didn't open.
There was no handle. Just a smooth pane of old wood, curved at the top like a chapel door.
She pressed her palm to it.
Nothing happened.
But she could hear birds.
She returned to the corridor and turned left instead of right.
Eventually, she found what might have been a sunroom. The glass was cracked in two places. The floor was lined with old rugs. Dead plants in bronze pots lined the edges, their leaves curling in on themselves like they had given up a long time ago.
But one pot held something green.
A single sprout.
She crouched beside it and touched the dirt. It was warm. As if someone had been here recently. As if someone had whispered to it.
She didn't smile.
But she didn't look away.
She stayed there for a long time, just breathing.
When she returned to her bedroom, the tray was gone. The fire had been stirred. A single hairbrush lay on the vanity, wrapped in twine, with a pale blue ribbon tied to the handle.
There was no note.
She picked it up and sat at the edge of the bed, brushing her hair with slow, careful strokes.
She did not ask how it had gotten there.
She did not ask how the fire knew her cold had settled in her bones.
She simply sat. And waited.
Because he would come.
And she wanted to know what he would do when he saw that she had not run.
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There was a knock. Two short raps against the door, light enough not to startle but firm enough to claim the space.
Luna didn't answer. She simply looked up from the book in her lap, waiting.
The door creaked open slowly.
Blaise stepped inside, not dressed like a captor, not dressed like a lord. Just simple black robes, finely cut, his hair pulled back, sleeves rolled to the elbow like he had been working with something real. His eyes flicked across the room first. Then to her.
"Good day," he said.
She blinked once, measured. "Hello."
He took another step inside and let the door click shut behind him.
"You feel better?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. There was no mocking in his voice. No cruelty. Just that same careful neutrality he wore like armor.
"A little."
"You managed to sleep?"
"A little bit."
She didn't ask how he knew she had struggled. He didn't offer the truth. They both knew the mirrors in this house did more than reflect.
"I brought more books," he said after a beat. "I wasn't sure what you liked, but you're welcome to browse through them. I know you spent a lot of time in the forest at school. Unfortunately, I cannot offer trees. But the estate grounds are yours to walk, if you ever feel the need."
"Books are perfect," she replied. "Thank you."
He nodded once, satisfied. But there was something behind it. A pause. A searching. His gaze held hers a little longer than it should have.
"Tell me, little witch. Is there anything here you don't like?"
She closed the book.
The question hung between them like fog, thick and absurd.
They both knew the answer. She was a prisoner. She hadn't chosen the room. Or the books. Or the bath. Or the food. Nothing about this was freedom, and they both wore the truth like a second skin. She could have said so. She could have called him what he was.
Instead, she said, "I like pink."
He blinked.
"Sorry?"
"Pink. I like the color. There's… not much of it here."
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, carefully, "Would you like to repaint the walls? Or change the furnishings?"
"Clothes," she said simply.
"Ah. Yes. Of course." He straightened slightly, as if relieved to be given a problem he could fix. "I'll have some brought up by tonight. Anything you want, it's yours."
She watched him for a long moment. Eyes level. Calm.
"You don't have to be nice to me, Blaise," she said. "I know what you'll do to me eventually. We don't have to play pretend."
His jaw didn't tighten. His shoulders didn't shift. There was no flash of anger. Just stillness.
He crossed the room slowly, not looming, not threatening. Just present. Entirely, completely present. The kind of presence that made the air colder, even when it was still.
When he reached her, he didn't touch her right away.
Then, with deliberate care, he reached up and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. The touch was soft. His fingers grazed her skin like he didn't want to leave a mark.
His hand moved beneath her chin, tilting her face toward his.
His thumb rested against the edge of her jaw, not applying pressure. Just holding her there.
"I was raised as a gentleman," he said, voice quiet. "I was taught to speak with grace, to dress for dinner, to never raise my voice at women or servants or small creatures that have never lifted a hand in harm."
She didn't blink.
"I don't hurt the innocent," he continued. "And I don't harm the weak."
She tilted her head slightly in his hand. "And I'm both?"
A muscle moved in his cheek. The smallest flicker.
"You are more than that, little girl."
She didn't ask what he meant.
The air between them changed. Not safer. Just different.
She hadn't flinched. He hadn't smiled. They stood still, watching each other from within the same breath.
He let go of her chin and stepped back, hands falling to his sides.
"I'll send someone with the dresses before sundown," he said.
She nodded once.
He reached the door but didn't open it.
His hand hovered at the handle. His back still to her. The silence stretched.
Then, quietly, like it mattered more than anything else he had said so far—
"You don't have to call me Blaise," he said. "You can call me whatever you like."
His voice didn't carry the edge it usually did. It was something gentler. Stripped back. Not command, not warning. Just permission. A choice offered in a place where choices were scarce.
She didn't hesitate.
"Okay."
He didn't say anything more.
He simply opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind him with a care that felt deliberate.
She was alone again.
But the room felt smaller. The air tighter. Like something had been left behind in his place. Not threat. Not comfort.
Just presence.
And the silence that followed was the kind that wrapped itself around her throat and stayed there, breathing with her.