The corridor stretched long and narrow, its walls lined with portraits whose painted eyes seemed to follow every step. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint creak of the floorboards beneath their feet.
Layla walked beside Dorian, her arms folded tightly across her chest. "Lucien and Iman... they seemed close back there," she said, her tone edged with unease. "Was that his plan all along?"
Dorian's gaze stayed ahead, sharp and unyielding. "Lucien doesn't make plans. He makes bonds. And Iman... she gave him one."
Layla frowned, suspicion rising. "Bonds? That's what you call it? He's dangerous, and she's too blind to see it."
Dorian glanced at her briefly, his voice low. "Blind? No. She sees him more clearly than anyone else. That's why he chose her."
Layla scoffed, stepping in front of him to block his path. "And what about me? What am I to him? Just another pawn?"
His jaw tightened. "You're not a pawn. You're something the house itself wants. That's why I'm taking you to your room."
Layla shook her head, her voice rising. "No, you're twisting everything. You talk in circles, and I don't trust you!"
For a moment, he held her gaze, answering evenly. "You don't have to trust me yet. Just trust what you feel."
Layla scoffed, turning away. "I don't feel anything but fear."
That was when Dorian moved. In a sudden motion, he pressed her back against the wall. The cold stone met her shoulders, his hand braced beside her head. Layla's breath caught as his face hovered close, his eyes locking onto hers.
The air between them thickened, charged. Her defiance faltered under the weight of his stare.
"You argue because you're afraid," Dorian said quietly, his voice low but steady. "But fear won't save you here."
Layla's chest rose and fell quickly, her words trembling. "Then what will?"
Dorian's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Me."
For a heartbeat, they stayed locked in silence, eyes holding each other still. neither willing to break away.
Then, from the shadows ahead, a whisper curled through the corridor - ancient, layered, as though the walls themselves were breathing.
Layla's hands instinctively reached for Dorian's sleeve. "Did you hear that?"
His eyes never left hers. "The house is speaking. And it knows your name."
...
The whisper faded, leaving only silence. Dorian finally stepped back, his hand lowering from the wall. His expression softened, though his eyes remained unreadable.
Without another word, he took her arm firmly and guided her down the corridor. Layla's steps were hesitant, her mind still tangled in fear and confusion, but she didn't resist.
At last, they stopped before a carved wooden door. Dorian opened it slowly, the door joints creaked in the quiet.
"This is your room," he said, his voice steady but low. "Lucien wanted you to rest."
Layla glanced at him, her chest still rising quickly from the confrontation. She wanted to argue, but exhaustion weighed heavier than defiance.
She stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a soft thud. Alone in the dim room, she leaned against the bedpost, her thoughts racing. The echo of Dorian's eyes - the way they held her still - lingered far longer than the whisper of the house.