By afternoon, the mansion felt colder — too big, too quiet, too immaculate.
Emily had spent the morning pacing her room, the memory of Lucas's voice from earlier replaying in her head.
> "Someone gave them access."
"You won't need to ask twice."
She didn't want to imagine what that meant.
The servants moved like ghosts — polite, silent, avoiding eye contact. Whenever she tried to ask questions, they only said, "Mr. Vale will explain when it's safe."
Safe.
The word was starting to sound like a joke.
She found herself wandering again, this time toward the west wing. She didn't know why — maybe because staying still made her feel caged. Maybe because part of her wanted to understand the man who'd turned her world upside down.
The corridor there was different. The decor less polished, the air dustier. There were no guards here — just quiet rooms lined with old books and dark portraits.
When she pushed open one half-closed door, she froze.
It wasn't another guest room.
It was an office — Lucas's, maybe. Or something close. The space smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. Papers covered the desk in organized chaos: blueprints, reports, and photographs of unfamiliar faces.
But what drew her attention wasn't the papers.
It was the small glass case on the far wall.
Inside, behind spotless glass, was a collection of medals — military.
And beside them, a faded photograph.
A much younger Lucas stood in uniform, his arm around another man's shoulder. Both were smiling — a rare, unguarded smile that looked almost out of place on his face.
Emily stepped closer. Her fingers brushed the frame. There was something written on the back in fading ink. She could barely make out the words:
> To Lucas — for what we survived.
A chill ran through her.
"Curious, are we?"
She turned sharply.
Lucas stood by the door, one hand still on the handle, his expression unreadable.
"I— I didn't mean to—"
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The sound was soft, but final.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
His voice wasn't angry — not exactly. It was controlled, but there was an edge beneath it. Something taut, dangerous.
"I was just walking," Emily said. "I didn't know this room was off-limits."
He walked past her, to the glass case. For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared at the photo.
"That was a long time ago," he murmured. "Before any of this."
Emily hesitated. "You were in the military?"
A faint smile ghosted across his face. "A lifetime ago."
"Is that how you learned to—" she stopped herself, but the word hung there anyway.
Kill.
Lucas didn't flinch. He just looked at her — really looked at her. "That's how I learned to survive."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The silence between them wasn't empty this time — it was charged, heavy with things neither wanted to name.
Then she noticed the faint red mark peeking through his shirt collar — not the bandaged wound she'd seen before, but something older. A scar. Long, white, almost hidden.
Before she could stop herself, she asked softly, "Does it hurt?"
His gaze followed hers. For a second, something flickered — not pride, not shame, but memory.
"Sometimes," he admitted.
It was the first honest thing he'd said all day.
She swallowed. "You don't have to do this, you know. Keeping me here like a prisoner."
He turned then, eyes hardening again, the softness gone. "You saw what happened last night. If you walk out that door, you'll paint a target on your back."
"I already feel like one," she whispered.
He stared at her — and for once, didn't have an answer.
The silence stretched, and for a fleeting moment, the air shifted again. The storm outside rumbled faintly, and she realized they were standing close — too close. Close enough to see the flecks of gray in his eyes, the faint tension in his jaw.
Then Lucas stepped back, breaking whatever fragile thread had formed between them.
"You shouldn't be here," he repeated quietly. "Dinner will be sent to your room."
He turned toward the door.
But just before leaving, he paused. His hand rested on the frame for a second, and without turning around, he said:
"Don't wander off alone again, Emily. This house isn't as safe as it looks."
And then he was gone.
Emily stood there, heart racing, the echo of his words lingering in the air.
This house wasn't safe.
Neither was he.
But the strangest part — the one that frightened her most — was that she wasn't sure she wanted to be safe from him anymore.