Dominic was often absent.
In the mornings, Aria would wake to find the penthouse empty except for Sofia, the quiet housekeeper, who would bring her breakfast and fresh towels with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Sometimes, a man named Leo younger, with watchful eyes and a tight posture would be stationed by the main door. He never spoke to her.
The solitude was a new kind of prison. The absence of her captor felt more unnerving than his presence. It gave her mind too much space to run in circles, replaying his words, analyzing his face, drowning in her own confusion. The fear of the outside threat this phantom named Kreshnik began to feel abstract, a ghost story he had told to keep her compliant. But the reality of Dominic's control, of this beautiful, silent space, was concrete.
And it was driving her mad.
So, she used the time to search. Not for escape she had accepted that was impossible but for understanding. She needed to chip away at the slightest mystery of him.
She went through the library more carefully, looking for anything personal. The books were pristine, impersonal. She checked drawers in the sleek, modern furniture. They were empty. The penthouse was like a showroom, lived-in but without a soul.
Except for one door.
It was off the main hallway, leading away from the bedroom and library. She had noticed it before a heavy-looking door of dark wood, different from the others. And it was always locked. Not with a digital keypad like the steel door to his private quarters, but with an old-fashioned, brass keyhole.
That lock became an obsession. It was a flaw in his perfect, high-tech prison. A secret. His secret.
For days, she tried everything. Hairpins she had found a few in the bathroom, a butter knife from the kitchen which bent uselessly, even a paperclip from a notepad in the library. Nothing worked. The lock was as stubborn as the man.
Her frustration grew, simmering alongside the strange, restless energy that crackled in her veins whenever she thought of him. She found herself listening for the sound of the main door, her body tensing, not just with fear, but with a terrible, unwanted anticipation. She hated that she noticed the way he filled a room, the specific scent of his skin sandalwood and cold night air that lingered after he left.
One afternoon, about a week after her arrival, the fury finally boiled over. Sofia had brought her lunch a delicate salad and crusty bread. Aria wasn't hungry. She was vibrating with trapped energy. She stared at the locked door from across the room, and something in her snapped.
When she heard the familiar, soft sound of the main door opening hours later, she was waiting for him in the center of the living room, her arms crossed, her heart a hard drum in her chest.
He walked in, shrugging off a tailored overcoat. He looked tired, shadows under those stormy eyes, but his gaze was sharp as ever, immediately finding her.
Aria, he said, a simple acknowledgment.
I found it, she said, her voice coming out colder and steadier than she felt.
He hung his coat precisely on a hook. Found what?
Your secrets. The locked room. The one with the keyhole. She took a step forward, emboldened by the fire in her blood. What's in there? Proof that everything you've told me is a lie? Trophies from other women you've 'protected'?
His expression didn't change. No anger. No surprise. He just watched her, and that calm was more infuriating than any shout. Some secrets are locks for a reason, Aria. They protect.
From me? she shot back, sarcasm dripping from her words. Am I the dangerous one now? The little scholar with a bent butter knife?
That's when he moved.
He closed the distance between them in a few swift, silent strides. It wasn't aggressive, but it was absolute. One second he was by the door, the next he was right in front of her, his proximity a physical shock that stole the air from her lungs. She could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the dark fringe of his lashes, the unreadable depth of his grey eyes.
For you, he corrected, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that seemed to vibrate in the space between their bodies.
The words, and the way he said them, sent a jolt through her that had nothing to do with fear. Her breath hitched.
What does that mean? she managed to say, her own voice barely a whisper. She didn't step back. She couldn't.
It means the world in that room is the world I'm keeping you from. It is maps with red circles on your father's last known safe houses. It is photographs of men you never want to meet. It is a history written in blood, not ink. His gaze searched her face, intense, all-consuming. You want to see? You want to look at the face of the man who wants to carve pieces off you to get to your father? You want to see the tools he uses? That room is a gallery of nightmares, Aria. And I am the curator. I lock it away for you.
The terrifying realization struck her then, swift and dizzying. The most immediate danger wasn't the vague, distant threat he spoke of.
It was him.
It was the magnetic pull she felt toward him, standing this close. It was the way her pulse leapt not solely from fear, but from the sheer, overwhelming force of his presence. It was the heat radiating from his body, the way her own skin tingled in response. She hated him. She feared him. She wanted to shove him away and she wanted, with a shocking clarity, to know what that controlled mouth felt like.
And the line between it all was blurring into nothing.
You can't just… hide the truth from me to 'protect' me, she argued, but the fight was leaking out of her words, replaced by a breathless tension.
I can, he stated simply. His eyes dropped to her lips, then back up, and the heat in his gaze was unmistakable. It wasn't gentle. It was possessive, hungry. It is my job to carry the darkness so you don't have to. My burden. Not yours.
I don't want your burdens, she breathed out. It was a lie. In that moment, she felt a crazy, desperate urge to share them, to step into that dark room with him, just to be where he was.
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips, as if he heard the lie too. Liar.
He lifted a hand, and she froze. He didn't touch her face. Instead, his fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it slowly, deliberately, behind her ear. The touch was electric. A bolt of pure, undiluted sensation shot straight through her core, leaving her weak-kneed.
She jerked back as if burned, finally breaking the spell. Don't.
He let his hand fall, but the ghost of his touch still burned on her skin. Don't what, Aria? Don't show you that the monster isn't under your bed? He's standing right in front of you. And he is… fascinated.
The word hung in the air, heavy and dangerous.
Fascinated? she echoed, her voice trembling.
By your fire. Your mind. The way you looked at that locked door like it was a puzzle you were destined to solve. He took a half-step closer again, invading her space once more. It's a dangerous quality to have in this world. It will get you killed. Or it will make you powerful.
Which one are you going to do to me? The question was out before she could stop it.
His eyes darkened, storm clouds gathering. I haven't decided yet.
He held her gaze for a long, paralyzing moment. She saw the conflict in him, the same war that was raging inside her the pull of duty against the pull of desire, the instinct to control against the urge to consume.
Then, just as suddenly as the tension had spiked, he broke it. He stepped back, the professional mask sliding back into place, though his eyes still smoldered.
Dinner is at eight. Sofia will bring it. I have business to attend to.
He turned and walked toward the steel door with the keypad, his steps measured. He didn't look back. He pressed a code, the door clicked open, and he disappeared into his private world, leaving her alone in the vast, silent space.
Aria sank onto the nearest sofa, her legs giving out. She brought her fingers to her cheek, to the spot he had touched. Her skin was on fire.
She looked across the room at the locked wooden door. For you, he had said. It was supposed to be a comfort. A reason.
But all she felt was a desperate, clawing need to know what was behind it. To know him. The real him. The one who carried darkness and looked at her with a hunger that mirrored the one slowly uncoiling in her own stomach.
The threat outside was a shadow.
Dominic was the fire.
And she was standing far too close,feeling the first, terrifying wa
ve of heat, and wondering, with a heart full of dread and longing, what it would feel like to burn.