The mansion was silent when Lucas left, but the silence felt heavier than any storm. Marble floors gleamed coldly beneath the dim morning light, and the air was thick with the scent of polished wood and leather.
Amara rose slowly from the bed, muscles sore and heart pounding, and wrapped the robe tighter around her. For the first time since she had arrived, she allowed herself a brief moment of movement unmonitored—or so she thought. She moved cautiously through the corridors, her bare feet making soft whispers against the marble. The guards followed at a distance, their eyes unblinking, hands hovering near weapons that were more warning than protection. Every step reminded her that freedom in this house was an illusion.
Lucas was miles away, crouched in the shadows of the dockyard. Fog rolled in thick, curling around stacks of shipping containers like ghostly fingers. He had memorized every route, every guard, every weapon placement, and every blind spot. Thirty-seven men awaited him, confident in their superiority, unaware that none of them would survive this night. Lucas's mind was calm, surgical, each heartbeat measured against the next move in a deadly chess game.
He spoke into his earpiece, low and commanding. "Positions. Check your angles. No mistakes. Move on my mark."
Then he struck.
A suppressed gunshot cracked through the fog, and a man collapsed silently behind a container. Another tried to reach the nearest crane, but a single bullet from Lucas's silenced pistol tore through the air and ended the attempt instantly. He moved fluidly between shadows, every motion deliberate, precise, and merciless.
The men under his command flowed like extensions of his will, taking down the guards with methodical efficiency. Screams were brief, ending before the body hit the ground, and soon there was nothing left but the metallic smell of blood and the cold, wet fog.
Lucas stopped in front of a small group huddled near a crane, weapons raised, eyes wide with panic. "Do you think I'll negotiate?" he asked, voice calm and chilling. The closest man stammered, fear breaking through his teeth. "I… I—I just follow orders, sir." Lucas tilted his head slightly, almost contemplatively. "So do I."
Two shots later, the men were gone. No one moved, no one breathed, no one would live to tell the story. By the time he walked toward the shipping containers at the far end of the dockyard, the massacre was complete. Thirty-seven bodies lay sprawled across concrete, blood seeping into the cracks, echoing the ruthless precision of the man who had orchestrated it. Lucas Dragovich did not leave warnings. He left certainty.
Meanwhile, the mansion seemed impossibly large without him. Amara wandered the corridors, her pulse echoing in her ears. The guards at her sides were vigilant but distant, never touching her, never speaking unless necessary. She drifted past rooms she had never seen, glimpsed furniture she could not sit upon, paintings of men whose eyes seemed to follow her across centuries, and she felt the cold realization settle: this house was not hers, it never had been, and it never would be.
Eventually, she reached the park outside. Moonlight spilled across the trimmed hedges and the marble fountain, mist curling along the grass. She sank onto a stone bench, drawing her arms around herself. The cool air kissed her damp skin, and she realized she had not eaten all day. The thought was absurd and terrifying. The guards had seen, but they said nothing. She sat in silence, letting the loneliness press against her, suffocating and absolute. Here, even in freedom, she was utterly alone.
She whispered to herself, her voice shaking, "I… I can't… I can't do this alone."
A soft click from a nearby camera reminded her that even in solitude, she was not unobserved. Lucas was watching. He was always watching. She shivered, not from cold but from the knowledge that the man who had annihilated an entire dockyard with ruthless precision was aware of her every faltering thought, her every skipped meal, her every tremble.
Lucas's car glided silently along the wet streets as he returned to the mansion, the lights of the city blurred by speed and focus. He glanced at the tablet displaying the mansion's surveillance feeds and saw Amara sitting on the bench, her head bowed, shoulders hunched. She had not touched the tray of food delivered hours ago. His jaw tightened. "You are under my protection," he muttered to himself, voice low and dangerous. "And protection requires compliance."
A part of him—a dangerous, obsessive part—flickered at the sight of her vulnerability. She was alive, yes, but she was fragile in ways he did not permit. The thought stirred a cold irritation alongside a dark, unyielding fascination. Hunger and neglect were dangerous, and he would not allow either to threaten what belonged to him.
The mansion loomed into view, a dark fortress holding secrets and control within its walls. The park, the corridors, the fountains, the guards—they were all extensions of him. Every motion Amara made was catalogued, measured, judged. And when he returned, she would understand, once again, that survival in this place came at a price far higher than she had ever imagined.
******************************
The park was quiet, the fountain whispering softly, the mist curling along the trimmed hedges like silver smoke. Amara had closed her eyes for a moment, letting the cold night air brush against her cheeks. She had not moved from the stone bench for what felt like hours, lost in her thoughts, lost in the emptiness of the mansion without him. She felt exposed in a way she had never felt before, even with the guards silently watching from a distance. The solitude pressed against her, heavy and suffocating, but there was nothing she could do. She was trapped in a gilded cage, and the only thing that made it bearable—or terrifying—was the man who controlled every aspect of her life.
A faint sound made her jump—a noise so subtle she could not place it. The leaves rustled behind her, and her heart skipped. She held her breath.
"You did not have your food?"
The words came from behind her, smooth, controlled, and low, carrying a weight that made her stomach twist. She jumped, spinning around instinctively. Relief and tension collided when she saw him—Lucas Dragovich, standing there in the shadows, black suit sharp against the dim light, eyes dark and unreadable, but unmistakably present. Her chest heaved slightly, the fear mingling with a strange, involuntary calm. He had been silent, almost ghostlike, and now his voice cut through the night like a blade.
Lucas's brow arched slightly at her reaction, a flicker of amusement hidden beneath the ice of his gaze. Did she… fear him too much, or was it something else entirely? He did not like the thought that she could be unsettled merely by his presence, yet the awareness that he had unsettled her so completely sent a prickling annoyance along his spine. He had never been disturbed by such trivial things, yet the idea that she might be shaken simply by him—by his mere proximity—grated against the control he prided himself on.
Amara blinked, swallowing hard, her voice barely audible. "I… I wasn't… I wasn't feeling hungry."
Lucas's eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. That answer, delivered with the slightest tremor in her tone, irritated him. "Not feeling hungry?" he asked, stepping closer. "Do you think this is a game? Do you think your survival depends on whims?" His tone was measured, but every word carried an edge that could cut steel.
Amara's gaze instinctively shifted, as if seeking an escape, but it landed somewhere unexpected. His eyes followed hers, noting where she was staring. The white shirt beneath his black suit had small, dark splashes across the chest, almost imperceptible in the dim light. Lucas's lips tightened into a thin line. He had been too focused on his operations to notice it himself, and yet the instinct to protect, to control, surged immediately. His hand moved quickly, straightening the fabric of his jacket, covering the blood before it could frighten her.
But it was too late. Her eyes had already caught the hint of it. A flicker of shock passed across her face, though she tried to mask it immediately. He noticed the subtle widening of her pupils, the quick inhale she could not quite control.
He did not allow it to linger. His voice dropped into a strict, commanding tone that brooked no argument. "Come inside."
Amara hesitated for a fraction of a second, torn between relief and fear. Relief that it was him, standing there, watching over her, and fear at the authority and absolute power behind his words. Every nerve in her body screamed to obey, yet part of her trembled at the knowledge that the man before her had just slaughtered an entire dockyard, leaving no survivors.
She rose slowly, her eyes still catching glimpses of his chest as he covered the blood, and followed him without a word. Her bare feet made soft, hesitant sounds against the stone path. Lucas walked ahead, the faint click of his polished shoes blending with the whisper of the fountain, his posture rigid and unyielding, every step a reminder of the absolute control he wielded.
As they approached the door, he paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder. "You understand, do you not?" he asked, voice low but hard. "Disobedience is dangerous. Hunger, carelessness, hesitation—they are all weaknesses. And weaknesses are costly."
Amara swallowed, nodding slightly, her throat tight. She wanted to speak, to argue, but she could not find the words. Fear, fascination, and the lingering shock of what she had seen and known tonight left her mute.
Lucas did not wait for her reply. He pushed open the door, the heavy frame groaning softly, and led her inside. The guards shifted subtly at his command, flanking her without a word, eyes still sharp and unblinking.
Once inside, he closed the door behind them, cutting off the moonlight and the cool night air. The room smelled faintly of polished leather and his cologne, the dark scent wrapping around her like a reminder of who controlled this house, who controlled her, and who had decided she would survive only under his rules.
Lucas paused, standing near the window, and finally allowed a moment of quiet to settle. His eyes scanned her face, searching for any trace of rebellion, fear, or fascination. He caught the faint tremor in her lips, the way her gaze flicked involuntarily to the spot on his chest she had noticed.
"Next time," he said slowly, deliberately, "you eat when food is given. No excuses."
Amara nodded, her pulse hammering in her chest. "Yes," she whispered.