The first thing I understood about Lucien Voss was that he never repeated himself.
He didn't need to.
The house spoke for him.
Every surface was deliberate. Every silence intentional. Every door unlocked in ways that made locks unnecessary.
By the third hour, I stopped pretending I didn't feel watched.
Not through cameras.
Through awareness.
It was the kind that didn't depend on proximity.
I stood in the center of the living area, staring out at the city that continued to exist without permission from the man behind me.
"I want to leave."
The words came out steadier than I felt.
Lucien didn't respond immediately.
He stood near the far end of the room, his attention on something in his hand — a glass of water he hadn't touched.
He turned it slightly, watching the way the light bent through it.
"Do you."
Not a question.
A recognition.
"Yes."
My reflection in the glass wall looked like someone else.
Someone displaced.
Someone who had been removed from her own life and placed inside another version of it without consent.
He set the glass down.
The sound was soft.
Final.
"You can."
The words hit something fragile inside my chest.
Hope was dangerous.
Hope implied possibility.
Possibility implied weakness in his control.
I turned toward him fully.
"You're not stopping me?"
"No."
He met my gaze without hesitation.
"You stopped yourself."
The statement was surgical.
Precise enough to hurt.
"I didn't."
"You're still here."
My jaw tightened.
"Because I don't know where I am."
"Yes."
No argument.
No mockery.
Just fact.
He stepped closer, closing distance with the same measured calm he used for everything.
"You're trying to understand the boundaries before testing them."
I hated that he was right.
I hated that he said it like he had watched me do it a thousand times before.
"I'm trying to survive."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
His eyes shifted slightly.
Not softer.
More focused.
"You already are."
The certainty in his voice didn't comfort me.
It cornered me.
Silence stretched between us.
Not empty.
Occupied.
He studied me the way someone studied a language they already spoke fluently.
It made my skin feel too tight.
"Did he touch you?"
The question arrived without warning.
My mind stalled.
"What?"
His expression didn't change.
"Adrian."
He said the name without hesitation.
Without respect.
Without emotion.
The air felt heavier suddenly.
"Yes," I said.
Because denying it would have been pointless.
He had known everything else.
He would know this too.
Lucien's jaw tightened.
It was small.
Subtle.
Almost invisible.
But it was the first involuntary reaction I had seen from him.
"How."
The word was quiet.
Controlled.
But not calm.
I stared at him.
"That's none of your business."
His gaze didn't move.
"It is."
"No."
My voice sharpened.
"It isn't."
He stepped closer.
Not threatening.
Not aggressive.
I didn't step back.
I refused to give him that.
His eyes dropped briefly to the ring on my hand.
Then back to my face.
"He shouldn't have."
The words weren't loud.
They weren't violent.
They were worse.
They were absolute.
Anger flared in my chest.
"You don't get to decide what he should or shouldn't have done."
His eyes held mine.
"I already did."
The reminder landed like gravity.
Unavoidable.
Permanent.
My hands curled into fists.
"You don't own me."
Lucien didn't respond immediately.
He reached out slowly.
I froze.
Not because I couldn't move.
Because I didn't know what he would do.
His fingers stopped just short of touching my wrist.
Close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin without contact.
His restraint was deliberate.
Intentional.
"You're not an object," he said quietly.
The words surprised me.
I hadn't expected that.
"You're a decision."
My breath caught.
Not possession.
Not ownership.
Decision.
Something chosen.
Something irreversible.
His fingers finally touched my wrist.
Lightly.
Not holding.
Not restraining.
Feeling my pulse.
His eyes lowered briefly.
Observing.
Measuring.
Confirming.
"You're afraid."
The observation wasn't cruel.
It was precise.
"I'm not."
The lie sounded weak even to me.
His thumb shifted slightly.
My pulse reacted instantly.
Faster.
He felt it.
Of course he did.
He always felt everything.
"Your body disagrees."
The words were quiet.
Certain.
I pulled my hand away.
The loss of contact left something unexpected behind.
Awareness.
Dangerous awareness.
"You don't get to analyze me."
"I don't need to."
His gaze returned to my face.
"You've always been predictable under pressure."
The statement froze something inside me.
"Always."
The word echoed.
Not recently.
Not lately.
Always.
"How long," I asked quietly, "have you been watching me?"
His eyes didn't waver.
"Long enough to know you won't try to leave today."
The certainty ignited anger.
"You don't know that."
"No," he said calmly.
"I know you."
The difference unsettled me more than contradiction would have.
He turned away slightly.
Ending the moment.
Ending the conversation.
Not dismissing me.
Concluding.
"You should eat," he said.
The words weren't gentle.
They were practical.
Necessary.
Like survival was an expectation, not a choice.
"I'm not hungry."
He didn't look back.
"You will be."
Not forcing.
Predicting.
He walked toward the hallway.
His footsteps silent against stone.
He stopped before leaving the room.
Without turning, he spoke again.
"He never deserved access to you."
The statement hung in the air.
Not jealousy.
Not insecurity.
Judgment.
Then he left.
I stood alone again.
But the silence wasn't empty anymore.
It was full of him.
Of his presence.
Of his certainty.
Of the terrifying realization that he wasn't trying to convince me to stay.
Because he already knew I would.
And what terrified me most wasn't that he was watching me.
It was that he had never once asked me to stay.
Because he believed the decision had already been made.