Athena's pulse thundered in her ears as she darted through the shadowed corridors of the mansion. Every step echoed off the cold, black marble, a sharp reminder of the fortress she now called home. She pressed her hands against the walls, clutching the corners and doorframes as if the solid stone could anchor her to sanity. The guards assigned to her care were supposed to be relentless, but tonight, fatigue and complacency had betrayed them. Athena had watched, waited, and now, under the veil of night, she ran.
Her golden hair flew wildly behind her, catching the torchlight in brief, blinding flashes. The mansion was a labyrinth of hallways, staircases, and massive, shuttered windows that reflected nothing but darkness. Every instinct screamed for her to turn back, to retreat to the safety of her chamber, but the chains of fear and fury pushed her forward. She had to escape. She had to be free.
A sudden crash behind her made her spin, heart leaping into her throat. Two guards blocked the end of the corridor, their expressions caught between surprise and alarm. Athena froze for a split second—a fatal hesitation. One of the men lunged, long blade glinting, but she twisted aside, ducking into the shadows of a nearby archway. Her chest heaved. They weren't fast enough. She was faster, cleverer. Tonight, she would not be trapped.
Her fleeting hope shattered with the sound of footsteps, slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly certain. The hair on the back of her neck bristled. She turned, expecting more guards, but what appeared at the end of the hall was far worse. He stepped from the shadows like a storm given form, a black figure that seemed to absorb the torchlight around him. Lugaurd. The demon of legends. The man who had claimed her life without a word, whose presence alone could snuff hope from the air.
He was calm, impossibly calm, his gray eyes narrowing as they fell upon her. His gaze alone sent a shiver through her spine, a silent assertion of ownership that made her blood freeze. Athena swallowed hard, gripping the stone wall to keep from collapsing. "Let me go!" she shouted, voice trembling with rage and terror. "You have no right—"
He didn't move immediately. He simply observed her, head tilted slightly, a predator measuring prey. Then, with a fluid motion that blurred even in the torchlight, he advanced. The guards flanking him stiffened. Athena realized, with a cold surge of fear, that none of them dared intervene. And that realization made her stomach drop.
Lugaurd's hand shot out, seizing one of the guards by the throat as easily as one might snatch a fruit from a tree. The man's eyes widened, terror flooding them, but it was too late. Lugaurd's fingers dug in, crushing cartilage, snapping the neck with a single, grotesque twist. The guard's body slumped, hanging limply in Lugaurd's grip, blood spattering the polished floor. Athena's stomach lurched; nausea clawed at her throat. She stumbled backward, hand pressed to her mouth, but words failed her. Her scream had been stolen before it left.
The second guard tried to strike, but Lugaurd was a blur. In one motion, he swept the man off his feet, twisted him in the air, and slammed him into the wall. The sound of cracking bones made Athena flinch violently. He did not pause, did not hesitate. His hands closed around the man's chest, crushing ribs, squeezing the life from him as though he were nothing but a toy. A strangled gurgle filled the corridor, then silence. Athena's eyes filled with tears; her legs buckled under her, knees grazing the cold marble.
And yet he did not look at her in that moment—not really. His attention had been on the act, on asserting absolute dominance, on demonstrating the futility of resistance. The guards were dead, nothing more than lifeless bodies at his feet, and Athena felt something she hated and could not name rise inside her. Fear… yes. Terror… yes. But beneath it, an unwanted, revolting fascination. She shivered violently, hating herself for noticing the way his hands moved with lethal grace, the way his gray eyes scanned the corridor like a king surveying conquered lands.
When he finally turned to her, his expression was calm, almost casual, as if he had merely executed an inconvenience. "Did you enjoy your attempt?" His voice was low, velvet laced with steel, and it sliced through her like a blade. "Do you understand now why no one escapes me?"
Athena shook her head violently, hair falling into her face. "You… you're a monster! A killer! A—" Her words failed her as he stepped closer. Every movement was precise, deliberate. He could have touched her, crushed her, and yet he did not. His presence alone was enough to dominate. Her body trembled, caught between revulsion and the pull she could not name.
He stopped a mere foot away, the heat of him pressing against the chill of the corridor. Lugaurd's eyes bored into hers, gray and stormy, relentless. One hand rose, brushing her cheek—not harshly, but with a possessive touch that sent her heart stuttering. She jerked back instinctively, her hands flailing. "Don't!" she spat, voice high-pitched and trembling. "Don't touch me!"
"I do not touch lightly," he murmured, tone casual but imbued with an unspoken threat. "I claimed you. Not for pleasure, not for kindness, but because the world would destroy you if I did not. Remember this as you grow bold." His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, as if savoring her fear. "And boldness has its consequences."
Athena's legs wobbled. She wanted to run, to escape, to fight—but the images of the guards' bodies burned in her mind. She would never forget the sound of their bones snapping, the crimson spray against the polished stone. Her scream had died in her throat, replaced by a trembling silence. And in that silence, Lugaurd's dominance, his terrifying, overwhelming presence, pressed down upon her, suffocating and inescapable.
"You will stay here," he said suddenly, breaking the charged quiet. "This is your world now." His words were simple, declarative, yet they carried the weight of centuries, a sentence heavier than stone. He leaned closer, lowering his voice so that only she could hear. "Do not forget the cost of defiance. Do not test me again, little one, or the consequences will be… permanent."
Athena's chest heaved, lungs trembling as her tears flowed freely now. "I hate you!" she whispered, voice raw, broken, and fierce all at once. "I hate you! You're cruel! You're a murderer! You—"
"I am what I must be," he interrupted smoothly, letting the words hang in the air like a guillotine blade. Then he turned, moving down the corridor with long, decisive strides. The sound of his cloak brushing the floor echoed ominously, and she realized with a cold pang that he was leaving her there—not to comfort her, not to apologize, not to offer a shred of mercy. Just leaving her with the knowledge of his power and her utter helplessness.
Athena sank to her knees, head bowed, shaking. The corridor was silent except for the distant drip of water and the echo of her own ragged breathing. Her chest ached; her mind spun. She hated him with every fiber of her being—but beneath that hate, an unfamiliar, confusing shiver twisted in her gut. She did not understand it. She could not explain it. But even as terror clawed at her, some dark, unbidden part of her felt… drawn.
He had not spoken of protection. He had not offered comfort. He had not even glanced at her with what might have been mercy. And yet, the act of his violence, his absolute command of life and death, had a grip on her that frightened her more than the execution itself. She wanted to deny it, to hate him wholly—but her body betrayed her. Her pulse raced, skin flushed, heart trembling in response to a presence that should have brought only dread.
The night stretched on. Shadows pooled around her, the bodies of the guards still sprawled grotesquely on the cold stone. Athena pressed herself against the wall, knees drawn to her chest, praying, shaking, weeping. And somewhere above, somewhere just out of reach, Lugaurd watched her retreat into terror, and he allowed himself a brief smirk, knowing she was exactly where she belonged.
The mansion felt infinite, labyrinthine, and alive. Every corridor, every shadow, every flickering torch seemed to whisper her name. Athena could not move. Could not think. Could not breathe. She had seen his hands kill. She had felt his presence overwhelm her very soul. She was trapped, alone, and utterly at his mercy.
And somewhere deep in her trembling chest, a dangerous, unfamiliar fascination stirred—a dark, magnetic pull toward the monster who had claimed her life, her freedom, and now, she realized with icy clarity, her heart.
She was his.
And he knew it.