Breakfast arrived shortly after, served silently by the same nervous maid who had been in her quarters the night before. Jemma ignored Xavier completely, taking her food methodically, her eyes averted. Xavier, on the other hand, didn't eat much. His attention was solely on her. Every bite she took, every motion, he registered. The air was thick with unspoken tension, a silent standoff stretching across the room.
"You think ignoring me changes anything?" he finally asked, low and calm, as if stating a fact rather than asking a question.
Jemma didn't look at him. "It doesn't," she said evenly, voice steady. "It just makes me sane while you obsess."
His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest spark of something, annoyance? amusement, flitting across them. "Obsession is a weakness," he murmured, almost to himself. "But you've made it impossible to resist."
She finally looked at him, meeting his gaze squarely, refusing to give an inch. "Then I guess you're weak," she said, the words deliberate, biting.
For a heartbeat, the calm persona he wore so meticulously faltered. His fingers tightened on the edge of the table. The thought of losing her, even to her own defiance, made his chest ache. And yet he remained composed, cold, and measured in his response. "Weak," he repeated, letting the word hang in the air. "I suppose we'll see."
The rest of breakfast passed in near silence, the only sounds the cutlery against plates, the soft shuffle of the maid departing. Jemma ate with deliberate speed, refusing to make eye contact, while Xavier simply sat, unblinking, noting every detail.
Once the meal was done, she made a move to leave the room, assuming the day would follow the normal routine of chores and tasks. Xavier stood smoothly, positioning himself in the doorway, blocking her path. His presence was a solid, unyielding wall.
"You're not going anywhere," he said, voice calm but firm. "Not today."
She froze, then smirked faintly. "And what if I go?"
He didn't flinch, didn't raise his voice. "You won't. Because you can't. Not while I'm here."
"I could still try," she said, defiance lacing every syllable.
"You could," he admitted, almost admiringly. "But the consequences aren't worth it."
Her chin lifted higher, her voice sharp. "I don't care about consequences. I care about breathing free."
He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of his body brushed against hers. He wasn't threatening her; he was simply asserting the unspoken truth: in this space, in this moment, he was the boundary she could not cross.
"I've already seen what you're capable of," he said quietly, tone measured, words deliberate. "And you're alive, yes, but barely. You don't get to flirt with death and defiance without me noticing. That's why you stay. That's why you're here."
Her jaw tightened, but she refused to step back. "So this is about you, then. Not me. Not my life. Not my freedom."
He paused, considering her words, a shadow of vulnerability flickering in his eyes before it was swallowed by composure. "Yes," he admitted softly, almost inaudibly. "It's about me. Because if I lose you, I can't… I can't—" He cut himself off, straightening again, voice solid, cold. "That's why you stay."
Her gaze softened, not in compliance, but in recognition of the truth in his words. It infuriated her, but it also made the tension between them almost tangible. She wanted to argue, to push, but part of her realized she could never fully escape the way he could invade her space with nothing but presence and willpower.
The day stretched on, filled with quiet chores within the house. She moved methodically, sometimes humming under her breath despite herself. Xavier remained nearby for most of it, never interfering directly but always observing, his calm presence enforcing the invisible leash. Each hum, each small act of defiance, only made him more alert, more aware, more… possessive.
By evening, when the dining table was set and the servants had gone, Xavier allowed her a sliver of space. She sat, arms crossed, still radiating defiance, yet there was a faint unease in her posture.
"You understand why this is happening, don't you?" he asked quietly, almost conversationally.
"Of course," she replied flatly, tone devoid of submission. "I understand that you're incapable of leaving me alone."
He made no reply, only watched, his eyes unreadable. He didn't need to argue; the room was heavy with the unspoken, with their ongoing struggle, with the tension that neither would fully surrender to.
And that night, after dinner, when he finally instructed her to prepare to move her things again, this time into his room, she didn't resist physically. She didn't tremble. She only glared, stubborn and unyielding, every movement a statement of continued defiance. The maids assisted quietly, carrying her belongings under Xavier's watchful eye. He didn't speak much, didn't make threats. His control was silent, omnipresent, and suffocating.
When the last trunk was set in his room, Xavier finally spoke, voice calm, even: "You stay here. Your things, your space… you are here. You will be here."
Jemma didn't reply, crossing her arms and sitting on the edge of the bed. Her defiance was sharp and palpable, but Xavier didn't need words to assert dominance. His quiet presence, the sheer certainty of his will, made it clear: this was not negotiable.
For a moment, they simply existed in the room together, a strange equilibrium forming. She seethed silently, he observed silently, yet the bond of necessity, of fear, of attachment, of raw human connection neither would admit, tightened like a rope around them both.
Jemma's defiance had not broken. Not completely. But Xavier's grip, both literal and metaphorical, had solidified. And both of them knew that the days ahead would be a delicate dance of power, possession, and an unspoken, dangerous attachment that neither could easily escape.
The night settled over the mansion like a heavy velvet curtain. Outside, the wind rustled faintly through the trees, but inside Xavier's room, the air was tense, charged with unspoken energy. Jemma sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded, refusing to meet his eyes. He leaned against the doorframe, tall and unyielding, silently watching her every movement.
"You're quiet tonight," he said finally, voice even but firm. "Does that mean you're plotting something, or just enjoying the silence?"
She didn't look up. "Maybe both," she murmured, voice laced with defiance. "Does it matter to you?"
His lips curved just slightly, a faint shadow of a smile. "It matters to me if you think you can pretend I don't exist. I've learned by now that you don't disappear that easily."
She exhaled sharply, almost amused. "And what if I want to disappear? Even for a few hours?"
"You won't." His tone was flat, final. "Not while I'm here. Not while you're under my roof."
She finally tilted her head to look at him, eyes narrowing. "And if I get used to you being around? If I start… tolerating it?"
Xavier's gaze sharpened. "Tolerating?" he repeated, almost questioning. Then, after a beat, he added, "That's different from liking it. Don't confuse the two."
"I'm not," she said firmly, though a faint smirk tugged at her lips. "I just… notice things. Like you never leave. Ever. And it's maddening."