The morning came too quickly.
Elara stirred awake in a bed far too soft, under sheets that smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. For a brief, disoriented moment, she forgot where she was. She forgot the storm, the man, the weight of his shadow pressing over her.
Then she opened her eyes and saw the room. The velvet curtains, the golden trim, the untouched tray of food on the table. And it all came rushing back.
Damian Veylor. His hand around hers. His voice telling her she was his.
Her stomach twisted as she sat up, fingers clutching the blanket to her chest. The fire had burned low in the hearth, but the warmth of his presence lingered as though he'd never left.
The door opened without warning. Elara flinched.
A maid entered—head bowed, hands folded neatly before her. She didn't speak, only moved silently toward the wardrobe, pulling out a folded dress of pale silk.
"I don't need that," Elara said quickly. Her voice cracked from sleep. "I already have clothes."
The maid didn't answer. She placed the dress on the chair by the window, then slipped out as quietly as she had come.
Elara stared after her, unease coiling tighter in her chest. No words. No choices. Just… orders fulfilled.
Before she could move, another presence filled the doorway.
Damian.
He wore a dark suit again, crisp and commanding. His gaze swept over her in a way that made her want to hide beneath the sheets, yet stand tall at the same time.
"You're awake," he said simply, his tone leaving no room for small talk.
She swallowed hard. "You could knock."
His lips curved faintly, though not in humor. "I don't knock in my own house."
Her pulse quickened. She hated how effortlessly he reminded her where she stood—inside his walls, under his control.
"What do you want?" she asked, trying to sound braver than she felt.
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "To make something very clear."
Her throat tightened as he crossed to the table. He picked up the untouched wine glass from last night, turned it lazily in his hand, then set it back down. Finally, his eyes locked onto hers.
"There are rules in this house," he said. "And you will follow them."
Elara's hands curled into fists beneath the sheets. "I didn't ask to stay here."
"And yet you're here," Damian countered smoothly. "Your choices outside these walls led you into mine. And until I decide otherwise, you remain under my domain."
His words struck with the same weight as chains.
"What rules?" she asked cautiously.
He began to pace, his movements precise, measured. "Rule one: You do not leave this house without my permission. My men protect these streets for me, not for you. If you walk into them alone, you won't come back."
Her chest constricted. Prison.
"Rule two," he continued, "You do not lie to me. About where you've been. About what you're hiding. I tolerate many things, Elara. Lies are not one of them."
Her pulse skipped. The satchel. The secret pressed inside. Did he already know?
She forced her expression blank. "And rule three?"
He stopped in front of her bed, lowering his gaze to meet hers. His voice dropped low, quiet but carrying more force than a shout.
"Rule three: When I give an order, you obey it. Without hesitation. Without question. If you defy me, you'll learn very quickly how I handle disobedience."
Elara's breath caught in her throat. The way he said it—it wasn't cruelty. It was certainty. He wasn't threatening her. He was promising.
She tried to summon her courage. "And if I break your rules?"
He leaned closer, bracing one hand against the bedpost, his shadow swallowing her in its reach. "Then you'll learn what it means to be under my domain. Do not test me, Elara. You won't like the result."
Her heart hammered, fear mixing with something hotter, sharper, that she didn't dare name. She hated how his nearness made her shiver—not just in dread, but in a way that left her breathless.
Damian studied her, his gaze dark and unflinching. Then, just as quickly, he straightened and adjusted his cuff.
"Dress," he said, nodding toward the pale silk waiting on the chair. "You'll join me downstairs."
Her eyes widened. "Why?"
"Because it's time you learned what it means to live here," he replied. His tone softened, but his eyes did not. "And because I've decided you'll stay—for now."
He turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounded louder than thunder.
Elara sat frozen, her pulse thundering in her ears. The rules replayed in her mind, each one binding her tighter to him.
No leaving.No lies.Obey.
The silk dress lay waiting on the chair, a silent command.
For the first time since she had met Damian Veylor, Elara realized she wasn't just trapped by walls. She was trapped by him.
And part of her was terrified that some small, hidden part of her didn't want to escape.