CHAPTER 3 — The Fire King’s Rules

Elara woke up before dawn, her pulse unsteady as she blinked into the soft glow of the chandelier above her. The room was warm, almost too warm, but nothing compared to the heat that radiated silently from the man who owned the entire estate—and now, her.

Alexander.

The Fire King.

Every breath she took inside his mansion felt heavier, like the air itself obeyed him.

She sat up slowly, still unsure if sitting on the bed was allowed. Everything in this place felt fragile—her life included. Her heart skipped when the bedroom door opened, not with a knock, but with the sharp, confident push of someone who never needed permission.

Alexander stepped inside, wearing a black tailored shirt and dark trousers. His hair was brushed back, wet from a recent shower, and the faint scent of expensive cologne drifted into the room, stirring her senses.

His icy blue eyes scanned her. Not gently. Not fondly. Not even with curiosity.

But with possession.

“You’re awake,” he said flatly, his voice deep and smooth. “Good. I hate sluggish people.”

Elara swallowed. “Good morning, Master.”

His jaw tightened slightly at the word Master—not with irritation, but with something she couldn’t name. Something hidden.

“Stand up,” he ordered.

She obeyed immediately. Her feet touched the warm marble floor, and she straightened nervously as he circled her, inspecting her like an object he’d acquired at a high price.

The silence between them crackled.

He stopped behind her.

“You look less terrified,” he murmured. “That could be a good thing. Or foolish.”

Elara didn’t know how to reply, so she stayed quiet.

He came around to face her again, eyes sharpened. “You will need to learn my rules. Break them, and you’ll regret it. Obey them, and…” He paused, the corner of his lips twitching as if a softer word tried to escape—but he swallowed it. “You’ll survive comfortably.”

Her throat tightened. “Yes, Master. I’m listening.”

He moved to a small table by the window, picked up a black leather file, and tossed it lightly onto the bed.

“Rule one,” he said, voice low. “You speak only when spoken to. Unless you are in danger. I don’t want unnecessary noise in my house.”

She nodded quickly.

“Rule two,” he continued, stepping closer, “you do not wander. This mansion is not a playground. You stay in your assigned areas—bedroom, kitchen, garden. Anywhere else, you ask.”

“Understood.”

“Good.”

He walked past her again, slowly, like a predator deciding whether prey was worth its energy. His shoulder brushed hers lightly, and the warmth from his body made her skin tingle despite her fear.

“Rule three,” Alexander said, his voice soft but laced with steel, “you eat when I allow it. And you eat properly. I won’t have a fainting servant.”

Elara blinked. That sounded like hidden care, but his tone made it feel like a command carved from stone.

“Yes, Master.”

He faced her fully now, standing close enough that she could feel the heat rolling from him like a silent fire. He raised his hand, and she flinched by instinct. His eyes hardened.

“I don’t beat without reason,” he said coldly. “Fear is fine. Panic is not. Do not panic when I raise my hand unless I intend to punish you.”

Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize unless I ask for it,” he snapped.

She bit her lip, nodding.

He studied her face for a moment that lasted too long, and she felt the gentleness he was fighting inside himself. He wanted to touch her—she could sense it. But he shoved his hands into his pockets as if punishing himself.

“Rule four,” he said, voice strained now, “you do not cry loudly. If you must cry, do it quietly. Chaos irritates me.”

She lowered her lashes. “Yes, Master.”

Alexander stepped even closer, lowering his voice. “Rule five. If I call, you must come. Immediately. No hesitation.”

Elara looked up at him. “I will.”

Something flickered briefly in his eyes—something painfully human. But he shut it down.

Then he walked to the door.

Just before leaving, he spoke the final rule without turning around.

“Rule six,” he said quietly. “You are under my protection. No one touches you. No one harms you. Not even my men.” His voice grew harder. “If anyone tries… tell me.”

Her heart twisted. That wasn’t a threat. That was a promise.

But he didn’t give her time to feel it.

He opened the door sharply and stepped out, leaving her inside the warm silence of the room with her thoughts spinning like loose fire.

She exhaled shakily.

He cares… but he refuses to show it.

A moment later, he called out from the hallway, his tone rougher than before.

“Elara.”

She hurried to the door and stood before him. “Yes, Master?”

He avoided her eyes as he said quietly, “Rule seven. You belong to me while you’re here. Not as a lover. Not as property. As… responsibility.”

Her breath caught.

He added quickly, angrily, as if hating the softness in himself:

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Then he turned away, leaving Elara with the unspoken truth burning between them—

The Fire King was not cold.

He was burning too hot to touch.