CHAPTER 3: DINNER

Elena's pov

I spent the whole afternoon avoiding the kitchen like it was cursed. Which, technically, it kind of was, owned by one brooding, too handsome for his own good landlord with the personality of a brick wall.

I cleaned the mess obviously. Not because Silas de­manded it but because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking I wouldn’t. Still, everytime I thought about his cutting words and cold eyes, I wanted to throw my cereal bowl at his head.

That would be very satisfying! but I knew that would be bad idea.

But by evening, hunger struck again. I was seated on the tiny couch in my room with a sketchbook in my lap when my stomach growled like a beast.

I tiptoed down the hallway, hoping to avoid him. The mansion was too big, too quiet, and almost dramatic like those in horror novels. I loved the mansion but I hated the owner.

To my surprise, when I reached the dining room there was a full meal already laid out — pasta, salad, bread, some kind of fancy roasted meat that smelled and looked divine.

Standing at the head of the table, like some cursed prince, was Silas.

Of course.

He didn’t look at me as he sat down and started eating his food with precision. he was a not only a clean freak,but also a control freak. he wanted everything to go like he wanted and that pissed me off.

“Am I allowed to eat?” I said sarcastically just to piss him off. “Or do I need to sign a contract? because the way you're looking at me,makes me think I have to pay for this"

His gray eyes flickered to me. “You live here, for now. Eat if you want. I don’t care. or you can just starve forever".

I pulled out a chair and sat far away from him, stabbing a piece of bread dramatically. “You’re terrible at hospitality, you know?”

“I didn’t invite you to a tea party,” he said.

Damn! He had a very sharp tongue… despite him being painfully hot, he was still rude.

“Obviously,” I muttered.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask anything. Just ate in complete, infuriating quiet.

“So, do you always ignore people and stay alone in the corners and judge people or is it just me?” I asked, trying to break the ice between us.

He set down his fork slowly, looking up at me with that piercing gaze. “Do you always have to use that pretty mouth of yours?”

Pretty mouth? OMG, I’m squealing inside. He basically called me pretty.

Stoney, get a hold of yourself; remember, he's rude! (I reminded myself.)

“Wow,” I blinked.

“You’re always loud, messy, always in the way,” he said calmly.

I glared at him, jaw clenching. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.”

We locked eyes, something crackled again. It was getting hot in here.

Before I could say another word, he stood up, his chair scraping softly. “Don’t stay out past nine.”

I rolled my eyes so hard, it hurt. “Or what? You’ll turn into a vampire?”

He paused at the door and smiled sardonically. His smile will haunt my dreams tonight!

“Something like that.” He paused, then continued. “And Elena, this will be the first and last time you will roll your eyes at me unless you want something from me.”

Then he was gone.

I stared after him,my heart was pounding so fast and I knew, this had nothing to do with anger this time.

The way he gazed at me , while warning me,made me imagine the worst scenarios he could do to me.

Suddenly it was too hot! I'm in trouble now!

I stared at the door long after he disappeared, fork frozen midair.

“This will be the first and last time you roll your eyes at me unless you want something from me.”

Was that a threat? A promise? A dark fantasy twist in a warning?

I didn’t know whether to hide my face at the wall or fan myself.

“He’s insane,” I muttered, grabbing my water glass with shaky hands. “Insane, rude, arrogant and his voice should be illegal.”

I tried to eat, I really did. But every bite of food felt like it was laced with the memory of his voice. That low, perfectly controlled growl that somehow managed to say everything and nothing at once.

Who talks like that?

And more importantly… why did I kind of like it?

“Nope,” I told myself out loud, stabbing my pasta like it insulted me. “We are not catching feelings for the emotionally unavailable sexy landlord in Dior. We’re not that girl.”

But my brain betrayed me instantly with a high replay of the way he’d said “pretty mouth.”

Stop it, Elena.

I leaned back in my chair, glaring at the chandelier like it was to blame. What was wrong with me? He barely tolerated me. He spoke like every word was a calculated offense. But there was something....

In the way he looked at me.

Like I was chaos and he didn’t know how to contain it.

And then there was the way I looked at him. Like he was danger I couldn’t help but want.

God. I needed therapy. Or a Bible. Or holy water. Maybe all three.

I pushed my plate away and stood, suddenly needing air. My heart was doing a weird, jittery dance and I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

I walked down the long hall back toward my room, heels of my fuzzy socks whispering against the marble. My sketchbook was still lying on the couch, open to a half drawn portrait I’d started earlier.

It was of a man.

Tall. Sharp jaw. Stormy eyes.

Oh my god.

I slapped the sketchbook shut.

I was sketching Silas Noir like some doomed Victorian heroine. What was next? Writing poems of love in ink?

“Nope,” I said again, dropping onto the couch and hugging a pillow to my chest. “We are not doing this. He’s the worst.”

But even as I said it, my mind replayed the way he looked at me. Like he saw everything, and still somehow wanted to break it apart just to understand it.

My face was burning.

I hated him.

I wanted him.

And I was so screwed.