Rules of the House

Chapter six

Lena's POV

The room I had been moved to was not like the first. The first had been designed deliberately to wound – barren walls, a mattress that drooped in the middle, air thick with the smells of rust and disuse. This one was unlike that at all. A wide bed with a headboard carved from dark wood dominated the far wall; it was covered in sheets that felt cool and clean against my skin. Heavy curtains screened a window that overlooked the estate’s gardens, lying far below. A writing desk. A wardrobe already filled with clothes in my size.

I stood in the center of the room and felt a sense of unease, greater than the anger and shock I had felt in the first place. Cages were easier to hate when they were cages.

I had not seen Damian since our ride back from Sophia’s – since he had pulled the car over to the side of the road and told me, voice tight with contained frustration, that I had no idea what I was dealing with. He was right; I didn't. But the outlines of his game were beginning to emerge. You put the pieces together slowly when reassembling something delicate and shattered, carefully trying not to cut your fingers.

The knock on my door came in the mid-morning. It wasn't one of his men this time; it was Damian. He was, as always, dressed impeccably, in a dark shirt and dark trousers, an effortless precision that bespoke of never being in a rush or simply grabbing the first things on the hanger. He did not wait for permission to enter. Once inside, he surveyed the room with an unreadable gaze, and appeared satisfied with his assessment.

"Sit down," he commanded.

I was already seated on the edge of the bed. I did not move. A flicker of something-not anger, not even annoyance, just something I could not quite name-passed across his face. He pulled a chair from the desk, turned it around, and sat opposite me. His forearms rested on his knees. He was relaxed. Deceptively relaxed.

"We need to talk about how this is going to work," he stated.

"How what is going to work?"

"This." He made a small, precise gesture that seemed to encompass the room, the house, the estate, everything. "Your stay here."

I folded my hands in my lap. "I'm listening."

He studied me for a moment before speaking. He seemed to be measuring how much he felt he needed to say. "You are not to leave the estate without me or one of my men. Not even the grounds, not through any gate. Do you understand?"

"What if I try?"

"You won't." It wasn't a threat, just a simple declaration of fact, like "the sun is hot." "You'll have access to the house-the library, sitting rooms, kitchen. The east wing is off-limits. The rooms adjoining my office are off-limits."

"And why are those rooms off-limits?"

"Because they have no bearing on your concerns."

I looked at him. "You keep saying that."

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Because it's true."

I let that hang in the air between us. There was no point arguing a point on which I had no knowledge to dispute. Information was the only currency I had on this estate, and my supply of it was practically nil.

"You'll eat," he said. "Three meals a day. If you have needs – clothing, books, anything reasonably within the scope of our... Arrangements-you tell Mara."

"Who's Mara?"

"You'll be introduced to her." He paused. "You're not to speak to my men for any reason other than to relay a necessary message. You are not to attempt contact with anyone off the estate."

The word attempt was loaded. Not don't-attempt. It told me he already knew I had no way to succeed; he was just letting me know he was aware I might try anyway.

"What's in it for you then?" I asked. "You just-keep me here? Forever?"

A subtle shift in his expression-gone too quickly to identify-occurred. "For now."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the best I can give you at the moment."

I looked at him, really looked at him the way I hadn't dared to in the car, when fear was overwhelming the need to observe. Without the backdrop of chaos, he was still terrifying. But something else about him-something I couldn't categorize within the neatly defined box of "monster"-emerged in the morning light. A tension about his eyes that wasn't entirely rage; a carefully controlled melancholy.

"Are you always this way?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "In what way?"

"This." I gestured vaguely. "Precise. Prepared. As if you know how every single conversation will end before it's even begun."

The silence that followed was protracted, and I wondered if I had gone too far. Then, almost invisibly, a corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, but it was something like the echo of one.

"Rest," he said, rising and returning the chair to the desk with the same practiced care he’d employed throughout. "Mara will be by with lunch at noon."

He moved towards the door.

"Damian."

He stopped, and turned, slowly, deliberately.

"What happens if I break one of your rules?"

He met my gaze for a long moment. "Don't," he said simply.

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a quiet click that seemed to hold more finality than any slamming ever could.

I stood in the impeccably furnished, clean room, overlooking the manicured grounds, with a wardrobe full of clothes that fit me. And I understood, with a cold, silent clarity, that the first room had been designed as a punishment. The second was designed as a statement. He was not keeping me prisoner. He was keeping me here. In style, in order, in a carefully crafted semblance of a normal existence-and this, I was realizing, was even more insidious than dungeon bars.

I walked over to the window. Below, the gardens were lush and perfectly kept, bordered by a high stone wall. The distant hum of the city, unaware, drifted over the walls.

I placed my fingers against the cool glass and remembered one essential fact: beautiful cages were still cages. I was not finished fighting.