The Rules of the House

I woke to silence.

The kind that hums under your skin like something’s watching. The house was too quiet—no traffic, no street sounds, just the soft whisper of wind through the high windows and the low tick of a grandfather clock down the hall. I was used to chaos. This kind of silence felt dangerous.

I slipped from the bed and padded to the window.

Fog rolled across the courtyard like breath from something ancient. I could barely make out the security guards circling the perimeter, rifles slung low, steps silent. A prison in every way but name.

A soft knock broke the stillness.

Before I could answer, the door opened.

Luca.

Of course it was him. Dark suit. No tie. Collar open at the throat. Hair slightly mussed, like he hadn't slept, though knowing him, he probably didn’t need to. He was the kind of man built for war, not rest.

I clutched the blanket tighter around me. “Ever heard of knocking and waiting?”

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “You didn’t lock the door.”

“And you think that’s an invitation?”

“I think it’s stupid,” he said flatly, “in a house like this.”

I glared. “Is this where you threaten me again?”

“No.” He took a slow step forward. “This is where I explain the rules.”

I lifted a brow. “Oh, we’re doing that now?”

His gaze flicked over me. Just once. But it was enough to make my heart skip a beat.

“You don’t leave the house without permission,” he said. “You don’t speak to anyone outside this family. You answer when I call, and you stay out of trouble.”

“Define trouble.”

He tilted his head. “Anything that makes me think about killing someone.”

I laughed once, bitter. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

A heavy silence stretched between us.

He turned toward the door—but hesitated.

“I won’t protect you if you make it hard to.” Then, softer—almost too soft to hear: “Don’t give me a reason to choose between you and my father.”

He left.

And that… that was the first time I realized something deeper lived beneath his anger.

Something cracked.

Downstairs, breakfast was a battlefield.

Nico was already there, shirtless and barefoot, tattoos on full display as he balanced a spoon between his fingers and tried to throw cereal at Matteo, who was nose-deep in some thick leather-bound book at the far end of the table.

“You two ever sleep?” I muttered, grabbing a mug of black coffee.

“Not when there’s someone new to stalk in the house,” Nico said with a grin.

I didn’t answer. Just sank into a chair across from Matteo, who glanced up, nodded once, and then returned to his book. I could feel him watching me again, though. Quietly. Patiently.

Nico scooted closer. “You and Luca have fun last night?”

My eyes snapped to his.

He chuckled. “Relax. I only heard the door. Didn’t realize he was into breaking and entering.”

I took a long sip of coffee. “He was here to remind me I’m a prisoner.”

Nico’s eyes gleamed. “And what a pretty prisoner you make.”

My stomach twisted—but not with fear.

With something darker. More dangerous.

“You always flirt with your stepsisters?” I asked sweetly.

His grin sharpened. “Only the ones I want to ruin.”

Later, I explored the west wing. I told myself it was just curiosity.

But I knew what I was looking for.

Luca’s door was closed. Of course. So I passed it—slowly, deliberately—until I reached a library I hadn’t seen before. Warm wood shelves. Velvet chairs. Dust motes dancing in shafts of light.

And Matteo, again. Sitting on a windowsill with a book in his lap and one leg drawn up to his chest.

He didn’t speak as I walked in.

But I felt him notice.

“Do you ever leave this place?” I asked, stepping closer.

“Only when I have to.” His voice was soft. Low. The kind of voice that made you lean in to hear.

“You watching me?” I asked, half-teasing, half-serious.

He looked up.

And held my gaze.

“I watch everything,” he said.

That night, I tried to sleep.

Tried.

But every creak of the house sent my nerves dancing. Every memory of Luca’s voice, Nico’s smirk, Matteo’s eyes—played over and over in my mind like a warning.

And beneath it all, the strangest thought pulsed like a heartbeat:

They don’t just want to protect me.

They want to possess me.

And worse still…

A part of me wants to be taken.

I wasn’t used to being watched.

At least, not like this.

I could feel them in the walls. In the weight of every glance over breakfast, every footstep in the hall, every time a door opened and one of them stood there—not invited, but never asking permission.

Especially Nico.

I found him in the training room that morning. Shirtless. Gloves on. Slamming his fists into a leather bag with the kind of rage that came from the soul. Sweat slicked his shoulders. His knuckles were raw. And when he saw me in the doorway, he grinned like I was prey.

“You lost, princess?”

I crossed my arms, careful to stay near the door. “Just exploring. Didn’t know there was a dungeon under the house.”

He ripped off his gloves. “It’s where we learn how to survive.”

“I already learned that.”

He stepped closer, dragging his towel over his neck. “Yeah? Doesn’t look like it. You walk around this house like a dare.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be.”

I smiled, slow and dangerous. “Are you threatening me, Nico?”

His grin faded. A beat passed.

“No,” he said, voice lower now. “I’m warning you.”

He reached out—just once—and ran his thumb across my cheek.

Something in me stopped. My breath. My thoughts. My control.

“I don’t do soft,” he murmured. “So if you’re going to keep looking at me like that, make sure you’re ready to burn.”

My pulse stuttered.

I opened my mouth to speak—but didn’t get the chance.

“Nico.”

Luca’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

I turned toward the door and saw him there—arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes like twin storms. He didn’t look at me.

Just Nico.

“Out,” Luca said.

Nico chuckled. “You going to spank me, big brother?”

Luca didn’t smile.

But Nico left.

I stood frozen, spine tight, lips parted. Luca didn’t move for a moment. Then he took a step toward me.

“Don’t come down here again.”

I frowned. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly.” His voice was quiet but deadly. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Then explain it.”

He took another step.

I didn’t move.

His eyes fell to my lips—just for a second—and that was all it took.

The air thickened. My body betrayed me. Every nerve tuned to his heat, his scent, the fire in his gaze that he was barely keeping caged.

Then he stepped back.

And it felt like a punishment.

“There are lines,” he said roughly. “We don’t cross them.”

I swallowed hard. “Even if you want to?”

His jaw flexed. That silence between us stretched like a tripwire.

Then he turned, voice raw:

“Especially then.”

The rest of the day passed in tension.

I couldn’t look at Nico without remembering the weight of his touch. Couldn’t walk past Luca without my skin buzzing like a live wire. And Matteo… he was worse.

He didn’t speak at all.

But I caught him standing in the hall just outside my door that night. Just watching.

Not moving. Not knocking. Just… waiting.

I didn’t open the door.

But I didn’t sleep either.

Somewhere around three a.m., I stood at my window and stared into the dark. The estate stretched silent below. Somewhere out there were men with guns. Power. Enemies I hadn’t met yet.

But none of them scared me like my stepbrothers did.

Because they were close.

And I was slipping.

I could already feel it.