Chapter 2

The mansion woke in whispers.

Lena stirred at dawn to the sound of rain brushing against the glass walls, a rhythmic lullaby over silence. The fire had burned to embers in the library hearth, and pale light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in silver. For a moment, she forgot where she was until her gaze fell upon the silver crescent pendant resting on her collarbone.

Last night hadn’t been a dream.

The contract was real. The mansion, the man, the silence all of it.

She rose, brushing ash from her clothes, and found a note slipped under the door. The handwriting was Damien’s elegant, deliberate, almost carved into the paper:

Breakfast. East veranda. 7 a.m.

No greeting, no name. Just instruction.

She smiled faintly. A man who writes like he commands the moon, she thought.

When she found the veranda, it was like stepping into a dream. The forest spread beyond the glass railing, mist curling between the pines. A long table was set for two, yet only one seat was occupied.

Damien sat at the head, unreadable as ever. A steaming pot of tea waited between them.

He gestured for her to sit. She obeyed, folding her hands in her lap.

The silence wasn’t awkward it was dense, electric. His gaze lingered on her face as if he were memorizing every movement.

Finally, he picked up a pen and a small notepad that always seemed to accompany him.

Did you sleep well?

She nodded and wrote back:

Better than I have in years.

He glanced at her handwriting, the corners of his mouth twitching not quite a smile, but something close.

They ate in silence. His presence filled the air like gravity calm but commanding, the kind of quiet that demanded to be listened to. When he reached for his tea, his sleeve slid back, revealing a faint burn mark shaped like a crescent.

Her eyes lingered on it. He noticed.

An old wound, he wrote. A reminder to be careful what we vow to.

Lena hesitated, then scribbled:

You mean the contract?

He paused, eyes flicking up to hers.

Contracts are older than ink. Some are written on the soul.

She swallowed. There was something about the way he wrote that word soul that made the air seem colder.

After breakfast, he led her through the mansion. Each hallway was a gallery of strange beauty: sculptures of wolves in various poses sleeping, howling, hunting and portraits whose eyes gleamed faintly silver when the light hit them.

He stopped before a locked door.

You’re not to enter this room, he wrote. Ever.

She nodded, curiosity flickering like a candle.

As they continued, she began to notice details she’d missed: claw marks etched into the doorframe near the study, scratches along the marble floor, as if something had been dragged—something heavy.

By evening, her tasks became clear. She was to handle correspondence, organize his notes, and communicate his business instructions to staff who’d long since grown accustomed to silence. None of them spoke directly to Damien; they addressed him through her, eyes averted.

It was a strange existence being the voice of a man who did not speak. Yet, she found comfort in it. For the first time, her silence wasn’t a handicap; it was power.

At sunset, she carried documents to his private office. The door was ajar. She paused when she heard a sound soft, broken breathing, almost a growl.

“Mr. Veyne?” she signed instinctively, though he wasn’t looking.

He stood before the window, his back rigid, hands gripping the frame. The fading sunlight painted his skin gold, but beneath it she saw tension his shoulders trembling, his reflection flickering between man and shadow.

When he turned, his eyes were silver.

Lena froze.

He blinked once, and the light vanished, replaced by his usual human calm. He gestured toward the desk, wordless.

Heart racing, she placed the papers down and started to leave but his hand caught hers.

Warm. Rough. Trembling.

He didn’t pull her closer, but his fingers lingered around her wrist, as if searching for something. Then, with his other hand, he wrote quickly on the notepad beside them:

Does my silence frighten you?

Lena stared at the question. Slowly, she shook her head. Then she took the pen and wrote beneath it:

No. It’s the sound inside your silence that does.

He looked at her, a flicker of surprise breaking through his composure. For a second, the weight between them shifted no longer employer and employee, but two wounded creatures recognizing each other’s scars.

Then, almost reluctantly, he released her.

Good, he wrote. Fear keeps most people alive. You, however…

You listen.

That night, Lena couldn’t sleep. She kept replaying the way he’d touched her wrist, the tremor in his fingers, the impossible light in his eyes. The forest outside whispered and shifted, alive with unseen things.

At midnight, she heard it again a howl, long and mournful, rolling through the hills. The sound made the glass vibrate, the pendant at her neck warm to the touch.

She stepped to the balcony. The moon hung low, veiled by thin clouds, and beneath it, a figure moved among the trees massive, silver, and wild.

Her breath caught.

A wolf.

It paused, head lifting toward her window. Even from that distance, she felt its gaze a shiver that rooted her in place.

Then it turned and vanished into the dark.

When Lena awoke the next morning, a note waited by her pillow. The handwriting was sharp, familiar.

Do not look out the window after midnight again.

Some things here look back.

Her hands trembled as she read it.

And yet, beneath the warning, another message was scrawled faintly smudged, almost erased:

I heard you breathe my name.