Chapter Seven: Know Your Place

Chapter Seven: Know Your Place

The rain hit the windows like a war drum.

Emilia sat by the hearth, curled up in one of the massive leather chairs, her eyes fixed on the flickering fire. She hadn’t spoken much since their conversation in the study. Her body moved like muscle memory, eat, bathe, walk, but her mind was stuck in a loop, echoing the same sentence again and again.

He traded you to buy himself time.

She didn’t know if the flames in the fireplace or the one burning inside her chest hurt more.

Lucien had been gone all day, but when he entered the room, soaked from the storm, his eyes flicked to her immediately. He froze there for a moment, dripping black coat, sharp jaw clenched, and then, without a word, began to unbutton his cuffs.

Emilia stood slowly. Her voice, soft but steady, broke the silence.

“I want to talk.”

Lucien didn’t look up. “That sounds dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

She stepped closer. “Why? Because you’re a killer?”

He met her eyes then, dark, unreadable. “Because I’m your master, Emilia.”

The room dropped a degree in temperature. Her breath caught.

“You were sold to me. Like cattle.” He said it without emotion, like stating the weather. “Your life, your body, your silence. All of it belongs to me.”

Her lips parted, but he wasn’t finished.

“You live in my house. You eat my food. You wear the clothes I had brought for you. You walk the halls I built. You don’t speak unless I allow it. Don’t ask unless I permit it. You’re here because I let you be.”

The words should have broken her. Humiliated her. But instead, they sparked something defiant in her spine.

“I didn’t ask to be here,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, stepping forward slowly, like a shadow made flesh. “But now that you are, you’d be wise to remember your place.”

Emilia’s voice rose, trembling but bold. “I’m not a thing. I’m not property. You don’t get to control....”

His hand slammed against the wall beside her head. Not touching her, but close enough for her heart to jolt violently.

“I am not the villain in your fairytale,” he growled. “I am not the brooding hero who softens. I am not the man who will be changed by a girl’s tears. I am a greater monster than you will ever understand. I can bled this world dry, and I sleep just fine afterward.”

His face was inches from hers now, his breath cold and sharp. “You think because I let you read in my garden or gave you soft things to wear, that means something? You think I’ve gone soft?”

Emilia swallowed hard. “No.”

“Good,” he snapped. “Because I haven’t. Whatever warmth you think you saw in me, kill it. Burn it. Pretend it never existed.”

She stared at him, stunned. Hurt. But worse, something else. Something deeper. A dangerous flicker of want. Not for the monster he claimed to be, but for the pieces he tried so hard to hide.

She didn’t know when it happened, but her hand lifted, gently brushing the edge of his sleeve.

He froze.

“Lucien…” she began, her voice cracking.

He jerked away like she’d struck him.

“Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything stupid,” she said, blinking rapidly. “I just...”

“Stop.” His voice dropped again, colder than ever. “You’re getting confused.”

“I’m not...”

“You think because I didn’t touch you that night, it meant something?” His laugh was bitter. “I could’ve had you a hundred different ways. I own you, Emilia. But I didn’t, and that doesn’t mean you matter.”

She flinched.

“And whatever this is, this fantasy you’re building in your head, end it. Now.”

He turned away, walking toward the decanter. His hands were shaking slightly, but he masked it with a drink.

Silence stretched between them.

When Emilia finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “Why did you really not touch me?”

Lucien didn’t answer right away. When he did, he didn’t look at her.

“Because I didn’t want to break what was already broken.”

Her breath caught.

He downed the drink, then turned around slowly. His face was unreadable, his mask back in place.

“Go to bed.”

“I’m not tired.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I’m not your doll.”

“No,” he said, his voice like steel. “You’re not. You’re mine.”

Emilia didn’t argue. There was no point. Not when he wrapped himself back in that cold, merciless shell.

But as she walked toward the door, she glanced over her shoulder.

“You keep saying you’re a monster,” she said. “But monsters don’t protect girls they claim not to care about.”

Lucien didn’t reply.

Didn’t move.

Just stared into the fire like he wanted to throw himself into it.

When she was gone, he whispered to the empty room, “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

And maybe he was right.

But what terrified him most wasn’t the monster he saw in the mirror.

It was the way Emilia looked at him and didn’t run.

It was the way she made him want to be something else.

Something less than a monster.

Something that could break him far worse than any bullet ever could.