‎Caged in silk; Veins of the Damned ‎

‎‎The morning light bled slowly through the mansion’s tall windows, casting golden patterns across the marble floors like a lie — warmth in a place ruled by frost and fire.

‎Castelle was already awake.

‎Barefoot. Anxious. Sitting on the edge of the bed like a prisoner waiting for sentencing.

‎

‎The room still smelled like him. Spiced leather. Cold steel. Something darker beneath.

‎

‎Her skin prickled.

‎The corset lay across the chair — today’s uniform, Kareen had said with a look too gentle for the nightmare Castelle was living.

‎A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.

‎Kareen stepped in, holding a tray. “Eat something. You’ll need your strength.”

‎“For what?” Castelle whispered.

‎But Kareen didn’t answer.

‎

‎Just placed the tray down, brushed a stray lock from Castelle’s face, and left.

‎Moments later, the door opened again.

‎And this time — it was him.

‎Kane.

‎

‎Immaculate black shirt. Sleeves rolled. Veins coiled like threats down his arms. A predator dressed like temptation.

‎“Good morning, pet,” he said, the endearment dripping with mockery.

‎She straightened. “I’m not your—”

‎“You are,” he said, cutting her off. “You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

‎

‎He walked slowly around her. Circling. Stalking.

‎“Today’s lesson is simple.”

‎She stood, hands clenched. “I’m not playing your sick game.”

‎He stepped closer.

‎“Then you’ll fail.”

‎

‎Silence.

‎He lifted a velvet ribbon from his pocket and held it out.

‎“Your task is to sit here,” he gestured to a single high-backed chair in the center of the room, facing the window, “wearing this around your wrists behind you. Quiet. Still. Thirty minutes.”

‎

‎She frowned. “That’s it?”

‎His smile was cruel.

‎“That’s the first test.”

‎“And if I move?”

‎“You start over.”

‎She blinked.

‎

‎“And if I scream?”

‎He leaned in, mouth brushing her ear. “Then I teach you what silence truly costs.”

‎

‎Her body tensed. Every instinct screamed to run.

‎But something in her — the part that wanted to win this war — nodded.

‎“Fine,” she said, voice trembling.

‎He tied the ribbon. Not tight. Just enough to remind her it was there.

‎He guided her to the chair. Sat her down. Adjusted her posture — knees together, back straight, eyes ahead.

‎

‎“Begin.”

‎Then he stepped away.

‎And the silence began to grow teeth.

‎

‎---

‎

‎TEN MINUTES IN.

‎

‎Her legs ached.

‎The room felt colder.

‎But worse than the pain was him — standing across the room, watching. Not speaking. Not moving.

‎Just staring.

‎

‎---

‎

‎FIFTEEN MINUTES.

‎

‎A hair fell across her eyes.

‎She twitched.

‎“Don’t,” Kane said softly.

‎She froze.

‎He smiled.

‎“Obedience isn’t just about actions, Castelle. It’s about desire. If you want to move — and don’t — that’s power.”

‎

‎---

‎

‎TWENTY-EIGHT MINUTES .

‎

‎Tears welled in her eyes.

‎Not from pain.

‎From rage.

‎From the weight of him, bearing down without a single touch.

‎She hated how his silence felt like shackles.

‎She hated more that some dark, hidden part of her wanted him to break it.

‎

‎---

‎

‎THIRTY MINUTES

‎

‎He walked over.

‎Untied the ribbon with maddening slowness.

‎She expected mockery. A cruel joke.

‎But instead, Kane knelt before her.

‎And whispered, “You did well, good girl.”

‎The words hit harder than a slap.

‎Because she hated how they mattered.

‎How they curled inside her like praise she’d never received before.

‎How her body ached not just for freedom…

‎…but for more.

‎She enjoyed the rest of her day uninterrupted by anyone not even the mafia King himself.

‎

‎---

‎

‎The air was cold when Castelle stepped out of her room. Everywhere was dark with whispers of a new day. The cold was not the kind of cold that came with wind or marble floors — this was a quiet, crawling chill that whispered of something wrong.

‎

‎The silence was too deep.

‎She heard a muffled groan, barely audible. Her heartbeat quickened. Then came the scent — metallic and bitter — and her feet moved before she realized it.

‎She reached the stairwell and froze.

‎Kane was slumped near the edge of the grand couch, one hand clutching the armrest, the other gripping the edge of his shirt, as though holding himself together. His face was pale, deathly so, skin drawn taut over sharp cheekbones, his lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling in slow, strained gulps.

‎

‎And then — the tattoos.

‎What she had thought were artistic, inky branches curling up his back, neck, and collarbones were… alive.

‎No — they were hiding veins. Bulging. Pulsing.

‎Black and angry beneath the surface.

‎Like something cursed was crawling through his bloodstream.

‎“Kane!” she gasped, stumbling down the rest of the steps.

‎

‎He didn’t answer.

‎“Kane—” Her voice cracked as she dropped to her knees beside him, trembling hands reaching for his face, his shoulder, not knowing where to touch without hurting him.

‎

‎He flinched slightly but didn’t push her away.

‎She gripped his hand, crying now. “Please, let me get someone. You need help. I’ll call Kareen, or Lucien—”

‎His hand shot out, strong and sudden.

‎He pulled her down to the floor beside him, firm but not violent.

‎“Don’t,” he said quietly, eyes half-lidded, breath shaky. “Stay.”

‎

‎She sat, stunned, her palm still clutching his chilled hand. He turned his head weakly, eyes meeting hers. The look in them sent a tremor down her spine — pain, and beneath it, something softer. Amused. Almost… fond.

‎

‎He smiled.

‎He fucking smiled.

‎Her tears spilled over, furious and frightened.

‎

‎“What kind of monster smiles when he looks like this?” she cried, choking on the lump in her throat.

‎“I thought you said you hated me,” he murmured, voice raspy.

‎She stared at him, stunned. “What?”

‎“If you hate me…” he paused, his smile tilting painfully, “then why cry? Even if I die… don’t waste your precious tears, kitten.”

‎She broke. “You bastard!”

‎She hit his chest once, then again, sobbing. “Don’t say that! Don’t you dare say that to me. Tell me what to do! Tell me how to help you!”

‎

‎He winced but didn’t stop her. Only after a moment did he whisper, “A glass of milk.”

‎She blinked. “What?”

‎“Milk. In the fridge.”

‎

‎Scrambling, she slipped as she ran — almost crashing into the door — hands fumbling with the carton, the glass slipping from her grip and spilling halfway across the counter. Still, she poured what was left and raced back.

‎

‎He took it, shaky fingers brushing hers, and downed the milk slowly.

‎A beat of silence.

‎Then he exhaled. “It’ll pass. Just a little poison.”

‎Her eyes widened. “Poison?”

‎

‎Kane leaned his head back against the cushion, chuckling darkly. “Don’t worry. It wears off in two hours.”

‎

‎“Two—what? Why aren’t you getting medical help?”

‎He turned to her then, eyes shining with something unreadable — darkness wrapped in dry amusement.

‎

‎“Come on, kitten. Don’t act naive. Surely by now you’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? The cursed man. The don who doesn’t die. Reborn through ancient rituals. The devil's hound.” He smiled bitterly. “Well, here I am.”

‎

‎She covered her mouth, shaking.

‎“But why?” she whispered. “Why would anyone do this to you?”

‎“They had their reasons as I will have mine when I lay my hands on them.”

‎“Kane…”

‎He expected her to pull away.

‎But she didn’t.

‎She clung tighter.

‎“If you die,” she whispered fiercely, “I die too.”

‎

‎The words stilled him.

‎Something deep inside him… shifted.

‎Five days.

‎She had barely known him for five days.

‎And yet here she was — not running, not hiding, not recoiling in fear. Crying. Shaking. Fighting to stay.

‎

‎He looked at her — the way her hair stuck to her cheeks, her chest rising in panicked breaths, the tears soaking her lashes — and something unfamiliar tightened in his chest.

‎

‎Something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long, long time.

‎He touched her cheek, just once. Softly.

‎“You’re dangerous, kitten,” he whispered again.

‎Why?” she asked.

‎“Because you make me remember I’m still human.”

‎