Chapter 5: BEFORE HE TAKES MORE

Supper sat untouched on my tray. The gravy had thickened into dull swirls, and the roasted vegetables were cooling into limp shapes. I stared at them without really seeing. My stomach and my mind were locked in a quiet battle of hunger versus nerves.

Nerves won.

Twice I lifted the fork, and twice I set it down.

As I walked back to my room to wait, the first bell chimed for evening rehearsal. Performers shuffled down the hall outside, their voices filled with laughter and gossip, but none of them spoke to me. None even glanced my wayway.​

I rose from the bed and paced once, then twice. My body felt restless, and my throat was tight. Every sound seemed magnified. The settling creak of the walls, the faint hum of gas lights, even my own heartbeat throbbed in my ears.

Silas's words echoed in my mind: "Prepare yourself for whatever Lord Avel intends to take from you next."

A knock broke the silence. It was measured and controlled.

I opened the door to find Silas. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture immaculate, and his expression composed but slightly strained.

“Miss Wynn,” he said. “It’s time.”

Time.

The word twisted in my stomach like a ribbon pulled too quickly.

“Do I need anything?” I asked.

"No, you already have all that matters." Something in his tone unsettled me more than the words themselves.

I stepped into the hallway.

Silas didn’t offer his arm this time. He walked slightly ahead of me, as if shielding me from glances I couldn’t see or from shadows I didn’t notice.

“Where are we going?” I asked softly.

“The patron’s private box.”

My pulse quickened. “But the opera is rehearsing tonight...”

“He’s not watching rehearsal. Not tonight.”

We walked through an unused wing of the theatre, its chandeliers unlit and the velvet curtains drawn. Dust motes floated like suspended stars in the dim light from the wall lamps. The farther we went, the quieter the building became, until even the distant echo of music faded.

Silas eventually stopped before a carved oak door that bore no label.

"This is as far as I go.” His voice softened. “He will not harm you.”

Those words should have reassured me, but they didn’t. They felt like a response to a question I hadn’t asked out loud.

Silas opened the door and left.

The room beyond was dim. Only a few candles flickered in sconces along the walls, their flames shimmering against velvet curtains the color of drying blood. The opera stage lay far below, visible through the parted curtains of Avel’s private viewing box. Tonight, the hall was empty except for a faint halo of moonlight spilling through the upper windows.

And there, standing at the railing with one gloved hand resting casually on the polished wood, was Lord Avel Morcant.

He didn’t turn when I entered, but he spoke as if he sensed me cross the threshold.

"Close the door, Miss Wynn.”

The quiet authority in his voice drew me closer. I obeyed, the latch clicking shut behind me like a wax seal on a love letter.

Avel still faced the empty stage.

“Approach.”

My feet moved of their own accord.

When I stopped beside him, the moonlight cut across his profile. His mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile, not quite neutral. Something in between.

“Look,” he murmured.

I followed his gaze.

The stage sprawled below us, dark, silent, and expectant. Without performers or candles, it resembled a great, sleeping beast.

“This house,” Avel said softly, “devours talent. It also improves it. Tonight, I want you to hear it breathe."

I swallowed. “It... breathes?”

His lips curved. “Everything with appetite does.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“Why did you summon me?” I asked. The quiet boldness even surprised me.​

“Because your voice lingers here.” He gestured to the stage. “Even in silence, its residue remains.”

He slowly turned his head toward me—deliberately.

“Did you obey me, Miss Wynn?”

My breath caught in my throat. “My Lord?”

“Did you sing for anyone else today?” The question hit me with startling force.

"No,” I whispered. “Only for rehearsal. And only when instructed.”

He nodded once. Approval flickered subtly in the line of his shoulders.

"Good.”

He stepped closer, just enough that the air shifted. “You’ve unsettled the company.”

“I noticed.”

“And Marienne Roux resents you already.”

“She... made that clear.”

“And Silas,” he said softly, “is intrigued by you.”

My head snapped up. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

Avel’s mouth curved in a way that made it hard to breathe.

“It isn’t dangerous,” he said. “Yet.”

I didn’t dare ask what "yet" meant.

He lifted a hand—not toward my face, but toward my throat. His gloved fingers hovered just above the choker, an inch of electric air between leather and skin.

“You wore this,” he murmured. “Good.”

The metal suddenly felt hotter.

“What does it signify?” I whispered.

“That you are under my patronage,” he said. “That you are not to be touched.”

My breath faltered.

He lowered his hand but didn’t step away.

“Tonight,” he said, “I want to hear the truth of your voice again.”

“In front of... no one?”

“In front of me,” he answered simply. “Only me.”

Heat curled low in my stomach.

“Avel,” I said before thinking.

His breath shifted in a barely audible exhale. It was enough to make my skin prickle.

“You should not speak my name so freely,” he murmured.

“Why not?”

“Because the first time you do it with intention,” he said, “it will undo us both.”

My pulse stumbled.

Silence stretched between us—dark, taut, intimate.

He stepped behind me, close enough for his warmth to radiate through the thin fabric of my dress.

“Face the stage,” he instructed.

I did.

“Now,” he whispered near my ear, “sing.”

“But—there’s no accompaniment...”

“You don’t need accompaniment,” his voice dipped lower. “You need breath, and intent, and the knowledge that I am listening.”

I inhaled, but my breath trembled.

A gloved hand rested gently on my shoulder blade.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

I did and began.

The first note shook, but the second steadied. The third deepened, warmed, and unfurled into the empty opera house.

My voice echoed through the dark auditorium, filling its hollows and stirring dust from velvet. It felt different from earlier—more exposed, more intimate. As if the stage below absorbed the sound and fed it back to me. Avel didn’t move.

I felt him.

Watching.

Attuned.

Possessed by the sound.

I sang until the last note faded into the ribs of the theatre.

Silence followed, thick and trembling.

Avel exhaled like a surrender. Slowly, he stepped around to face me.

“Your voice,” he said quietly, “will ruin me.”

My breath caught. “My Lord—”

“And I,” he added, “will ruin you if you let me.”

Heat rushed through me so swiftly that my knees weakened.

He lifted his hand again, brushing the ribbon of hair that had fallen loose against my collarbone. A brief, almost reverent touch.

Then he stepped back.

The distance returned.

“Go now,” he murmured. “Before I take more than your voice tonight.”

The words didn’t wound. They branded.

I turned, unsteady, toward the door. But before I crossed the threshold, he spoke again—softly, darkly, with promise. “Until tomorrow, Miss Wynn."