I hesitate for only a second before pulling open a drawer. Inside are documents—some recent, some faded. My hands tremble as I flip through them. At first it’s just names I don’t recognize, addresses and account numbers that mean nothing. Then, a familiar word leaps out:Whitmore.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. I turn the page and freeze. It’s a photograph, clipped to a report—my mentor, Professor Harris, standing beside a city councilman, both faces blurred by age and low light. The caption lists a date from last year and a project name I recognize from my own investigation.
I barely have time to process what it means before the air in the room shifts. The hairs on my neck rise. I look up.
Lukyan stands in the doorway, silent, unreadable.
He moves with measured calm, closing the distance in three slow steps. I clutch the file tight to my chest, but he doesn’t rip it away. He just holds out his hand, palm up, gaze steady.
“Give it to me,” he says quietly.
I hesitate, every instinct screaming at me to argue. But I do as he says, letting the folder fall into his grasp. He flips through the pages, eyes cold and clinical, then snaps it shut with one hand.
“You’re playing with fire, Clara.”
I straighten my spine, willing my voice to steady. “I already burned once.”
For a moment, we just stare at each other, the tension thick and heavy between us. I want to move, to step back or reach out—anything to break the standoff—but I can’t. I’m too aware of how close he is, of the faint scent of spice and smoke clinging to his clothes, of the way his eyes never waver from mine.
He locks the drawer with a soft click, never breaking eye contact. “This is my world. You’re too soft to survive in it.”
I flinch—not because the words hurt, but because of the gentleness in his tone. He says it almost like a warning, almost like a plea.
“I’m not as soft as you think,” I manage, though my breath hitches as I speak.
He studies me for a long, silent moment. His expression is hard to read—there’s no obvious anger, no threat, but a depth I can’t decipher. When he finally steps back, the sudden distance feels like a cold wind rushing in.
“If you want to stay alive, you’ll listen,” he says. Then, without another word, he leaves, closing the door behind him with deliberate care.
I stand in the silent room, pulse racing, breath tight in my chest. I stare at the locked drawer, my mind racing with questions and half-formed theories. What did I just see? Why is my mentor’s face in his files? Was I ever truly chasing the right story, or have I been a pawn from the start?
That night, I lie awake for hours, replaying every second in the study. I remember the look in Lukyan’s eyes—not just cold calculation, but something darker, something close to regret. It unsettles me more than any threat could.
For the first time since he took me, my hatred falters. I want to believe he’s nothing but a monster. I want to hold on to the anger that keeps me strong. But his words echo in my mind, and so does the softness I glimpsed beneath them.
I roll over, facing the barred window, trying to convince myself it was all in my imagination. I can’t. I don’t know if that makes me weaker—or if it means I’m finally seeing the truth for what it is.
Sleep refuses to come. I stare at the ceiling, replaying the moment his hand brushed mine as he took the folder—the heat of his presence, the steadiness in his eyes. I want to forget the way my body reacts to him, but I can’t.
I think about my mentor’s photograph, about secrets buried beneath polished floors and heavy curtains. If Lukyan is right, maybe I am in over my head. But I can’t let fear replace curiosity, not now.
Every new detail I uncover only deepens the questions.
A sliver of moonlight breaks through the curtains’ gap, painting patterns on the rug. I close my eyes and try to imagine a life beyond these walls—a life where I’m free, where truth isn’t tangled with danger and longing.
Even in the dark, I feel him lingering at the edge of my thoughts. It’s infuriating, and yet somehow, it keeps me from feeling truly alone.
My world has shrunk to this mansion, to Lukyan’s voice, to the questions I can’t stop asking. I’m no longer sure which one frightens me more.
The mansion feels smaller after what happened in the study. Every hallway echoes with the memory of his nearness, the tension that passed between us when he closed the drawer and looked at me as if he could see every unspoken thought.
I catch myself listening for his footsteps now, sensing the subtle shifts in the air that tell me when he’s close. There’s a strange kind of gravity to his presence, a pull I hate as much as I can’t ignore.
The next morning, I try to keep my routine as normal as possible. I make my way down the main staircase, past a guard who pretends not to watch me, and into the breakfast room. Usually, my meal is left waiting on a tray, and I eat alone atthe long table while the staff slips in and out with quick, silent efficiency.
Today, I find Lukyan already sitting at the head of the table, reading a newspaper, coffee steaming at his right hand.
He glances up as I enter, and our eyes meet for one charged second. It feels like a confession, accidental and raw, the memory of last night hanging between us. I force myself not to look away.
