“I do, because there aren’t many who would have acted that way and you…” I paused a moment longer before I spoke again.
“You could have left them,” I said quietly, and when he continued to wordlessly watch me, I pressed on.
“You could have told me they wouldn’t hurt me and made me walk past them anyway. You could have mocked it or dismissed it, but you didn’t.” I finished with a breathless sigh, because it was all true. He could have easily belittled my fear like others before him had. He could have asserted control and forced me to endure it. But instead, he had altered his own space to accommodate it.
That mattered to me.
His gaze held mine for a fraction longer, the silence between us making me fidget. Something he also noticed as my hands twisted the material of my skirt. Which was most likely why he reached out and took my hand in his, before bringing it to his lips so that he could kiss the back of my palm.
He then inclined his head once, the gesture sweet and almost formal as he told me softly,
“You’re very welcome, Eliza.”
He opened the carved door and shifted out of my way, his motion unhurried, as if this moment meant something to him. I was also left wondering where this thought came from as I stepped through.
However, my thoughts faltered the second the space around me transformed without warning. The ruin of marble and dust disappeared behind me, replaced by a vast entrance hall thatseemed impossibly grand for the steel shell I had once thought housed it.
Black and ivory marble stretched beneath my feet in a precise geometric pattern that gleamed faintly beneath the glow of an enormous iron candelabra suspended high above. Dozens of candles burned within it. Their flames were steady yet alive, sending trembling shadows upward into elaborate plaster molding that climbed the walls and disappeared into darkness.
It was beautiful.
And yet something about the scale of it, the silence of it, pressed faintly at the edges of my nerves. Even more so when I looked ahead to find a sweeping staircase that curved upward at the far end of the hall. Its banister carved in dark oak that matched the paneling which lined the lower walls. To one side, a great marble fireplace stood carved with intricate detailing, its fire lit but low, the heat barely reaching where I stood. The flames reflected in a tall mirror mounted above the mantle, doubling the light and deepening the illusion of space.
The air carried the scent of old wood and polished stone, touched with something darker beneath it, something warm and unfamiliar that lingered in the back of my throat.
Behind me, the door shut, and I flinched before I could stop myself. The sound wasn’t loud, yet it reverberated through the hall with a depth that felt final. In the next instant, warmth closed in behind me as Oblivion stepped forward. His hands settling firmly yet gently at the tops of my arms, steadying rather than restraining. His touch was grounding, the heat of him cutting through the chill that had crept along my spine.
“Easy,”he murmured, his voice low near my ear, the word brushing over me softer than the echo of the door had been.
“You’re safe here.”The reassurance in his tone didn’t feel rehearsed but more like instinctive. Especially when his hands remained there a moment longer than necessary. His thumbsbarely shifting against the fabric at my sleeves as if ensuring I was truly steady, before he stepped back, releasing me without reluctance.
Then, in a gesture that felt both old-fashioned and quietly commanding, he extended his arm.
An invitation or an expectation, I didn’t know, as for a moment I simply looked at it. The gentlemanly behavior should have felt absurd given how I came to be here. He had basically kidnapped me, threatening to toss me over his shoulder and carry me out of my home, screaming if necessary. Yet despite this, right now, it strangely fit in with who he was and where we now stood. As it didn’t feel, in any way, mocking or performative. No, instead it felt natural to him. Expected even.
As for my own instincts, part of me knew that I should refuse. My hopeless mind trying to cling on to the memory of what I was to him. That I was his prisoner. Which was why I had to question my sanity when I reached for him as though he were someone safe to cling to. Someone to help me navigate my way through this new madness.
He had said I was safe and, irrationally, I believed him, despite how dangerous that could end up being. Was it because of what he had done with the statues? Because he had destroyed stone without hesitation simply to ease a fear? Or was it because standing here in a space that radiated power and history, I understood that if anything in it chose to turn hostile, he would be the only thing capable of standing between it and me?
The thought should have frightened me more than it did.
Instead,it anchored me.
If something were to shift in the shadows right now, if glowing eyes were to emerge, I knew without doubt I would not run from him. That I would move toward him, and that truth settled heavily in my chest.
So slowly, before I could talk myself out of it, I placed my hand lightly against his offered arm. Muscle tensed slightly beneath my touch, but beyond the faintest tightening of his posture, he didn’t react further. Yet I felt the subtle shift nonetheless, as though something unspoken had just been acknowledged between us. Perhaps the slightest hint of trust forming.
“Come,” he said softly, and this time, I followed more willingly than before. His arm remained steady beneath my hand as we began to cross the imposing entrance hall. The marble beneath my heels echoed far too loudly as we made our way toward the staircase.
To my left, a set of double doors stood slightly ajar, and I couldn’t help but look. Beyond them lay a drawing room that felt almost disarmingly human. A low fire burned steadily within another hearth, its glow casting warmth across deep green upholstery and a scattering of cushions that looked less staged and more disturbed. As though someone had risen from them not long ago. A book lay open on a side table beside an armchair, its spine bent mid-read. A glass rested nearby, amber liquid catching the firelight.
Not a throne room. Not a lair, but instead a room that looked lived in. On the opposite side of the hall, another doorway revealed a long dining table laid not in opulence, but in readiness. Polished wood reflecting even more candlelight with high-backed chairs slightly angled as if recently used rather than ceremonially aligned.
The house didn’t feel staged as often as such luxury did, but instead it felt more like a home its owner enjoyed. And that unsettled me in an entirely different way. For a moment, I simply stared.
“All of this in… in a warehouse?” I murmured, unable to mask the surprise in my voice.
“Like I said, people see what I want them to see,” he said evenly as he continued to lead me past the open doors, and I tightened my fingers unconsciously against his arm.
