Page 46 of Broken Blades

I stepped closer. Not threatening. Just close enough that she had to tilt her head back to hold my gaze. "Ask him."

I reached past her and pushed the door open.

Warm light spilled into the hallway. The kind that came from bedside lamps instead of overhead fixtures. Neutral colors. Cream walls. Gray bedding on a queen frame centered against the far wall. Clean lines. Simple furniture. A dresser. A chair by the window. Curtains that actually looked like someone had picked them instead of ordering whatever came first in a catalog.

It was nicer than she expected.

I saw it register on her face. The slight widening of her eyes. The way her shoulders dropped half an inch before she caught herself and pulled them back up.

She'd been bracing for a cell. A closet. Some dark corner where I'd shove her and forget she existed.

Instead, she got a guest room that looked like a guest room. Clean. Functional. Safe.

I didn't soften when I spoke. "This is your room."

She stepped inside. Slow. Cautious. Like the floor might collapse if she moved too fast. Her gaze swept the space—bed, dresser, window. Checking for cameras probably. Or locks on the outside of the door. Whatever horror story she'd built in her head during the drive over.

I stayed in the doorway. Watched her shoulders stay rigid. Watched her breathing stay shallow. Watched her stand there like a deer that hadn't decided yet whether to run.

She set her suitcase down beside the dresser. Hands trembling just enough that I noticed.

"You can unpack," I said.

She didn't move. Just stood there. Back to me. Spine straight as rebar.

I paused. Let the silence stretch. Then added, "Then meet me downstairs."

She turned slightly. Not all the way. Just her head. "For what?"

"Rules. Expectations."

Her jaw tightened. She wanted to argue. I could see it building behind her eyes. But she swallowed it down. Nodded once.

I turned to leave. Got three steps into the hallway before I stopped. Looked back over my shoulder.

She was watching me. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"You're not a prisoner," I said. "But don't test boundaries."

Her breath hitched. Sharp. Audible.

I didn't wait for a response. Just walked away. Left her standing there in the warm light with her suitcase and her fear and her anger all tangled up together.

The door stayed open behind me. I didn't close it. She could do that herself.

I walked down the stairs alone. Exhaled. For a moment—just a moment—I felt something unnervingly human.

Guilt?

No.

She was scared. Confused. Alone in a stranger's house because her father traded her like currency. And for thirty days… she existed in my world. Under my roof. Subject to my rules.

I sat on the edge of the couch. Leather cold against my palms. Waited.

Listened to the faint sounds of her unpacking. Drawers sliding open. Fabric rustling. The soft thud of something hitting carpet.

She won't last two days.