She could barely sleep after counting sheep
Her body rests, but her mind churns, wrapping itself around his words. 'Devotion can be earned. It lingers, insidious, as if he has already decided the outcome.
By morning, she's prepared for whatever test he has planned. She was prepared to fight whatever head on.
When she stepped out of her room, the world outside the estate is different.
The guards are gone. The front doors—once bolted shut—are open. The breeze carries the scent of freedom.
She freezes.
'This is A trick. A trap! He wouldn't just—' She deliberated carefully.
"You can go," his voice murmurs behind her, calm as ever. "Leave, if that is what you truly want." He felt no different from how he was yesterday.
Her breath catches in her throat as she turns, finding him standing at the foot of the stairs, watching her with nothing but certainty.
He was testing her. Calling her bluff.
If she steps outside… does she prove she was never his?
Or does she prove exactly what he's been waiting for?
She doesn't move.
She should. The open doors—the invitation to leave—it's right there. A path carved by her own stubborn refusal to belong to him.
But her pulse betrays her. Her breathing is too shallow, too unsure.
She lifts her chin. "You think this proves something?"
His lips curl at the edges, a quiet smirk. "It already has."
A flicker of heat rushes beneath her skin. Annoyance? Fear? No—something worse. Something thrilling.
"I told you," he continues, stepping closer, deliberate, slow, devouring the space between them. "One day, you will stay because you want to. Not because I keep you here. Not because you have nowhere else to go."
His fingers brush her wrist—the same place where the chain once rested. Where his claim still lingers.
"And I will let you go," he murmurs, his voice dark with certainty. "If you tell me that walking out those doors will bring you more peace than staying here with me."
She swallows the iump in her throat.
The answer should be simple. It should spill from her lips, sharp as a blade—Yes. I want to leave.
But it doesn't.
Because peace isn't what she feels. Not with him. Not with the way he looks at her like she is the only thing in the world worth keeping.
Her pulse stutters. Her silence was the answer.
His smirk deepened, but he didn't gloat. He simply lifted her hand, pressing a kiss against her knuckles—It was a silent declaration of victory.
"Welcome home," he whispers.
---
Her hand still tingles where his lips brushed against her skin.
She tells herself it's nothing—that it should mean nothing to her. That she is simply his toy, just like how it was back then.
Yet when he turns, motioning toward the dining hall, she follows without fuss.
The estate was eerliy quiet, sunlight slipping through the grand windows, casting gold onto polished marble floors. It was too peaceful and deceptive.
Her steps were careful as they reached the dining room, where the table was already set—silverware perfectly placed, steam rising from plated dishes.
She hesitated at the threshold. He orchestrated this whole thing.
Sit." His voice is calm, but there's no room for refusal.
She does—if only because standing feels more defiant than she has the energy for.
He takes his seat across from her, pouring dark coffee into a porcelain cup, his movements unrushed, as if nothing about this is unusual. As if she wasn't his prisoner. As if she had chosen to be here.
The quiet stretches between them until he finally spoke. "You'll get used to this." He uttered.
Her grip tightens around her fork.
The worst part? She was afraid that he would end up being right.
She watches him carefully—every movement, every glance. He's too composed, too patient, as if he knows something she doesn't.
That deduction unsettled her.
She takes a slow sip of her tea, the warmth grounding her, even as uncertainty lingers beneath her ribs. "Why are you doing this? You'd get nothing. Money is certainly out of the question." She spoke calmly.
His fork stills against his plate, but he doesn't look surprised by the question. Instead, he leans back, studying her like a delicate puzzle piece he's already figured out.
"Because you are mine," he says simply. "And soon, you will understand that."
She exhales sharply.
"I am not yours." She retorted.
He smirks. "Yet."
Her grip tightens around her cup.
That single word feels heavier than it should.
She sets her cup down with deliberate precision.
"You think this is inevitable? amusing?" She laughed at the idea.
He tilts his head, smiling like she's just asked the most amusing question.
"Yes, alot."
Her pulse kicks beneath her skin. She realized that confidence, certainty—were dangerous things.
"Well you're wrong." She laughed louder out of spite.
He chuckles, slow, indulgent. "Then why are you still here?"
The words dug deeper and sharper than she expected it to.
She should argue—she should spit something back, tell him she's waiting for the right moment to escape.
But his gaze holds her in place, chill and somewhat all-knowing.
She exhales, steadying herself. Holding her anger and frustration back. "I have no choice."
His smirk fades, his expression turning into something visceral.
"No," he murmurs, his voice was gentle, yet nuanced something
"You do. And every day, you will choose me anyway."
She didn't hear him say this and carried on with eating.
Despite her situation, she'd rather choose to eat than die of starvation.
That atmosphere fell back into an uncomfortable silence. His words—his quiet, unwavering certainty—lingered in the air, wrapping around her like unseen chains.
She wants to argue, to deny the control he wields over her heart.
But before she can speak, his voice lowers.
"Back then, when you left me..." His fingers toy with the edge of his coffee cup, but his gaze never wavered infront of her.
She held her breath, her fingers stiffen around the silverware, and for the first time, his didn't display any emotions.
She doesn't breathe for a moment.
The room felt too still—like the air was waiting with her.
"You say you have no choice," he murmurs, eyes locked on hers, "But I remember a time when you made one."
Her fingers twitch against her side, and suddenly, the porcelain cup to her side feels like a loaded weapon.
"What are you talking about?" she asks, voice low and brittle. He studies her. Not with cruelty, but with something worse. Reminiscent.
"Back then," he says softly,
Her stomach flips. She thought—hoped—he hadn't noticed. That the lie had held.
But of course it hadn't.
"Tell me, Lilith," he says, gaze sharpening, "did you get rid of our child?"
The silence after was fierce.
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away.
But she doesn't answer.