Leo's jaw flexed, irritation flashing, but Jessica's presence left no room to argue.
"She stays in her own room," she added, sharp and deliberate. "And if you don't know how to control your hormones, find someone else."
Leo released Ava abruptly, pride flaring, and she stumbled into Jessica's arms, clutching her as if she were the only solid thing in the world. Relief shook her from head to toe.
"Thank you," Ava whispered, voice raw, tiny against the weight of the room.
"I'm sorry that you have to go through this...," Jessica murmured, calm and steady. She turned to the others, authority understated but absolute. "Jack, take her to her room."
Jack stepped forward smoothly, hand extended, posture controlled, everything Leo was not. "This way," he said.
Ava wiped her cheeks, legs weak but moving. The hallway stretched before her, unfamiliar and dangerous, but it was safer than Leo's grasp. And for now, that was enough.
The corridor stretched ahead of Ava like a tunnel of muted shadows, each footstep echoing off cold and polished floor. It felt less like a home than a labyrinth, a place where the line between guest and prisoner blurred into nothing. Her chest tightened as she walked, absorbing the oppressive quiet, the smell of gun oil faint beneath the perfume of expensive cologne. There were rooms here for people like her, she could feel it even before Jack spoke.
Jack slowed at a door, his hand resting on the handle. His expression held that same small, apologetic tilt he'd worn since Leo had left them. "That's not your room," he said quietly, his voice low enough that the walls wouldn't carry it. "The room next to yours, that's for the guests we don't welcome."
Ava didn't need him to explain. She already knew. The cold truth coiled inside her like wire, but she made her voice steady. "I know."
Jack's face was unreadable, his eyes flickering between duty and something softer. Without another word, he guided her toward a different door and opened it. The hinges sighed, the door closed behind them with a soft, definite click that sounded more like a lock than a promise of safety. Outside, the muffled sound of male voices drifted through the corridor, plotting, joking, moving on as if nothing had happened. Inside, the air was still and heavy, a sanctuary built on bare walls.
Ava sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. The mattress barely dipped beneath her weight, firm and impersonal. Her hands trembled in her lap until she clasped them together to stop it. She felt the tears sting before they fell, each one a small, hard admission, this was real. She had to survive it.
Jack lingered at the doorway, one hand still on the knob. "If you need anything," he said quietly, "my room is right next to yours."
There was a thread of something human in his voice, concern he couldn't quite hide. Ava nodded, but no sound came out. Jack's gaze held hers for a beat longer than necessary, then he gently closed the door behind him.
The silence that followed was heavy. Ava let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and collapsed backward onto the bed. The unfamiliar mattress pressed against her shoulder blades like an accusation. Thoughts spiraled as soon as her head hit the pillow.
What's going to happen to me?
The question pulsed in her skull until tears welled up and slid down her cheeks. At first, she didn't even know why she was crying. No one would come looking for her. There were no parents to call the police, not many friends to plaster her face on social media. She was, in every measurable way, untethered.
Her whisper cracked in the small room. "Isn't this what you always wanted, Ava?" The words tasted bitter even as they left her mouth. No responsibilities. No noise. No expectations.
But the moment she said it, the tears came harder. She curled into the pillow, clutching it as if it could anchor her, and let the pain burn itself down to embers until exhaustion finally dragged her under.
__________
By the next hour, the dining hall had already come alive. Plates clattered, knives and forks chimed, and the low murmur of conversation filled the room. Steam curled from the dishes, pasta, eggs, toast, sausages, a breakfast that felt both ordinary and out of place under the weight of the house's usual tension. No one complained.
"Woah, pasta!" Mason exclaimed, sliding into his chair with the kind of energy that suggested he'd run a marathon. "I'm starving." Dylan and the others followed suit, pulling out chairs and digging in with an almost mechanical appetite.
Jessica's eyes scanned the table, landing finally on Jack. There was a subtle tightness around her mouth, a quiet vigilance only those who had lived with danger could maintain. "Where's Ava?"
"In her room," Jack replied evenly, his gaze fixed on his plate. "I think she needs some time alone." There was no judgment in his tone, only observation, a quiet acknowledgment of the fragile equilibrium in the house.
Jessica hummed, staring down at her own plate, her fork hesitating mid-air. The silence that settled afterward was dense, heavy with unspoken thoughts, until Leo broke it without looking up.
"John," he said smoothly, voice low but commanding. "Take her breakfast to her room."
Every head snapped up. Forks paused, knives hovered mid-cut, the clatter of the table suspended for a fraction of a second as if the command itself had pulled time taut.
John blinked, caught off guard, then exhaled lightly and shrugged. "Yeah… okay," he said, returning to his plate with the casual ease of someone who had learned to obey first and question later.
David raised a brow, the sharpness in his eyes as cutting as the tone in his voice. "Oh? Now you've started taking care of her?" His comment was dry, like sandpaper scraping over tension, and it skimmed the edge of both jest and challenge.
Leo scoffed, the motion smooth, dismissive, as though the very notion of care was beneath him. "No. I just don't want to see her right now."
David rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
No one laughed. The quiet clinking of silverware and the scraping of plates continued, the normalcy of breakfast attempting to assert itself over the subtle undercurrent of danger. Yet beneath the chatter, a weight lingered. Ava's presence was no longer a question, she was here. And whether the men at the table liked it or not, the dynamics of the house had shifted. Something unspoken had changed.
Every glance, every movement, carried the reminder, life in this house would no longer be the same.
To be continued