The sunlight spilled into the room, warming the soft sheets where she had slept. Diana's fingers still lingered on the lock of black hair, her stomach twisting with a mixture of embarrassment, curiosity, and something she couldn't name.
A soft click echoed through the door. She froze, heart skipping.
"Diana," he said, his voice calm, measured, as though nothing unusual had occurred.
She didn't dare move, didn't dare speak.
He stepped inside, dark eyes scanning the room, taking in the sunlight, the neatly arranged clothes, the small signs of her presence. And yet… there was no anger, no reproach. Only observation.
"Good morning," he said lightly, as if he were greeting a guest rather than someone he had invaded in the night. "Sleep well?"
She nodded slowly, cheeks warming. "Y-Yes…"
He approached her bed, hands in his pockets, relaxed but still radiating that quiet authority that made her stomach clench. He stopped just short of the mattress, letting the tension hang between them like a tangible thread.
"I hope you're not imagining things," he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You didn't see anything unusual last night. Nothing happened."
Her pulse raced. "I… I didn't see anything…"
He let the words hang, though his eyes flicked subtly toward her wrist, where the silver bracelet gleamed in the morning light. A reminder of the claim he had over her.
"Good," he said finally. His voice softened almost imperceptibly. "Because… what happens in my house stays in my house."
Her stomach twisted in confusion. Was that reassurance? A warning? Or both?
He stepped back slightly, leaning casually against the desk by the window. "Now," he said, eyes glinting, "get ready. Today, you begin learning what it means to live in my world. And I will be watching you… closely."
She swallowed hard, gripping the sheets lightly. Every nerve in her body was alert, her mind spinning with thoughts of the night, of him, of the strange, powerful presence he carried.
I belong to him, she thought, heart pounding. And there's nothing I can do about it.
Yet beneath that acceptance, a spark of something else burned—curiosity, defiance, and an unspoken desire to see just how far this strange, dangerous man would take her.
He turned, moving toward the door. "Come. Breakfast is waiting, and so are the lessons."
She rose, following, her steps tentative but obedient. And as she did, a small, reckless thought crossed her mind: If I am his… maybe I don't want to leave.
The corridor was long, lined with polished wood and soft rugs that muted their footsteps. Light spilled through tall windows, catching the faint shimmer of her silver bracelet as she followed a step behind him.
Every corner of the villa spoke of power — cold, quiet power. The kind that didn't need to shout to be felt.
He stopped abruptly. She nearly bumped into him.
"First rule," he said without turning. "When I stop, you stop."
His voice wasn't loud, but it slid into her like a blade wrapped in silk. She froze.
Then he finally turned, one dark brow slightly raised. "Good."
They walked again. He didn't explain where they were going — she wasn't supposed to ask. At the far end of the hall, heavy double doors opened to a room unlike any she'd seen before.
A wide space with floor-to-ceiling windows, dark wooden shelves, leather chairs, and a massive table that looked carved from a single piece of ancient tree. In one corner stood a low platform — like a place for someone to kneel or present themselves.
"This is my office," he said simply. "My world begins here. What I say here matters."
She swallowed, unsure whether to stand or sit.
"Second rule," he continued, circling her like a slow-moving shadow. "Never speak before I allow you to. Not in my world. Not in my house. Understand?"
"Yes," she whispered.
He stopped behind her, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath at the back of her neck. "Louder."
"Yes." Her voice trembled, but it came out stronger this time.
"Good," he murmured, almost like a purr. His tone wasn't entirely cruel — it carried the weight of someone who expected obedience… and enjoyed testing how far he could push it.
He moved in front of her again, leaning casually on the edge of the desk. "Here, you will learn how to behave like someone who belongs to me. You'll speak when spoken to. You'll keep your head high, even when others look down on you. You'll walk with the confidence of someone who carries my name on her wrist."
He tapped her bracelet with his fingertip — a quiet, claiming sound.
"I'll teach you how to move, how to speak, how to breathe in front of my kind. Because if you don't…" His voice dropped lower, softer, almost intimate. "…they'll tear you apart. And I won't stop them."
A shiver ran down her spine. It wasn't just the threat — it was the certainty in his tone.
He straightened up, watching her carefully. "Kneel."
She hesitated only a heartbeat before lowering herself to the floor. Her knees met the cool rug. Her hands settled at her sides. Her heart hammered.
"Look up."
Her gaze rose, meeting his dark, unreadable eyes.
"Yes," he said quietly, tilting his head just slightly, like a predator inspecting its catch. "That's how you survive here."
A moment stretched between them — sharp and heavy, but not cruel. It wasn't just domination. There was a strange pull beneath his control, something that made her blood hum.
He finally turned away, breaking the spell. "That's enough for now. We'll eat."
She exhaled slowly, only then realizing she had been holding her breath. Her legs trembled slightly as she stood.
And as he opened the door for her to follow, she thought, He's not just teaching me rules.
He's shaping me into someone who belongs to his world.
They ate in silence at first.
The food had been brought in by silent servants — fresh bread, fruit, and steaming plates of roasted meat. The aroma filled the office, mixing with the faint scent of smoke and his cologne — dark, sharp, expensive.
He sat across from her, cutting his food with deliberate, unhurried precision.
She wasn't sure if she was supposed to eat before him. So she waited.
He noticed. Of course he did.
"You can eat," he said at last, not looking up.
She picked up her fork carefully. The first bite was warm, rich. It almost startled her — the sanctuary's meals were bland, meant to fill, not to enjoy. Here, every taste felt alive.
When she dared to glance at him, his eyes were already on her.
He studied the way she held her fork, how she chewed, how her eyes moved across the table.
It wasn't just observation — it was assessment.
"You've never eaten food like this before," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"No," she admitted softly. "Everything was… rationed there. Measured."
He leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "Of course it was. Sanctuaries aren't built for living — they're built for breeding."
Her chest tightened at the cold truth in his tone. But beneath that chill, she sensed something else — bitterness.
He continued, his voice low. "They call it protection, but it's control. Every female inside those walls is made to forget there's a world beyond it."
She looked up at him then. "You know about them?"
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "I know more than most would admit."
A pause.
"Tell me," she said cautiously, "what is the world outside? What is… this place, really?"
For a moment, his gaze softened. Then he shook his head, as if reminding himself who he was. "You wouldn't understand yet."
"Then teach me."
The words escaped her before she could stop them.
His eyes snapped to hers — sharp, questioning.
"I don't want to just… exist," she continued, her voice trembling but steady. "I want to know where I am. What I'm part of."
Silence stretched between them. The ticking clock on the wall filled it, one slow second after another.
Finally, he set his fork down. "Most from your world never ask that question."
"Maybe they don't remember how."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't quite amusement — more like reluctant respect.
"You'll regret wanting to know," he said softly. "Curiosity can be dangerous here."
"I already regret less than being blind," she replied.
He studied her for a long time, the tension in the air thick and quiet. Then, almost to himself, he murmured, "You really are different."
He stood, his chair sliding back with a whisper against the floor. "Fine. I'll show you pieces of it — when I decide you're ready."
Her heart leapt.
"Thank you," she said quickly, lowering her gaze again.
"Don't thank me," he said, walking toward the window. "I'm not doing it for you."
But as his reflection glimmered in the glass — dark hair, sharp eyes, and the faint twitch of something unseen beneath his skin — she realized something he didn't say aloud.
He was doing it for her. Or perhaps, for what she made him feel — a spark he hadn't wanted to notice.