Chapter 2 THE DEVIL'S HOUSE

Elara

The car smells like polished leather and the faint, acrid tang of gunpowder.

I sit very still, my spine rigid, my knees hovering above the seat to avoid smudging the pristine upholstery. The man-Asher-sits across from me, his long legs crossed, his gloved hands resting on his knees.

His pale blue eyes, sharp and unblinking, study me like I'm a puzzle he's already solved. The weight of his gaze presses against my skin, heavier than the orphanage's closet walls ever were.

"Cold?" he asks, his voice smooth but edged, like a blade wrapped in velvet. He holds out a blanket, its wool soft and gray, the kind of luxury I've only seen in stolen glimpses through shop windows.

I shake my head, my breath forming fleeting clouds in the chilled air of the car. My fingers curl into the hem of my bloodstained dress, the fabric stiff and tacky against my skin. I won't take his offerings. Not yet. Kindness always has a price.

Outside the tinted window, St. Cecilia's burns. Orange flames claw at the black sky, devouring the rotting wood and peeling paint of the only home I've ever known.

The matron's screams pierce the night, shrill and desperate, before they're swallowed by the roar of the fire. I don't look at the blaze. Instead, I count the cracks in the car's window-one, two, three-their jagged lines grounding me as the world I've survived for fifteen years crumbles to ash.

Asher's glove creaks as he flexes his fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet. "You'll like my house," he says, his tone casual, as if we're heading to a park or a bakery, not the lair of a man who kills without flinching.

His scar, a jagged slash through his left eyebrow, catches the flickering light from the fire outside, making him look both beautiful and monstrous.

The car slows, and a massive black gate looms ahead, its iron bars twisted into sharp, elegant spikes. It opens silently, as if it's been waiting for us, and we glide through into a world that feels as foreign as a dream.

The house beyond is a fortress, its tall stone walls rising like a cliff face, its narrow windows glinting like the eyes of a predator.

A fountain sits in the courtyard, its marble angel gazing skyward, but its wings are broken, jagged stumps that make my chest ache for reasons I can't name.

Asher opens my door, the cold night air rushing in. "This is yours now," he says, gesturing to the house as if he's offering me a kingdom instead of a cage.

I don't move. My bare feet press against the car's floor, the grit of the orphanage's filth still clinging to my soles. Moving feels like surrendering, and I've fought too hard to keep some shred of myself intact.

He sighs, a sound that's half exasperation, half amusement.

Then, without warning, he leans in and lifts me from the seat, his arms strong and unyielding, carrying me like a sack of flour. I don't fight. Fighting never helped at St. Cecilia's-Anna taught me that with her fists, her boots, her rusted hairpin.

Instead, I go limp, my body a silent rebellion as he carries me toward the house.

The front door closes behind us with a click, the kind of sound that seals fates. It's not just a lock; it's a promise that no one leaves without permission.

The air inside smells of lemons and something sharper, metallic, like blood or steel polished to a mirror shine. The foyer is vast, its marble floor cold under my feet when Asher sets me down, its chandelier casting fractured light across the walls.

A woman in a black dress hurries toward us, her heels clicking like gunfire. Her dark hair is pulled into a tight bun, and her eyes widen when she sees me-filthy, blood-streaked, my dress hanging off my bony frame like a shroud. "Boss, she's-"

"Bath. Food. New clothes," Asher interrupts, dropping me onto a couch so soft it feels like sinking into a cloud. His tone is clipped, authoritative, leaving no room for questions. "No blue. She hates blue."

I never told him that. The realization prickles my skin, sharp and unsettling. At the orphanage, blue was the color of the matron's apron, stained with grease and cruelty. Blue was the bruise on my wrist from Anna's grip. How does he know?

The woman-Mira, I hear him call her-nods quickly, her hands twisting nervously. She reaches for my hand, but I jerk away, my body coiled like a spring. Her eyes soften, but I don't trust softness. Softness is a trap.

Asher laughs, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through the room. "Leave her," he says, waving Mira off. "She'll follow."

And I do. Because men like Asher don't ask-they command. Because I've seen what happens when you disobey men with knives on their belts and blood on their hands.

My bare feet slap against the cold marble as I trail Mira up a sweeping staircase, the house's silence pressing against my eardrums like a living thing.

The bathroom is a blinding expanse of white tiles, the tub so large it could swallow me whole. Mira turns on the faucet, and steam rises, curling like ghosts in the air. The water churns, hot and relentless, and I stand frozen, my arms wrapped around myself.

"Can you undress yourself?" Mira asks, her voice gentle but uncertain.

I stare at her, my silence louder than any words. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing, and mutters, "Right. I'll just... turn around."

I peel off my dress, the fabric sticking to my skin where blood and dirt have fused it to me. The water burns as I step in, turning my skin red, but I don't flinch. Pain is familiar, almost comforting.

Brown filth swirls down the drain, carrying pieces of St. Cecilia's with it. Mira's hands shake as she washes my hair, her fingers snagging on the tangles.

She sees the scars-jagged lines across my back, burns on my shoulders from the cook's iron, the crescent-shaped mark on my wrist where Anna's hairpin broke the skin.

"Who did this?" she whispers, her voice cracking.

I watch the soap bubbles pop, their fragile domes collapsing one by one. I don't answer. Words are dangerous, and I've learned to hoard them.

A shadow fills the doorway. Asher leans against the frame, his arms crossed, his black coat blending into the dimness beyond. Mira jumps, nearly dropping the sponge, and scrambles to her feet.

"Out," he says, his voice low and final. Mira flees faster than I thought possible, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

Now it's just us. The water's turning cold, goosebumps prickling my arms. Asher picks up the sponge, his movements deliberate, and begins scrubbing my left arm, hard enough to make me wince.

His touch is clinical, almost angry, as if he's trying to erase the bruises, the dirt, the evidence of my past.

"These will fade," he says, his thumb pressing against a yellowing bruise on my forearm. His voice is soft but carries a weight that makes my stomach twist. "I'll make sure no one touches you again."

My eyes flick to the knife on his belt, its bone handle gleaming under the bathroom's harsh light. It's the same one he offered me in the closet, the one I refused to use on Anna.

He notices my glance, and his lips curve into a smile that's both promise and threat.

"Not even me," he adds, but the words feel like a lie. All men lie. The matron lied when she said I'd be safe. The "guests" lied when they said it wouldn't hurt. Asher's no different, no matter how softly he speaks.

He rinses my hair, the water running pink from the blood crusted in my scalp. "Do you speak?" he asks, tilting my chin to meet his gaze.

I blink, my face blank. Words are traps, and I'm not ready to step into his.

"Good," he says, wrapping me in a towel so thick it feels like armor. "Silence is power."

Mira returns with clothes-soft black leggings, a gray sweater, no buttons or strings, nothing that could be twisted into a noose.

They're practical, designed for someone who might run or fight or hide. I pull them on, the fabric strange against my clean skin, and follow Asher to a bedroom larger than the orphanage's kitchen.

The bed is piled with pillows, the window barred with iron that glints in the moonlight. The air smells faintly of wax and wood polish, a far cry from the mildew of my closet prison.

"Try to run," Asher says, his voice low as he leans close, his breath warm against my ear, "and I'll find you." His eyes search mine, sharp and unyielding. "But you won't. Because you're smart."

He waits, as if expecting me to nod, to agree, to give him something. I yawn instead, my body's exhaustion overriding my fear.

For a moment, his eyes darken, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them. Then he laughs, the sound sharp and startling. "Sleep, little ghost," he says, turning toward the door.

The lock clicks as he leaves, the sound echoing in my bones.

I sit on the bed, the mattress sinking under my weight. I count the cracks in the ceiling-four, five, six-and listen to the footsteps pacing outside, heavy and deliberate.

The house creaks, its walls settling like an old beast. Somewhere, a clock ticks, each second a reminder that time is no longer mine.

My fingers brush the pillow, and I freeze. Beneath it, hidden but deliberate, is a small knife-clean, sharp, its blade no longer than my thumb. A test. A gift. A trap.

I slip it into my sleeve, the metal cool against my wrist. Asher's playing a game, but I've survived games before. Anna's cruelty taught me to hide, to wait, to strike only when the moment is right.

The house hums with secrets. My heart beats faster, a drum against my ribs. I don't sleep. I can't. Not when the world beyond these walls is burning, and the man who calls himself my protector is both my savior and my captor