Chapter 10 The Ones Who Watch

You wake not to peace, not to calm, but to stillness so precise it feels engineered.

No birdsong outside the window.

No footsteps in the hall.

Just the thick, oppressive quiet of a house holding its breath.

You blink up at the ceiling, your body curled in the center of the bed like you instinctively knew not to take up space. The sheets are cool and twisted, a mess of silk and unrest. The fire in your room has died down to a dull orange ember, casting long shadows that reach for you like fingers.

Last night plays again in your mind. But not like memory.

Like evidence.

You watched Liana touch Adrian, saw how he let her. Not because he still loved her-but because she knew him in ways you haven't earned yet. And maybe never will.

She didn't come back to claim him.

She came to remind him of the version of himself she survived.

And now, you're starting to understand just how many versions there are.

A knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. Not loud. Not hesitant.

Just... exact.

You sit up, heart ticking faster. "Yes?"

The door opens a second later, and a woman steps in.

You don't know her.

She's not like the other staff-those silent, practiced ghosts who slip in and out of rooms like they were born in the shadows. No. This one stands tall, spine military-straight, eyes sharp. Dressed in a steel-gray uniform that doesn't announce authority but doesn't need to.

Her gaze lands on you like a loaded weapon.

"You're wanted downstairs," she says, voice even.

You open your mouth to ask something-who she is, where exactly she's taking you-but nothing comes out. You just nod.

She doesn't wait. She turns.

And you follow.

The hallway feels colder today. The walls tighter. Like something unseen is listening.

She doesn't speak as she leads you past the rooms you've come to recognize-the glass corridor, the solarium, the west-facing gallery-and into a hallway you've never noticed before. This one is narrower. Older. The wallpaper darker, less maintained.

At the end, there's a room.

No grand door. No gold handles. Just dark wood. Closed.

The woman knocks once, then opens it without waiting for a response.

Inside, the light is dim, filtered through sheer curtains that make everything look bruised. The space is small but curated-bookshelves that reach the ceiling, a fire flickering low, and glass display cases holding strange, beautiful things.

Adrian is standing near the hearth.

Liana sits in a wingback chair like she's lived there for years, her robe replaced with something more formal but no less dangerous. A soft gray dress clings to her like smoke, her legs crossed, her fingers resting lazily on the armrest like a queen surveying her court.

And then you see him.

The stranger.

He stands near the center of the room, tall, dark-haired, dressed in tailored black. There's nothing soft about him-not his face, not his stance, not his expression. He looks like someone who doesn't make threats.

Only decisions.

Adrian's eyes meet yours, unreadable.

"This is Roman," he says. "He's here for a few days."

You nod slowly. But your gaze doesn't leave Roman.

There's something in him-something worse than Adrian's control. Worse than Liana's games.

Roman doesn't need to dominate a room.

He is the room.

He steps closer, his smile small and sharp. "You must be the girl," he says.

You bristle. Not at the words. At the way he says them-like you're not quite real yet.

"I have a name."

"I'm sure you do," he replies, unconcerned. "But for now, I'm just interested in watching."

A silence stretches.

You look to Adrian, but his expression is the same.

Carefully neutral.

Liana lets out a soft laugh. "She doesn't like being observed."

"Then she chose the wrong house," Roman says, eyes still on you. "Or maybe it chose her."

Something shifts in Adrian at that. A faint tightening of the jaw. A flicker of something colder behind the eyes.

You glance at him. "What is this?"

Adrian answers without looking at you.

"A test," he says.

Of course it is.

Roman begins to move slowly through the room, observing the cases along the walls. "You want to know who you're really dealing with?" he asks, stopping in front of one.

He gestures to an object behind the glass. A small music box.

"This was the first thing he ever stole."

You blink.

Roman smiles faintly. "Did he tell you that part? He was ten. Didn't even flinch when they caught him. Just looked the man in the eye and said, 'It was always mine. I just took it back.'"

Liana hums. "He's always had a thing for reclaiming what he believes belongs to him."

She doesn't look at you.

But the message is clear.

You're not here because you were needed.

You're here because you were chosen.

Claimed.

Roman turns back to you. "You still think this is about love?"

You don't answer.

Adrian steps forward, his voice quiet. "Roman's presence is temporary. He's not to be questioned. He's not to be followed. He's here to observe-and nothing more."

Roman's gaze lingers on you.

"Be careful," he says softly. "Some things look beautiful while they're breaking."

You look at Adrian.

And for the first time, you wonder:

Are you the thing being watched?

Or the thing being prepared?

Because either way-

Someone expects you to fall.

You don't remember walking back to your room.

You must have, somehow. You're barefoot. Your pulse won't calm down. And your fingers ache from being clenched too long.

You sit on the edge of the bed, but you can still feel the weight of Roman's eyes on you, even now. Not hungry. Not cruel.

Curious.

Like he was trying to measure the shape of your soul.

Like he'd seen others break before-and was only waiting for you to join the collection.

You should have asked Adrian more. Demanded it. Who was Roman? What kind of man walks into a room and is obeyed without question? Even Liana deferred to him. Even Adrian chose silence over explanation.

And that silence-it wasn't fear.

It was...debt.

You pull your knees up to your chest, trying to shut the thoughts out, but they won't leave. They loop like static in your skull.

You want to believe this is still a game. Still a slow, twisted seduction that ends with Adrian pulling you into his arms and telling you it was all to prove a point.

But your gut tells you this chapter isn't about you.

It's about what's being tested through you.

A knock interrupts your thoughts.

You don't answer.

You don't have to.

The door opens anyway.

Adrian steps inside like he owns every space he walks into-which he does. Except this time, he doesn't move with predatory grace or quiet arrogance.

He moves like someone choosing his words before they reach his lips.

You stare at him. "What is he?"

Adrian stops. Doesn't ask who you mean.

Because he knows.

"He's a gatekeeper," Adrian says softly. "One of the people who built the world I live in."

You frown. "So you work for him?"

"No. I owe him."

Your stomach knots. "For what?"

Adrian doesn't answer.

He walks over instead, crouching in front of you. He rests his hands on your thighs like he's done it a thousand times, his thumbs moving in slow, deliberate circles.

"I never wanted you to meet him."

You swallow. "Then why did you let him come?"

"Because he asked."

That's all he says.

But the way he says it...

Like refusal wasn't even an option.

You lean back, eyes searching his face. "Is this still about the contract?"

He exhales, eyes falling to your mouth. "No."

"Then what is it about?"

He straightens, stepping back like your proximity is too much now. He crosses the room to the window and draws the curtains back halfway. The gray afternoon light slants in.

"You're not being tested," he says. "I am."

The floor tilts under you.

You sit forward, slowly. "Tested for what?"

Adrian turns, and there's something raw in the way he looks at you.

"To see if I can keep you."

You blink.

He walks closer again, slower now, voice quieter.

"Roman doesn't believe in attachment. He thinks it's weakness disguised as sentiment. He trained me to never need anyone. Not love. Not softness. Not-"

You.

He doesn't say it.

But you hear it anyway.

"And Liana?" you ask.

Adrian's jaw tightens. "She was never meant to be permanent. She was the final test. The one who didn't make it out."

Your breath catches. "What does that mean?"

But he looks away again.

And you realize-he's not going to tell you.

Because some truths in this house aren't meant to be spoken.

They're meant to be endured.

The door creaks again.

This time, it's not Roman.

It's Liana.

She leans against the frame, elegant and amused, one brow lifted like she's walked in on the world's most boring tragedy.

"You're not doing a very good job hiding her," she says to Adrian.

"She's not meant to be hidden."

"No," Liana replies, stepping into the room. "But she's not meant to be kept, either. Roman's watching for cracks. And she's already halfway open."

You stand, but Liana's eyes are already on you.

"There's a reason no one else made it past this house," she says softly. "Because the ones who stay-stay broken. Or worse... unfinished."

Adrian cuts her a look. "That's enough."

But she only smiles.

"Let her hear it," she murmurs. "Let her know what it means to be chosen by a man like you. Let her know that being desired by a fire doesn't mean you'll survive the burning."

She turns to leave-but pauses at the door.

"Be careful, little contract," she says without looking back. "You don't know what he is when no one's watching."

And then she's gone.

You stand there, every part of you humming with dread and defiance.

You look at Adrian.

You look at the man who once seemed like your salvation.

And now?

Now you wonder if you were ever meant to be saved at all.

You don't speak to Adrian for the rest of the day.

He doesn't try to stop you when you leave the room. Doesn't follow. Doesn't call after you.

That, somehow, is worse than shouting.

Worse than anger.

Because Adrian doesn't ignore things he wants.

He waits for them to break.

And you?

You're not sure what part of you is still whole.

You wander the halls like a ghost, barefoot, silent, tracing your fingertips along cold marble and velvet wallpaper. This house-this prison disguised as a kingdom-feels even heavier now, like it's leaning in. Like it's listening.

It's too quiet.

Even the staff seem to vanish into shadows. No footsteps. No movement. Just you, and the creak of the walls, and the echo of Liana's words:

You don't know what he is when no one's watching.

You pause at the landing above the staircase, gripping the railing with both hands.

Beneath you, the grand foyer yawns wide and empty.

And then you hear it.

Low.

Subtle.

Music.

It's coming from the lower level-the part of the house you've never seen. Not forbidden, not spoken of. Just...absent. As though Adrian built this place to look complete from the surface, but never wanted anyone to explore the basement of his soul.

You follow the sound.

Down the stairs.

Past the kitchen.

Behind a door that's flush with the wall, painted the same color so it almost disappears. You never noticed it before. But now you do.

You touch the handle.

It's cold.

The music swells-a haunting instrumental, all strings and breathless notes. You open the door and descend the stairs slowly. The air changes. Thicker. Colder. Like the house itself exhales through this level.

The room you step into isn't like the rest of the estate.

It's stripped down.

Stone walls. Iron fixtures. A few heavy wooden chairs scattered across the room, as if someone once expected company-but not comfort.

And in the center, a grand piano.

Not black.

White.

A pale thing that looks ghost-touched, wrong against the roughness of its surroundings. Like a wound in reverse.

And sitting at the keys?

Roman.

You freeze in the archway, your breath caught in your throat.

He doesn't look up.

His fingers glide across the keys like they belong there, like this is the only place he ever tells the truth. The music rises, crests, breaks.

It's heartbreak in a minor key.

You step forward without meaning to.

Roman stops playing.

Silence slices the air.

"You're not supposed to be here," he says, his voice as flat as stone dropped in a still lake.

You hesitate. "Then why didn't you lock the door?"

He turns to look at you.

This close, you can see just how unreadable he is-no softness in his eyes, no cruelty either. Just calculation. And patience.

"Some traps," he says quietly, "only spring when the prey steps inside willingly."

Your pulse stutters.

He gestures to the other chair.

"Sit."

You don't move.

Roman's mouth curves, faintly.

"You think Adrian is dangerous," he says. "But you haven't even begun to understand the shape of the cage you stepped into."

You narrow your eyes. "Then tell me."

"I could," he replies. "But it wouldn't change anything. He's already chosen you. And you..." He tilts his head, studying you again like he's peeling you apart layer by layer. "You're already too far gone."

You should deny it.

You should say you're just playing along, just surviving, just waiting for a moment to escape.

But you don't.

Because something in his voice tells you that he's not trying to scare you.

He's trying to warn you.

Roman stands slowly, walks over to the piano's lid, and closes it with a soft click.

"Do you know why Adrian keeps this room hidden?"

You shake your head.

"Because this is the only place in the house that doesn't lie."

You stare at him, confused.

He turns to you, voice low. "Everything upstairs is illusion. Designed. Controlled. But here? Here is where the things he buries come to bleed."

You take a slow step back, instinct pulling you toward the stairs.

Roman watches you retreat.

And just before you reach the doorway, he speaks again-calm, final.

"Don't mistake possession for protection."

You don't look back.

You run.

Not through the house. Not through the halls. But through yourself.

Through every moment you mistook Adrian's control for care.

Every time you thought his silence meant safety.

Every time you told yourself he couldn't ruin you if you wanted him to.

By the time you reach your room, your hands are shaking.

But your heart?

It's steady again.

And terrifyingly clear.

You understand now.

You are not being saved.

You are being shaped.

And if you stay-

You won't just lose yourself.

You'll become something that no longer remembers who you were to begin with.

You sit on the edge of your bed, pulse still rattling from Roman's words, from the quiet violence of truth whispered in places built for silence.

You think of the look in Adrian's eyes when he told you he ruins the things he loves. The way his thumb brushed your lip like he was marking you-not with affection, but intent.

You think of the way he left you there.

Wanting.

Waiting.

Undone.

You stare at the fire he ordered lit in your room. It burns low now, a lazy flicker casting long shadows across the floor, curling like fingers toward your bare ankles.

Then-like clockwork-your phone lights up on the bedside table.

Adrian:

Come downstairs. To the glass room.

No explanation.

No punctuation.

Just another order.

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for your robe.

You tell yourself not to go.

You go anyway.

The house is still quiet when you leave your room. Not dead-just holding its breath. As if even the walls are watching what happens next.

The glass room sits at the back of the estate, down a long hallway of closed doors. You've passed it before, but never been summoned there. It's a solarium, you think. Or maybe a cage that just doesn't look like one.

When you open the door, the air inside is warm and heavy, thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and rain-soaked stone. The walls are all glass, framed in black steel, revealing the stretch of garden outside. It's dark beyond the glass, but you can feel the vastness pressing in.

And standing there, with one hand tucked in his pocket and the other cradling a crystal tumbler of something dark, is Adrian.

He doesn't look at you when you step inside.

He doesn't have to.

"Close the door."

You do.

The click sounds like a lock-even though you know it isn't.

"You ran," he says, voice low.

You say nothing.

He turns to face you slowly.

There's no smile.

No anger.

Just something carved from shadow and hunger, watching you like he's debating whether you're prey or proof of patience.

"You went down into the cellar," he says, stepping toward you. "Spoke to Roman. Heard things you shouldn't have."

He's close now. One more step and he'll be in your space again, pulling the air away with him.

"And still," he murmurs, "you came when I called."

Your throat tightens. "What do you want from me?"

Adrian's gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, then back to your eyes.

"Everything."

The word lands heavy. Certain.

Then his hand moves-slowly, deliberately-and brushes your hair back from your face. Not to comfort. To see you.

All of you.

"You think I'm shaping you?" he asks.

You swallow. "Aren't you?"

"No." His hand trails down your throat, ghost-light, then stops just above your chest. "I'm just waking up the parts of you that were already asleep."

Your breath catches.

Not from fear.

From heat.

And he knows it.

His thumb grazes your collarbone, soft, and it's somehow worse than if he'd touched you harder. It makes you ache. Ache for more. Ache for him.

He leans in then, so close you can feel the whisper of his breath against your cheek.

"But you're not ready yet," he murmurs. "Are you?"

Your lips part-an instinct, not an answer.

Adrian pulls back just enough to look at you again.

His voice turns softer, lower. "That's what you hate the most, isn't it? Not that I'm controlling you. Not that I'm changing you."

He steps in, and this time his mouth is right at your ear.

"You hate that I can make you want it."

The moan that nearly escapes your throat is shameful. Or would be-if you didn't know he wants to hear it and deny it all at once.

Then he steps back.

Withdraws his touch.

And just like that, you're cold again.

He watches the hunger in your eyes like a man cataloguing his victories.

"Go to bed," he says.

You hesitate.

"Now."

You turn.

Leave.

Barefoot again.

And this time, the echo of your steps down the hallway sound less like a retreat.

And more like a countdown.

You don't sleep.

You lie in bed with your body humming, limbs tense, breath shallow. Adrian's touch still lingers-not on your skin, but beneath it. Like ink beneath paper. Like heat beneath ice.

You twist the sheets in your fists, close your eyes.

But sleep doesn't come.

Because something in you is changing.

Something in you is awakening.

And the worst part?

It doesn't feel like a warning.

It feels like permission.

When the morning comes, it arrives with a knock-not at your door, but at your mind.

Because that's what Adrian does best, doesn't he?

He doesn't kick doors down.

He waits until you unlock them yourself.

You dress slowly, mechanically, and when you step out into the corridor, a single envelope lies on the floor in front of your door. Cream paper. Black wax seal. No name, because he doesn't need to write it.

You already know who it's from.

You break the seal with trembling fingers.

Inside is a note, handwritten.

"There are rules for a reason. And reasons for breaking them.

Come to the greenhouse at dusk. Wear something that makes you feel like mine. -A."

You stare at the note until the ink feels like it's pressing into your palm.

Something that makes you feel like mine.

You hate how your thighs press together at the phrasing.

You hate that you don't hate it.

By late afternoon, you've already tried on five different dresses and torn off three. Everything feels either too obvious or too meek. You want to feel owned, but not weak-you want to walk into the room and make Adrian regret every second he's waited to claim you.

You choose black. Not soft black, not elegant black.

Bold. High slit. Bare back.

You don't wear it for him.

You wear it for the part of you that wants him to look at you and lose control.

The greenhouse glows from the inside when you arrive.

Glass fogged.

Lights low.

The door creaks as you enter-and for a moment, you think you're alone.

Then you hear it.

His voice.

"I thought you'd choose red."

You turn.

Adrian is already seated on the low bench beside a table lit with candles. His shirt is undone at the collar. Sleeves rolled up. There's something raw in the way he looks at you, like you've been stripped without ever being touched.

"I'm not here to entertain you," you say.

His gaze drops-languid, slow-down your body and back up again.

"No," he murmurs. "You're here to test me."

You lift your chin. "Are you failing?"

Adrian smiles. Not warm. Not cruel. Just-knowing.

"Not yet."

He gestures to the seat across from him.

You sit.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The candlelight dances across the glass above. Somewhere outside, a storm is threatening the sky-but here, inside, the tension is already electric.

Adrian leans forward, elbows on the table. "Tell me what you saw in the cellar."

You meet his gaze. "You mean what I felt?"

He tilts his head.

"I saw a version of you without control," you say. "And I think... I think I liked him more."

A dangerous silence settles between you.

He stands slowly, walks around the table, and stops behind your chair. You stiffen.

Then his hands come to rest on your shoulders.

Firm.

Possessive.

Not comforting.

"You think control is a costume I wear to keep the world out," he whispers, bending low. "But it's a blade. I keep it sharp because if I don't, the wrong part of me gets loose."

You tilt your head just slightly, voice low.

"And what part is that?"

He leans in, breath hot against the back of your neck.

"The part that wouldn't have let you leave the glass room last night."

You feel it, then.

The heat pooling low.

The ache that's no longer mild.

Adrian's fingers trail down your arms. Not enough to hold. Just enough to haunt.

"Tell me to stop," he says.

You should.

You should say it.

Instead, you let out a breath-barely a sound.

He bends lower, lips nearly brushing your skin. "You think this is seduction. It's not. It's a slow surrender."

Your eyes flutter shut.

But then-

He pulls away.

Gone.

The heat vanishes with him, and you're left cold again.

Empty again.

You rise, unsteady.

He's already walking toward the exit.

"Goodnight, Selena," he says without turning back. "I'll see you when you're ready to admit you never wanted me to stop."

And with that, he disappears into the dark.