Chapter 2 The Room Of Knives

CHAPTER 2: THE ROOM OF KNIVES

The door clicked shut behind her, heavy, like the lid of a coffin.

Amara stood in the middle of the masters bedroom, wedding dress brushing her ankle, and her skin still marked with blood from the ceremonial vow. The air was warm and heavy, laced with something...ancient.

Behind her, Luca loosened his tie, his actions slow and deliberate.

"You're quiet," he murmured, his voice rolling out like it was soaked in dark wine and deeper intentions. "I expected a tantrum, begging, screaming....tears."

She faced him. "Why should I waste theatrics on a man who kills wedding guests like he's handing out party favors?"

His smile sharpened, but he said nothing. He peeled off his jacket and laid it over the back of an armchair. She didn't stop staring at the gun still strapped to his side.

"Take it off," he said.

Amara blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The dress." He walked past her, poured himself a drink. "You don't sleep in bloody silk, bad omen."

She didn't move.

Luca took a long sip of the whiskey, then turned. His gaze swept over her body with a kind of hot, raw measured heat that made her knees tense.

"I'm not going to touch you tonight, Amara," his voice was calm and coiled. "Not unless you lie to me, again"

Her stomach dropped.

He walked towards her in slow and confident strides, like the kind of man who'd already decided how the night would end."

"I don't expect loyalty." He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his touch electric. "But I demand honesty."

"I'm not your prisoner."

"No," he leaned in. "You're my wife, and that's worse."

His lips nearly grazed hers, but he didn't kiss her. That would have been far too kind.

"I know you're afraid of me," he whispered. "You should be."

Then he walked away and opened a hidden panel in the bookshelf, revealing a small room.

Amara caught a glimpse before the door closed. Steel chains, crimson stained restraints, and ancient symbols scorched into stone.

She took an involuntary step back. "What is that?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Luca didn't look at her. my inheritance.

She wanted to ask more, but his tone silenced her.

He set this glass down and unbuttoned his shirt. Each movement exposed more of his chiseled chest, a tattoo over his heart, and a deep raised scar that glowed faintly under the dim lights. Amara stared at it. "That mark...."

He caught her gaze. "Do you know what happens to liars, Amara?"

She didn't answer.

He stepped close again, slow, quiet and dangerous. His hand lifted to her neck. Not to choke, just to hold, gently and intimately. Then he bent low, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"They learn the difference," he whispered. "Between fear...and desire."

Her heart was pounding now. Not from panic, but from something darker and thicker, need tangled with desire.

He pulled away.

"You can sleep here," he said. Walking towards the wide bed. "I'd take the couch."

"You don't strike me as a gentleman."

"I'm not," he tossed a pilow aside. "I'm just patient."

Amara turned towards the walk in closet, gripping the edge of her dress.

"Don't worry," he said behind her. "The cameras in here aren't active."

She froze in shock. "What?"

He smiled to himself. "Oh, did your handler forget to tell you that this house is layered with surveillance?"

She said nothing.

"The room behind the shelf," he added. "You'd find it again, one day when I decide you're ready."

Her voice was cold. "Ready for what?"

He glanced at her from over his shoulder.

"To meet the thing that owns me."

She didn't sleep that night.

Not even when Lucas' breathing slowed on the couch across the room. Not even when the fire died in the hearth and the whole mansion went to sleep.

Because she could feel it. A second heartbeat in the room, low, not human.

She could feel it waiting.