Chapter 4 The Devil's House Have Rules

The silence woke her before the light did.

Not the soft kind that lulled you back to sleep.

This silence was heavy. Artificial. The kind that clung to the walls like surveillance. The kind that knew you were awake before you did.

Sera blinked into gold and black.

The ceiling above her was impossibly high-painted with gilded vines that curled into wolf shapes if she stared too long. A crystal chandelier hung like a cage of diamonds, each sharp prism flickering with dim firelight.

She sat up slowly.

Velvet sheets whispered against her skin-smooth, expensive, wrong. Her body ached, her mouth was dry, and her thoughts... fractured.

> Where am I?

Then she saw the bedposts.

Polished ebony.

And coiled around each one: iron cuffs, wide and waiting. Not locked. But not decorative either.

Her stomach twisted.

The walls were draped in blood-red silk. A fireplace sat unlit across the room, surrounded by marble carvings of wolves baring their teeth. The windows were tall, grand, useless-barred beneath delicate lace curtains.

She padded to the nearest one barefoot.

Barred.

She tried the door.

Locked.

Of course.

> This wasn't a bedroom.

It was a prison dressed in couture.

A velvet box for something owned.

She stumbled back from the door just as it clicked open.

A soft knock came too late.

The woman who entered was tall, severe, dressed in black, holding a clipboard like a weapon. Her expression didn't shift.

"You're expected downstairs in ten minutes."

Sera's voice scraped her throat. "Expected where?"

The woman gave a slight nod toward the wardrobe. "She's waiting with the dress, madam."

That word again.

> Madam.

She tasted bile.

The woman backed out. A second later, two guards entered-silent and smooth, dressed in matte black, guns holstered, eyes unreadable.

They didn't reach for her.

They didn't need to.

One of them simply said, in a voice as casual as checking the weather:

> "You can come willingly."

> "Or we carry you again."

Sera stared at them.

At the chains.

At the bars.

At the black dress, I am now waiting in the open wardrobe-blood-red embroidery, catching the low light like it was stitched in warning.

She wanted to scream. To fight. To break something.

But instead...

She lifted her chin.

> "I'll walk," she said.

Not because she was defeated.

But because if this house was a game-

She'd play until she burned it down.

The dress was crimson.

Blood-red satin that clung to Sera's body like a curse. High slit. No sleeves. A neckline stitched in gold thread that shimmered when she moved, drawing the eye-right where Moretti's crest sat over her heart like a brand.

She hadn't chosen it.

No one had asked.

It had simply appeared, hung on the wardrobe like a royal decree: Wear this, and survive the day.

She wasn't given shoes.

> "For safety," the woman had said without blinking.

Not Sera's safety, clearly.

As she walked-barefoot-across icy marble tiles, the hem of the dress whispered behind her like trailing smoke. The corridor was silent, save for her footsteps, and the quiet echo of the guards behind her.

Guards with guns.

Guards who didn't speak, didn't blink, didn't bother to pretend she was anything but a possession in motion.

She passed high-arched windows draped in velvet. Doors lined with symbols older than the city itself. The scent of the house changed the deeper she went-less perfume, more stone and silence.

At the end of the hallway, two massive oak doors opened without a sound.

Sera stepped into a room built like a throne room-

or a courtroom.

High ceilings towered above her, painted in a cracked gold leaf. Velvet banners in Moretti red draped down the walls. Black marble gleamed beneath her feet, polished so well she could see the reflection of her own haunted eyes.

At the center stood a raised circular platform.

Twelve seats.

Twelve figures in tailored suits and jeweled rings.

Men and women-old, young, all with the same cold gaze.

> The Moretti Council.

The wolves behind the empire.

And in the very center of that half-moon of power-

stood Dante.

It's still sharp. Still sovereign. His suit was darker than night, his tie the same shade as her dress. As if they matched on purpose.

He didn't smile when she entered.

He didn't need to.

To his right, an empty space waited for her.

A place carved out in silence and expectation.

Sera's steps echoed as she walked forward-head high, spine stiff, fury simmering just beneath the surface.

Every council member turned to watch her like she was a new piece of art.

Or prey.

She stopped two feet away from him.

Close enough to smell the faintest trace of spice on his skin.

Close enough to strike-if she were foolish enough to try.

Her voice cut through the chamber like a blade.

> "I'm not yours."

No waver. No hesitation.

But her heart was a war drum.

And her defiance?

It echoed louder than her footsteps.

A flicker of something sharp passed over Dante's face.

Not anger.

Amusement.

The kind that made her blood run cold.

Around them, the council murmured-low and disapproving, as if Sera's words had cracked the walls of their perfect little kingdom. Eyes narrowed. Fans snapped shut. Rings tapped against wood.

But Dante?

He didn't blink.

He simply tilted his head and said, with maddening calm,

> "You married me."

His voice carried. Rich. Polished. Absolute.

> "You wore my ring. Took my vow."

Sera's fists clenched at her sides. "I didn't say yes."

Dante raised a single brow. "You didn't have to."

He stepped closer. It's just half a pace. Enough for her to feel the chill that followed him.

> "The blood did."

Gasps echoed through the chamber like glass shattering under silk.

The council stirred.

An older man on the left muttered something in Italian.

A younger woman with silver-blonde hair crossed herself.

Sera's heart pounded in her chest, but she turned from Dante to face them-all of them-with fire in her spine.

> "You're fools," she said clearly. "Every one of you."

Mouths fell open.

She didn't stop.

> "If you think a drop of blood and a forged contract make this a real marriage, you're as corrupt as he is."

Gasps.

The blonde councilwoman stood. "You insult this council-"

"I insult what deserves to be insulted," Sera snapped.

Silence.

Dante didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

The weight of him beside her was its own kind of weapon.

Another council member leaned forward, voice cool. "Perhaps the girl doesn't understand the meaning of her position."

Sera's eyes burned. "Oh, I understand exactly. I'm leverage. I'm a pawn in a suit and heels. And I won't pretend this is something sacred just because you all decided to call it marriage."

A ripple of unease passed through the room like a storm waiting to hit.

And then-

A voice from the far right. Female. Calm. Dangerous.

An older councilwoman with white hair and dark red lipstick raised one brow.

> "Would you prefer we see it as treason, then?"

The air snapped.

Sera didn't flinch.

> "See it however you like," she said coldly. "I don't care."

Her words landed like iron.

And that was when Dante moved.

Not quickly.

Not violently.

But intentionally.

A slow step forward. He is still in his pockets. Shoulders relaxed. Like a lion moving toward a wounded animal-not to kill it, but to remind it who held the power to.

His voice was velvet-draped steel when he spoke.

> "Enough."

The air in the council chamber turned to ice.

No one moved.

Even the guards-who'd been statues up to this point-shifted their weight, hands twitching near their weapons. Not because they feared Sera.

But because they knew what was coming.

Dante took another step toward her. Slow. Measured. Each stride deliberated, like he was stalking his prey in plain sight.

Sera felt her pulse spike, but she refused to retreat.

She didn't move. Didn't look away.

> Let him come.

If she was going down, it would be on her feet, eyes blazing, teeth bared.

Then his hand came up-swift, precise-and cupped her jaw.

Not gentle.

Not cruel.

Just... final.

Fingers tilted her chin up. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, not as affection but as a claim.

> "Enough," Dante said.

His voice didn't rise.

It didn't need to.

> "You're my wife."

Sera's nostrils flared. "And I didn't choose you."

His gaze darkened, but he didn't blink.

> "You belong to me now, Seraphina."

Her breath hitched.

> "And I won't have you humiliating my name-our name-in front of the council."

There it was again. That twisted ours.

That idea she was a part of something she never agreed to.

Her hands trembled at her sides. Her heart beat loud enough to drown out the silence in the chamber.

> "Then kill me," she said.

A hush fell like a shroud.

Dante studied her for a beat.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

And then-

He leaned in.

> And kissed her.

Hard.

Unforgiving.

Possessive.

Not soft lips or tentative heat.

It was a collision. A punishment. A claim.

Gasps broke across the council chamber like shattering porcelain. Chairs scraped. A voice cursed in Italian. Someone dropped a pen.

But Dante didn't stop.

And Sera?

Sera froze.

Her mind screamed. Her fists clenched.

But her body-

Her body betrayed her. It didn't flinch. It didn't shove.

It simply stood there, stunned, devoured.

By the time he pulled away, her lungs were heaving.

Her skin burned.

His lips ghosted against her ear-soft now, almost intimate.

But his words were anything but.

> "That," he whispered, so only she could hear,

"was your last warning."

And the whole room knew:

> She had been marked.

Not just as a bride.

But as his.