Chapter Ten
CLARA
Days blurred together. By now, my family would be worried about me. The gallery would notice my absence. People would surely be searching for me now.
The light creeping through the shutters and thick curtains was faint, pale, like the sun was trying to wring out a semblance of light.
It cut through the room, making it feel oppressive and heavy. Even in daylight, the castle didn’t feel alive.
I didn’t feel like myself. None of this felt right. The room smelled faintly of smoke and age but not the kind that stung the nose. It was of an age reminiscent of wealth and knowledge, like you could learn from.
I sat up slowly, the shift clinging to my skin. I hated knowing he’d changed me into it while I’d been sleeping, but another part of me, something dark and somewhat uninhibited, felt otherwise. Something I didn’t want to think too deeply about.
My throat throbbed, tender where his mouth had been. Every time my hand crept up to touch the bite, I jerked it away again. As if refusing to acknowledge it could erase the proof. Instead, I touched my cheeks, my skin warm, no doubt flushed.
Because I knew what was there. A mark. His. Although it should have been healing by now, it still felt so fresh, so tender.
The fire in the hearth had died down to dull embers, and a chill settled in my bones. Shadows huddled together in the corners, taunting that they belonged here more than I did. I felt like the walls loomed over me. It made me realize how small I was compared to the heart of this place.
I wanted out. I got up, found my clothes—freshly laundered and folded on a small chair by the mantel—and dressed. When I walked to the bedroom door, I told myself he wouldn’t leave it unlocked. But maybe…
The floor was icy under my bare feet as I crossed the chamber. The bastard could’ve at least left my damn socks. My fingers hovered before I touched the iron handle. Cold, slick, heavy. I pressed the latch down, holding my breath, and the door gave with only a whisper of sound.
And when it opened, that single truth set my pulse racing. I told myself not to be foolish, not to hope. He wanted me to notice. He wanted me to test the boundaries, to remind me this was still his world no matter what I touched.
The corridor stretched in both directions, long and hushed, lined with faded tapestries and warped paintings.
I slipped out and closed the door behind me, leaning against it for just a second.
My chest heaved. I wasn’t free—I knew that—but the smallest act of opening the door made me feel like I’d stolen something back.
I moved carefully. The air out here was cooler, damp, and laced with the scent of candle wax and wood polish. The intricately embroidered and designed tapestries hung on their hooks, their colors leached out by time. Shapes of hunts and battles blurred into faint smears.
The paintings were no better—portraits of men and women whose eyes had dulled to shadows. They watched as I crept forward, reminding me I didn’t belong but that I couldn’t leave.
Every step felt too loud.
The hall bent sharply and spilled into a long gallery. Tall windows let in pale light, fractured by stained glass depicting battles and wild animals. I moved up and peered out from parts of clear glass.
The forest pressed close. There were endless green trees full of life on the horizon. I’d grown up in cities, where sound never stopped. Here, the silence pressed its weight against me.
Could I run? Escape this fortress? Could I push through those endless trees and make it back to the village, back to a phone and people and help? My heart battered against my ribs. The thought of it filled me with wild hope and suffocating dread all at once.
“You’re wondering how far you can run before I catch you?” His voice. Low. Smooth. And right behind me.
My body jolted, breath tearing from my lungs as I spun around to face him. There he was at the far end of the hallway, his size filling the grand space and somehow making it seem tiny. Ivan didn’t walk like a man. He moved like he was used to everyone and everything giving in to him.
“You left the door unlocked,” I said, the words tumbling out harshly, shakily.
“I wanted you to see.” He came closer, silent, deliberate. “That although I can’t let you leave, you’re not a prisoner.”
I scoffed and crossed my arms. “Not being able to leave does, in fact, mean I’m a prisoner,” I snapped, backing up a step.
His mouth tilted, but it wasn’t kindness or softness. The way he held himself—calm, collected, and intelligent—landed harder than any threat.
I hated that my gaze slid down his body. The impossible breadth of his shoulders, the corded muscle beneath his shirt, the way he made the hallway feel like it had been built around him… for him.
His presence pressed on me, more suffocating than a lack of air.
“I don’t want to be here.” My voice cracked, but I forced the words out.
“I know.” His gaze pinned me in place. “But in time, you’ll see you do want to be here.” He gestured forward, and I followed.
I hated myself for obeying, but my legs moved on their own accord.
He led me down the hallway and turned the corner.
I was silent as we went into a library that smelled of smoke, leather, and parchment.
The air was thick with age. Books filled every wall, stacked high and neatly organized in dark shelves that went from floor to ceiling.
Many of the spines were cracked, dyed in every color imaginable, and faded from sunlight and time.
“You’re hungry.” His voice skimmed the air, brushing over my skin. His gaze flicked briefly to my throat.
Instinctively, I touched my neck before wrapping my arms around my waist. “I’m fine.”
My belly growled, proving I was a liar, and my skin prickled, heat rising low in my core.
The way Ivan looked at me—like I was someone special but at the same time like I was also his prey—made me tremble. I wanted to hate it. I wanted to hate him. But I couldn’t stop the ache blooming between my thighs.
“Why me?” I whispered.
His lips curved faintly, and God, even that hint of a smile made my knees weak. “Because I’ve waited for you, Clara. Long before you walked into my domain, I’ve been waiting for you.”
My heart thrashed, and my breath was quick and shallow, but I held my ground, refusing to back down from him… again.
His head tilted, his gaze burning into me. “I’ve been alone for so long I forget how terrifying the truth can be. I’ve been waiting for you for centuries, Clara. The idea of you, the way you make me feel, the way you look at me. All of it. It’s been mine for so long, I know nothing else.”
The honesty in his tone cut deeper than any threat.
I should’ve run. Screamed. Thrown something at Ivan. Instead, I stood there, caught between terror and the pull I couldn’t explain.
He stepped back finally, giving me space I didn’t ask for verbally but one I needed. “Eat, rest, and explore. But remember this, Clara. If you run, I will follow, and I will find you.”
His words landed like a vow. When he left, I exhaled.
My knees nearly gave, and I backed up against a bookcase and slid down it, burying my face in my hands. I should have wanted nothing more than escape.
Then why was I sitting here wondering what exactly Ivan wanted to do to me, and why was my body heating at the very images slamming into my head?