His To Keep

Nine Just One Wish.

The air in here feels different.

Warmer. Softer. Like the moment just before you fall asleep-when the world hasn't gone quiet yet, but you know it's about to.

We walk past glass storefronts glowing in pale light, each one spilling pieces of color and texture onto the marble floors. The reflections are strange-ghostlike. Every few steps, I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass, always looking slightly out of place.

Adrian stops in front of one shop framed in gold and ivory.

The windows spill light so soft it almost feels like it could brush against my skin.

Inside, the space glows. Sweaters folded in perfect stacks, silks draped like water across polished rails, the muted hum of music floating somewhere above.

I stop just inside the doorway. The air smells faintly of clean linen and something sweet I can't name. The floor is so smooth it makes me nervous to step too hard, like I might mark it. My hands stay close to my sides. I don't touch anything. Not yet.

Adrian's voice comes from behind me, calm and certain.

"Pick what you want."

I turn slowly, unsure I heard him right.

"What I want?"

He nods once, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Something small and quiet stirs in my chest. Not excitement-at least not the wild kind. It's softer. Hesitant. A thought that doesn't quite know if it's allowed to exist.

"I've never..." The words catch in my throat. I try again. "I've never done this before. Shopping."

Adrian freezes-barely. Not in a way most people would notice. His shoulders stay straight, his expression doesn't change, but something in the air shifts.

"You've never-" He cuts himself off, the rest unsaid. His gaze lingers on me like he's seeing something new, or maybe something he doesn't want to see.

When he speaks again, his voice is steady.

"Pick. Anything."

"Anything?"

"Yes, Lily. Anything."

The way he says it-like there's no limit, no line I could cross-makes my chest feel heavier. My eyes drop to the brown knit sweater Mary gave me this morning, the black skirt that still holds its warmth. It's the nicest thing I've ever worn.

Ever.

My hands itch to touch the nearest shelf, but I move carefully, fingers brushing over folded sweaters in cream, dusty rose, powder blue. I lift a pale yellow one to my chest, but the moment I do, the guilt comes. It slides in slow, uninvited.

"I'm sorry," I whisper before I even realize I've said it.

Adrian's voice is closer now. "For what?"

I hesitate. I don't know the answer. Not really. "For... spending money. On me."

There's the smallest pause, and then:

"Lily," he says, the way you'd correct a child who's misunderstood something important. "I told you. Anything."

I nod, but the guilt doesn't vanish entirely. It just hides under the part of me that wants to obey.

I keep moving.

A navy sweater. A skirt with a ribbon tie. Another with tiny pleats that sway when I touch them. A pair of soft shorts that look too beautiful to actually wear.

Then-dresses.

They hang like they're meant for another kind of life. Light, fluttery things in pale lilac and sage green. One with tiny embroidered flowers stitched along the straps. I don't know why I reach for it, but I do. It feels fragile in my hands, like it might dissolve if I hold it too long.

My arms are full when I turn, unsure where to put anything.

Adrian steps forward without a word. He takes the whole pile from me. His fingers brush mine, steady and warm. He doesn't look at what I chose, doesn't question any of it.

He just holds it.

Something about that-about him taking the weight from me so easily-makes my chest feel strange.

I wander further, drawn to a table stacked with folded silk pajamas. Champagne. Blush pink. Midnight blue with white trim. I graze my fingertips over the fabric. It's so cool it almost startles me. I lift the blue set, matching ribbon ties and all, and hesitate again.

Behind me, his voice is lower now.

"Keep going."

I turn. "Are you sure?"

"You stopped," he says, unreadable. "Don't stop."

The words settle inside me like a stone dropped into water. I nod and keep moving.

Silk shorts. A long nightgown with lace.

Each time I add something, he takes it from me without comment. Quiet. Steady. Present.

And for the first time, I realize he's not just watching.

He's staying.

The transaction takes seconds.

Adrian steps up to the counter, sets the neat stack of folded clothes down, and pulls a slim black card from his wallet. He doesn't even glance at the total. Just taps it against the screen-one soft beep-and it's done. No receipt. No hesitation. No sign that it meant anything to him at all.

It feels strange, watching how easily he parts with money. Like breathing. Like it costs him nothing.

I follow him back into the corridor of glass and light, the air cooler out here. My arms swing empty now, but the ghost of the fabric lingers against my fingertips.

We stop in front of another store. This one is different-brighter, but sharper.

The window display is clean and deliberate, every piece perfectly arranged as if someone has measured the distance between each fold and hanger.

The mannequins wear crisp shirts, pleated skirts, and jackets that look like they could belong in a magazine.

Inside, the lighting is warmer, but the air feels heavier somehow. Everything here looks... expensive. Not just in price, but in the way it stands still, untouched.

I hover just past the doorway, taking it in.

Adrian doesn't pause. "Go on."

My fingers curl against my palms as I step forward. The first display holds blouses-silk, cotton, linen. I touch the edge of one sleeve and feel the stitching beneath my fingertip. Ivory with pearl buttons. Then a pale blue with an open collar, soft as air.

I glance back at him, a silent question in my eyes.

He just nods.

I keep going.

A skirt catches my attention-pleated, in a deep forest green. Then another, straighter, with a thin gold buckle at the waist. I lift them both, testing their weight. They're lighter than they look.

I hesitate again, that same flutter of guilt stirring in my chest. "I don't need all of this..." The words slip out, half apology.

Adrian tilts his head slightly. "And?"

The single word makes heat crawl up my neck. I have no answer. So I turn back to the rack, letting my fingers trail over more fabric.

A crisp white shirt. A soft beige one with tiny buttons down the back. Then something different-a short, fluttery wrap skirt patterned with faint watercolor flowers. I hold it for a moment, unsure if it belongs here among the sharper, cleaner lines.

When I look up, Adrian is already close enough to take it from me. His hand brushes mine as he adds it to the growing pile over his arm.

We move deeper into the store.

A row of hooded sweaters stands against one wall, each one so precise it feels like wearing one would change the way you stand. I let my hand rest on the sleeve of a charcoal one, my mind trying and failing to picture myself in it.

"Try it," Adrian says quietly.

I do. The fabric settles over my shoulders with surprising weight, structured in a way that makes me feel... different. Straighter. Taller.

When I turn to the mirror, I catch him watching me-not the sweater.

The warmth in my chest comes back, steady this time.

He stays beside me until I pull it off again, and then, without a word, he takes it for the pile.

By the time we leave, my hands are empty again, but my head is full-of colors, textures, and the quiet certainty that if he told me to keep going, I would.

°°°°°

Adrian Rossetti

She holds the silk blouse in her hands like it's alive. Not like it's expensive-though it is-but like it could slip away if she doesn't keep her fingers tight enough.

Her arms are already loaded down. A soft sweater in dusty blue.

A cream skirt with pleats. A few fragile pieces of lace she touched like they might burn her if she held them too long.

And still, she's drawn toward more, the way someone might lean toward a fire without realizing their skin is too close.

It's strange, watching her like this.

She moves like she's been trained to ration her wants, like each step toward something she desires has to be weighed and measured before she's allowed to take it.

She reaches, pauses, withdraws. Hesitant, cautious.

And yet there's a flicker in her eyes-small, but real-that tells me she can't quite smother whatever's waking up in her.

I should be thinking about the money. She's picking pieces that cost more than some people's rent.

But I'm not. I'm too busy watching. Studying.

Letting my gaze follow the subtle ways she betrays herself-how her shoulders curl when she thinks no one's looking, how her fingers linger on a seam like she's memorizing the feel of it.

I tell myself it's practical. She needs to look the part when she's with me. Sharp enough to fit in. Soft enough to draw attention when I want it. But if I'm honest with myself, practicality isn't what's keeping me here.

We walk into the next boutique. Sleek. Controlled. Minimalism dressed up as luxury. The hangers are black, the racks are glass, the lighting calculated to make every piece look like it belongs in a magazine.

"Keep shopping," I tell her.

She glances at me, hesitant. "You're not... coming in?"

A corner of my mouth pulls upward. "I will. Eventually."

She tries to mask it, but the flicker of unease is there. I tilt my head. "You're not going to fall apart, are you?"

Her answer is too quick. "No. I-no."

I walk her toward a neat display of cardigans, then peel away, slipping into the shadows of the accessories section where I can watch without her noticing.

At first, she performs. Holds things up, studies tags, tilts her head like she's wondering if I'd approve. But when she realizes I'm not beside her, there's a subtle change. Her movements tighten. She starts to glance toward the door, toward the counter.

Then I see it-tucked on a lower shelf, almost hidden.

A small package of hair ribbons. Soft satin in pale pink, cream, navy, and lavender.

Simple, but I can tell by the way she looks at them that they mean something.

She picks them up slowly, fingers grazing over each color before she presses the pack flat against her chest.

I can already picture them in her hair. Loose strands tied back, little bows catching the light. She'll have no idea she's doing it for me, but she will be.

She walks toward the counter. The girl behind it is young, polished, clearly briefed on who Lily is and what she's allowed to do.

Still-Lily sets the ribbons down carefully, as if this is normal, as if she's just another customer. Her voice is quiet, almost shy. "How much are these?"

The cashier smiles in that rehearsed way I know too well. "There's no price."

Lily blinks, unsure. "No price?"

"No, miss," the girl says. "You can take them."

For a moment, Lily doesn't move. She stands there, ribbons in her hands, trying to fit that answer into whatever logic she's used to living by.

Then she nods once, almost imperceptibly, and tucks them back against her chest before walking out-no bag, no receipt, no exchange of anything except the unspoken rules I've set in motion.

I follow at a distance.

She doesn't look back to see if I'm there.

When she stops at the fountain, she moves like she's not sure she's allowed to take up the space. The marble edge is cold, but she sits anyway, her bags resting neatly beside her. Coins glimmer in the water beneath the dim light, scattered like pieces of someone else's story.

She leans forward slightly, studying them with a quiet concentration, as though if she stares long enough she'll understand what each one meant to the person who threw it.

She doesn't toss one in. Doesn't wish for anything.

She just... watches.

She doesn't cry.

She doesn't run.

She just... stays there.

And for a man like me-someone who's seen fear in its purest form, who knows what desperation does to the human body-her stillness is louder than any scream could ever be.

It catches me off guard.

I approach without hurry, my footsteps quiet against the marble floor. She doesn't notice. She's too focused on the water, too absorbed in whatever thoughts she's locked herself inside of.

The fountain's glow frames her in soft light, turning her into something almost delicate, almost untouchable.

She sits with her back straight, knees together, the bags of new clothes lined neatly at her side like she's making sure she won't be accused of stealing them.

Her hands rest in her lap, fingers laced-not relaxed, but contained, like she's holding her own restlessness hostage.

She watches the coins.

Hundreds of them scattered across the tiled basin-pale silver, dull copper, a few glints of gold. They look like frozen sparks at the bottom of cold, unmoving water. Wishes that never stood a chance.

She leans forward slightly, the ends of her hair sliding over her shoulder. Her gaze narrows as if she's trying to decipher the meaning behind each coin, the person who left it, the kind of hope it was meant to buy.

And I realize something I don't like admitting-not even to myself.

She should have run.

Everything about this day should have driven her to it.

She had the chance. She was alone in a place built for escape-multiple exits, countless strangers, no one standing in her way.

She could've abandoned the clothes, slipped through a service door, disappeared into the city before I'd even noticed she was gone.

She could have screamed. Asked for help.

Thrown herself into the chaos and been rid of me.

But she didn't.

I step close enough for her to hear me, my voice low, measured.

"You left."

She jumps.

Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide and unguarded, breath catching like I've pulled her out of somewhere private. For a moment, her entire body goes rigid-every muscle braced in that silent, primal question: run, fight, or freeze?

She chooses words instead.

"I- I didn't mean to," she says quickly, almost tripping over the sentence. "I didn't know where you went, and I thought... I thought if I stayed here, where it's open, where you could see me, it would be better than walking around."

Her voice falters at the end. She bites her cheek, her gaze dropping to the coins again like they might shield her from whatever I'm thinking. I can see it-how she's already decided her reasoning is foolish, already punishing herself for it.

I let the silence stretch. Long enough for her to feel the weight of it.

Then I give a single nod.

"Smart girl."

It's a small thing-two words, flat in tone-but it shifts her entirely.

Her shoulders lose their stiffness. Her mouth twitches, not quite into a smile but into something dangerously close. Her eyes lift to mine with a light I haven't seen before, shy but certain, like she's testing the air for permission to glow.

And in that flicker of expression, I see it-how she feeds on praise the way others feed on power. She doesn't beg for it. She wouldn't even know how. But the moment it's offered, she breathes it in like she's been holding her lungs empty for years.

That's the kind of thing you can use.

That's the kind of thing you can keep.

Her gaze slides back to the fountain. "There's so many coins."

"Do you know why?" I ask.

She shakes her head, eyes still on the water.

"People throw them in and make wishes."

She tilts her head slightly. "Why?"

"To believe in something. Hope, maybe."

I reach into my coat and pull out a coin, small and silver, catching the light. I hold it out between us. "Make one."

She doesn't snatch it. She doesn't even take it right away. She studies it like it's not just a piece of metal but some rare offering that could be rescinded if she moves too fast. Then, with a kind of fragile deliberation, she lifts it from my palm.

Her fingers brush mine-brief, weightless-and then she turns the coin over and over in her hands, eyes tracing its edges as if there's something to learn from it.

When she finally looks up, there's a quiet curiosity in her expression.

"Will you make one too?"

The question catches me off guard. "Sure."

She closes her eyes, lips moving just enough to form words I can't hear. The coin is pressed briefly against her chest, and then it falls from her hand into the water. The drop is soft, barely breaking the surface.

Her eyes open. She's watching me now. Expectant.

"What did you wish for?" I ask.

Her answer is immediate. "For kindness."

I pause. Just a fraction of a second, but it's there.

Not for freedom. Not for safety. Not even for love.

Kindness. Like it's a rare, untouchable thing she's only read about in books and still believes in anyway.

I toss my own coin-harder, sharper. The sound it makes against the water is louder than it needs to be. I watch it sink beside hers.

She leans forward to follow its descent, then looks back at me.

"What did you wish for?"

"For those who go against me to suffer."

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink.

If anything, her gaze deepens. Thoughtful. Searching. A strange curiosity lingers there, like she's trying to see what a man like me does with a wish like that.

And I realize-I want to see her look at me like that again.

"Do many people go against you?" she asks quietly.

There's no fear in it-no trembling edge, no defiance. Just a question, soft and deliberate, like she's stepping carefully into territory most wouldn't dare to approach.

My mouth pulls into something colder. "Too many."

She hesitates, as if weighing the next words. "Do they always suffer?"

"Yes."

"Because of you?"

I nod once. "Always because of me."

Her eyes drift down into the water again, to where our coins rest among a hundred others. Her lips part slightly, like she's still tasting the shape of my answer in her mouth.

"Do you... like it?" she asks finally.

My gaze sharpens. "Like what?"

"Watching it happen. Knowing they suffer."

Her voice is barely there, a ghost of a sound. Not judgmental. Not afraid.

Just... curious.

"Yes," I tell her. "I like it very much."

She nods slowly, as if she's been expecting that answer all along. Her eyes don't lift-they stay fixed on the water, tracking ripples that have long since faded.

And then, almost too soft to catch, she says, "I think I understand."

It should unsettle me.

It should terrify me, hearing someone so soft, so breakable, say something like that and mean it. But instead, there's a strange, steadying pull in my chest.

Because I believe her.

And that belief carries weight.

She's leaning toward me-not physically, but in thought, in perception. Every question she asks peels her further away from the world she knew and presses her closer to mine. She's listening, storing my words somewhere deep, not as warnings but as lessons.

That kind of mind is dangerous in the right hands.

My hands.

The way she absorbs me now means, in time, I could teach her anything.

Not just what to believe-

but who to become.

And she wouldn't just obey. She'd understand.

That, somehow, is worse.

°°°°°

Lily Malen

The fountain is still rippling.

I watch as the coin Adrian threw settles beside mine-his darker, heavier somehow, though they're both made of the same silver. The water swallows the movement, returning to stillness far too quickly, like nothing had disturbed it at all.

I can't stop thinking about what he said. For those who go against him to suffer.

It should have scared me. It should have crawled icy fingers up my spine.

But it didn't.

Because I understood it.

And that's what frightens me now-not the idea itself, but how instinctively I agreed with it. It didn't feel wrong in my chest. It felt... honest. I'd heard the edge in his voice, but it wasn't the wild, senseless cruelty I'd imagined people like him would have. It was precise. Controlled.

Deserved.

And maybe that's why I didn't feel afraid.

Maybe that's why when he called me a smart girl, something in me lit up so brightly I almost forgot to breathe. Just two words, but they stayed lodged somewhere between my ribs, burning slow like a match.

I lower my hand into the water, fingers breaking the surface. Ripples bloom outward, distorting our reflections. The coolness is sharper than I expect, slipping between my fingers in soft, fluid ribbons.

"I've never done that before," I say, my voice quiet, meant only for him.

Adrian's gaze slides down to me. "Wished?"

I nod. "It felt... strange. Like asking the world for something it doesn't owe me."

He doesn't answer, but I can feel him listening.

Water drips from my fingertips, falling back into the pool with faint, delicate splashes. "And you," I murmur, "you wished for suffering."

"For my enemies," he corrects without hesitation.

"But... I think I get it." My brows pull together slightly. "Sometimes I think... if people are cruel, if they hurt others without reason... maybe they should suffer. Maybe that's fair."

He watches me like I'm a puzzle working itself into place-slow, deliberate, inevitable. There's no smirk in his expression. No judgment either. Just interest.

"Is there always a reason behind what you do?" I ask.

He takes his time before answering. "For the most part."

I tilt my head, studying him. "So when you kill... they've done something wrong?"

"Yes."

"Always?"

"Always enough," he says, voice low and measured. "I don't kill for fun, Lily. I don't wake up hoping for blood. I do what has to be done. And the people I remove-they've earned it."

The way he says remove instead of kill makes my pulse shift, though I'm not sure in which direction.

I let the silence breathe before asking, "Do others? Kill for fun?"

His exhale is slow. "Some. Some kill for pleasure. Some for power. Some for the thrill of it. I'm not them."

"So not everyone's like you."

"No," he says, and there's a faint tension in his jaw. "Some never kill. They live untouched, small lives. Safe lives. Others..." His gaze hardens. "Aren't so careful."

I glance back down at the water, my hand still half-submerged. The silver coins blur beneath the ripples, their edges melting into one another.

"I think that makes you... different," I whisper. "You don't just hurt people to hurt them. You don't need chaos. You need reason."

Something flickers in his eyes at that-sharp, almost imperceptible. I don't know if it's because no one's said that to him before, or because no one has meant it.

I draw my hand from the fountain, brushing the water against my skirt. The air between us isn't heavy.

It's... understanding.

And I wonder if he feels it too-that quiet pull. The subtle, shifting ground beneath us.

Because when I wished for kindness, I wasn't just wishing for someone to be nice to me.

I was wishing for justice.

And maybe... maybe justice and cruelty live closer together than I ever thought.

°°°°°

The shop smells like sandalwood and expensive polish, a rich, warm scent that settles heavy in the air-luxury wrapped in something ancient and deliberate.

Every surface glimmers like a museum exhibit, glass cases lined with pristine silk, diamonds pressed carefully against velvet cushions, rings and watches so polished they almost hurt to look at.

But the silence is thicker than the shine. Empty, as if the whole world holds its breath the moment Adrian steps inside.

The man behind the counter straightens immediately, posture rigid but composed.

He doesn't speak-just offers a tight, respectful nod, his eyes sharp with something close to wariness.

Not fear exactly. No, this is something deeper.

Like he understands exactly who Adrian Rossetti is, and what kind of man moves through this space with the quiet authority of a storm.

"Mr. Rossetti," he says smoothly, voice low and practiced. "One moment."

No questions. No hesitation.

He disappears behind a heavy curtain like he's retreating into a vault.

Adrian doesn't break the silence. He stands beside me, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, his gaze fixed somewhere far ahead-cold, unreadable, unreadable even to me.

His shoulders relax just enough to seem casual, but I can feel the current underneath, taut and dangerous.

He never truly softens, not in places like this, not around people like that.

Minutes later, the man returns carrying a small black box, the kind you only open with ceremony, like it holds something sacred or deadly. He sets it down gently on the counter as if the weight inside could crush the surface.

Adrian doesn't look at me. Doesn't explain.

He simply flips open the lid.

Inside lies a necklace.

A fine, delicate chain of silver, simple and elegant. In the center, a single letter-R.

Made of tiny, blood-red gems, flickering faintly like embers caught in the light. It isn't flashy or screaming for attention, but it's deliberate. Controlled. Every facet glints with a cold kind of precision, like everything Adrian touches.

I stare, unable to blink.

"It's beautiful," I whisper, barely daring to break the stillness.

My hand lifts instinctively, hovering just above it-but I don't touch. It feels too fragile. Too important to risk breaking.

His voice cuts through the quiet.

"It's yours."

My eyes snap up to him.

He still won't meet my gaze.

"What?" I breathe, breath suddenly thin.

"For you. To wear."

"Why?"

Slowly, he turns to face me, his gaze sharp and cold and impossibly steady.

"So people know not to touch you."

My heart hammers hard against my ribs, a wild, frantic beat that leaves me breathless.

"So they know you belong to me."

He says it simply, like stating a fact. Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

But beneath those words, I hear something heavy-something different.

It's not the hollow claim the House made over me, the empty promise of ownership that left nothing but violation and fear.

This is something else.

Not a word of use or possession, but a marking. A declaration.

A warning.

That I am no longer theirs.

I am his.

And somehow, terrifyingly, I think I want that.

He reaches out, lifting the necklace with deliberate care. "Turn around."

Obedient, my hands tremble as they lift to my hair, gathering it away from my neck. His fingers brush my skin, steady and sure, cool metal slipping against warmth as he fastens the delicate chain around me. The soft click of the clasp locking is louder than anything else in the room.

It's strange-how something so delicate can feel so heavy.

When I turn back, the man offers me a mirror-oval-shaped, framed in burnished gold. I take it with both hands.

And for the first time, I see it.

The necklace resting just above my collarbone, the ruby-red R glinting under the warm lights like a spark against pale skin.

Adrian Rossetti's signature.

Carved into gemstones and worn like a brand.

I touch it lightly, as if afraid it might vanish under my fingers.

"Are you sure?" I whisper.

His jaw flexes. His eyes meet mine, unflinching.

"Yes."

No other words.

But something colder than certainty coils in his expression-a hardness that speaks of possession, not tenderness.

And I realize this isn't a gift.

It's a message.

To anyone watching.

And maybe, just maybe...

To me.

He pays without hesitation, the transaction effortless, like money means nothing in a place like this.

The man bows his head respectfully as Adrian turns and begins to walk away.

Without looking back, Adrian expects me to follow.

And I do.

Not because I have to.

Because for the first time in my life...

I want to.