His To Keep

Ten A Game For All.

Adrian Rossetti

The drive back to the estate is cloaked in a silence so dense it feels like it's settling inside my bones, anchoring itself deep and refusing to let go.

It's the kind of quiet that allows the mind to unravel-unbidden thoughts slipping through the cracks of focus, creeping in slow and persistent, dragging memories and questions with them.

Lily hasn't uttered a single word since we left the jeweler's.

That's nothing new. She's always been guarded with her voice. But this silence carries a different weight-less fear, less hesitation, and more something quietly stirring beneath the surface. A kind of reflection, maybe even reckoning.

Her fingers keep drifting up to the necklace resting delicately against her collarbone, the chain a thin thread of gold, the red gems flickering like smoldering embers in the muted light.

She touches it as if she can't quite believe it's real, as though it might dissolve and vanish, leaving her empty-handed again.

I watch her from the corner of my eye, noting every subtle movement, the way she balances disbelief and fragile acceptance in her touch.

She doesn't notice my gaze-or maybe she does and chooses not to meet it. This quiet control, this careful curation of what she lets me see, it's new. It's sharp and deliberate. Dangerous.

That side of her-the part that's beginning to understand how to navigate the world on her terms-is emerging, and it's unsettling.

I don't do this. I don't bring people to places like this. I don't waste money on pretty things like ribbons or silk blouses for anyone. Not because I can't afford it, but because it's pointless. Meaningless distractions.

Yet here she is, tracing a line across the chain that binds her to me, not with fear but with something like wonder.

When the gates of the estate swing open wide, swallowing us into the familiar cold marble and scent of cedar, she shifts in her seat. Straightens. Clasping her hands like she's bracing herself to step fully into this world that's as foreign to her as the outside ever was.

Mary is waiting-always watching. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, flick to Lily, her expression softening just a fraction. Not approval, but something like cautious hope.

I pass the order for the clothes to be taken upstairs, no questions asked, no hesitation. Mary understands. She's seen this routine play out before. But this time, her glance lingers on the necklace, the stark red jewel marking Lily as mine in a way words never could.

Upstairs, the house breathes around us-lemon oil, polished wood, silence so thick it presses against your skin. I shrug off my coat and hang it over the banister. Lily lingers near the door, caught between uncertainty and a quiet determination that I didn't expect.

"It'll be a while before dinner's ready," I say, loosening my cuffs with slow, deliberate movements.

She speaks before I can say more-soft, hesitant, but with an edge I hadn't heard before.

"I can make it."

There's no plea in her voice. No fear or obligation.

Just want.

She wants to do something for me.

I turn to study her. Hands clasped, nerves coiled in her posture, but her eyes-those bright, steady eyes-hold a spark that refuses to be snuffed out.

"I know there are people for that," she rushes to add, as if fearing rejection. "But I... I just wanted to say thank you. For today."

Her voice drops to a fragile whisper, a gift offered with trembling hands.

Something shifts inside me.

Gratitude.

It should be a small thing. Easily dismissed. But the way she says it-like it costs her something precious-makes it linger, etch itself into the silence between us.

I lean forward, a slow movement.

"Fine," I say, low and final. "Go ahead."

She blinks, surprised by my concession.

Not expecting it.

And maybe neither was I.

But I watch as her entire posture changes-shoulders easing, breath steadying, a quiet light kindling behind her lashes.

Not relief. Not fear.

Satisfaction.

She wants to be useful. To be seen.

And for reasons I can't fully explain, I let her have that.

°°°°°

The words had barely left his mouth - that strange, almost reluctant agreement - when the sound of heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs. Logan appeared in the doorway in a blur of movement, his grin broad and boyish in a way that felt so foreign in this house it almost startled me.

"There you are," he said, his voice warm and teasing as his gaze locked on me. "I missed you. Where'd you disappear to?"

Heat prickled at the back of my neck. My fingers curled against the fabric of my skirt as if I could hide there. "A-Adrian..." My voice snagged on the first syllable, and I had to swallow before I could push the rest out. "He took me... out. For clothes."

Logan's brows lifted, the smile on his mouth tugging wider, almost mischievous. "Clothes, huh? How big of a dent did you put in his wallet?"

Before I could even think to answer, Adrian's voice cut in from behind me, low and careless. "Maybe a few grand."

The number hit me like a physical thing. I spun toward him, my breath catching. "A few-" I couldn't stop the gasp. "I... I'm sorry- I didn't-"

"It's barely anything," he said, the words edged in that cool, unshaken certainty that made my apology feel small and unnecessary, though I gave it anyway.

Still, guilt coiled in my chest. A few grand could feed people for months where I came from. Back at the House, the only time such a number was whispered, it was with the weight of something owed-something that would be taken back tenfold.

Logan's voice pulled me back, light and curious. "So, can I see what you got?"

My instinct wasn't to answer him but to look at Adrian. It was automatic, my gaze finding his in silent question, my breath caught somewhere between my ribs. He held my eyes for a long moment before giving a small, almost imperceptible nod.

That was all it took. Logan was already moving toward me, slinging an arm over my shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I tensed beneath it. The contact wasn't rough, wasn't unkind, but my body still went rigid under the weight of it.

I wasn't used to touch that didn't come with consequences.

Touch, in my life, had always been something taken-demanded, claimed without asking.

This was neither, yet the unfamiliarity of it was almost as unsettling.

"Come on," Logan said, guiding me toward the stairs. "Show me the damage."

The scent of his cologne followed us upward, and every step made me hyperaware of his arm's weight, the way my skin seemed to hum uneasily beneath it.

The hallways here were wide enough for two people to walk side by side without touching, but Logan didn't move his arm from around me. His stride was easy, almost lazy, while mine was careful, measured - my body still locked in that quiet stiffness I couldn't shake.

"You know," he said as we turned a corner, his voice almost conversational, "he never does this for anyone. Takes them out. Buys them things." He glanced down at me, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Hell, he barely buys me anything."

The words landed in my chest like a stone dropped in water.

Heat pooled low in my cheeks, the blush impossible to hide.

It sounded... special. But I knew better.

It wasn't for me. Not really. This was for him - his image, his control.

If I was going to be in his world, working for him, I couldn't look like a slob.

I had to fit whatever picture he wanted me to be in.

We reached my door, and Logan didn't bother knocking before pushing it open. He moved straight to the bed and flopped down onto it in one smooth motion, looking completely at home in a space I still barely believed was mine.

Mary was there, setting the last of the glossy shopping bags onto the neatly made bedspread. She straightened when she saw us, her expression warm but brisk, like someone already thinking about their next task. "I'll be quick to put these away for you," she said, stepping toward the first bag.

"O-oh, no-" The protest stumbled out before I could stop it. "I... I can do it myself." My hands fluttered uselessly at my sides, unsure if I should move to block her or stay still.

Mary waved me off with a gentle shake of her head. "No, no, it's no trouble at all."

I shifted, catching Logan's grin from across the bed. "I'm going to... um, show Logan the clothes anyway," I added quickly, my voice small but certain enough to make her pause.

Her gaze flicked between us, and after a heartbeat, she nodded, stepping back with a faint smile. "Alright, then. I'll leave you to it."

Mary lingered for just a moment in the doorway, her voice soft. "I hope you had a good day."

I froze. It was such a small thing to say, but no one ever asked me that before - not like they meant it. My mouth stayed closed a beat too long, the words catching somewhere in my throat before I finally managed, "I... did."

But the moment I said it, my mind betrayed me, drifting back to the office.

The meeting. The way the air had felt heavy with unspoken rules and the smell of gunpowder that clung faintly to the men's clothes.

The way I'd barely flinched at the sight of three bodies lying crumpled like discarded coats on the floor.

No crying, no screaming - just the stillness of them.

I understood why Adrian had done it, even if I wasn't sure I should.

"What's going on in that pretty head of yours?" Logan's voice pulled me back, playful but edged with something sharper, like he could tell my thoughts weren't soft ones.

I hesitated, fingers brushing the smooth paper handles of the nearest shopping bag. "Am I... allowed to tell you?" I asked quietly. "Or will he be... mad?"

That made him still. His arm shifted slightly against the mattress, the easy sprawl of his body no longer quite so casual. "You can tell me," he said after a moment, his tone lighter than his eyes. "Let's just say I've got a pretty good idea already."

I swallowed, unsure if that made it easier or harder. My hands moved anyway, pulling the first bundle from the bag - a folded sweater, the wool soft under my fingers - and setting it gently beside him on the bed.

"We went to the office first," I began.

"Office," he repeated, like he was trying the word out, testing it.

"It was... big. Long black table. Chairs all along the sides.

Everyone stood up when Adrian walked in.

" I smoothed the sweater's sleeve as I spoke, eyes on the fabric instead of him.

"Nobody really talked unless he did. They kept giving him papers to look at.

And then..." My voice trailed off for a second. "Then it got quiet."

Logan didn't move, just watched me. "Quiet how?"

"The kind of quiet where you know something's about to happen," I said softly. "The big man, Thomas I think his name was, stood up to take a phone call, but Adrian didn't seem to happy about it."

Logan folts his head, "yeah, he's definitely not one for being interrupted." I pull out a pajama set, smoothing it out for Logan to see, and he smiles. "Then Adrian told me to go to the bathroom that was just down the hallway, to wait for him."

"And then there was... noise. Three gunshots. One right after the other." I hesitated, then added, "They fell... differently. The men. Not all at once. One of them hit the table on the way down. It made this... dull sound."

Logan's brow creased, but I couldn't tell if it was because of what I said or how I said it.

"And you didn't..." He gestured vaguely, his hand making a wave-like motion. "You weren't scared?"

I thought about it for a moment. "I didn't feel anything right away. I just... understood. Why he did it." My words came out steady, almost careful. "And then we left. He took me shopping."

Logan's eyes stayed on me a moment too long before he sat back, his mouth pulling into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You've had an interesting first week, haven't you?"

"I guess so," I murmured, reaching for the next bag.

Logan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes still holding that searching quality like he hadn't quite let go of the conversation.

But then his mouth curved, a flash of his earlier grin slipping back into place.

"Alright, let's see what the boss dropped all that money on.

I need to know if I should be jealous or start a GoFundMe for his bank account. "

I blinked at him. "Go...?" The word tangled on my tongue, unfamiliar.

"Never mind," he said quickly, a small chuckle under his breath. "Show me what you got, princess."

The nickname made my cheeks warm again, though I wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or the way his voice softened on the word. I pulled a dress from one of the bags, the fabric spilling over my hands like water.

Logan reached out and took it, holding it up at arm's length. "Figures. You're gonna make every guy in the city lose his mind in this." He glanced at me, smirking. "Adrian knows what he's doing."

I looked away, focusing on folding the tissue paper back into place. "It wasn't... for that," I said quietly. "He just... doesn't want me to look bad if I'm working for him."

"Sure," Logan murmured, but something about the way he said it told me he didn't quite believe me. He laid the dress carefully across the bed before leaning back again. "Alright, next one. Let's see how deep a hole you've dug him into."

I reached for another bag, my fingers brushing the smooth handles. The faint rustle of paper filled the room as I pulled out a soft cashmere cardigan, holding it up so he could see.

"Yep," he said, eyes sweeping over it. "Definitely jealous."

°°°°°

The kitchen is too beautiful to feel real.

It's the kind of space that belongs in a glossy magazine-stainless steel polished to a mirror shine, marble counters so smooth they look cold to the touch, a sprawling oven whose burners gleam like they've never known the heat of a flame. Everything feels arranged, curated... untouched.

Which is why my pulse kicks up the moment I step inside.

But I asked.

I asked Adrian if I could make dinner. And he said yes. Not warmly, not with indulgence-just one clipped word. Fine.

But it was enough.

Because this time, I wasn't asking out of fear or necessity.

I wasn't bargaining for safety, or a place to sleep, or the right to exist quietly in the corner.

I was asking because I wanted to do something for him-something that might mean thank you in the only language I know: the small, quiet kind.

So I stand in the middle of this immaculate, expensive kitchen, take a slow breath, and start small.

Pasta. Garlic bread. Roasted green beans. Food that's warm and filling-comfort that slips in without asking permission. Food that might make a person feel cared for, even if they'd never admit to needing it.

As I pass a basket of vegetables, my eyes catch on the bright orange of carrots. Muffins, I think. Sweet, soft, unnecessary... but maybe a surprise worth making.

I roll up my sleeves, tie my hair back, and begin.

The hum of the refrigerator, the tap of a knife against a cutting board, the faint hiss of oil heating in a pan-it all falls into a rhythm.

My shoulders loosen. My mind stops looping over the day in sharp edges.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel. .. capable. Steady.

Wanted.

I'm peeling carrots when I hear the soft click of the door behind me. My muscles tense automatically. I turn.

Mary stands just inside the doorway.

She doesn't bark questions or look irritated. Her head tilts slightly, arms folded over her apron, her eyes scanning the counter like she's taking in every detail.

"Well," she says at last, a small smile curving her lips. "This is a surprise."

"I-" I straighten quickly. "Adrian said I could."

One brow arches. "Did he now?"

I nod, suddenly unsure. "I... I hope that's okay. I didn't mean-"

"Relax, sweetheart," she cuts in gently, stepping forward. "I'm not upset. Just surprised. You're not the sort to do something without permission."

I glance down at the cutting board. "Do you... want to help?"

Her mouth curves into a knowing smile. "Would you like me to?"

I hesitate. Then shake my head. "No. I think... I'd like to do this myself. I want to thank him."

Her expression softens, almost like she understands more than I've said. "Then I'll keep you company."

She takes a seat at the counter, folding her hands loosely in her lap, watching in a way that feels less like supervision and more like quiet witnessing.

I move through the kitchen slowly, deliberately. Butter melts into a golden pool. Garlic hisses, releasing its scent into the air. Pasta drops into boiling water with a muted splash. Cinnamon blooms as I fold it into muffin batter.

"Anything you want to ask me," Mary says after a moment, her voice low, like she's offering a secret, "now's your chance."

I blink, startled by the openness of it. "Is anyone in the house allergic to anything?"

Her laughter comes quickly-warm and real. "That's your first question?"

I flush. "I should have asked sooner. I didn't even think of it."

"No allergies that I know of," she says, still smiling. "But I like you even more for asking."

I busy myself with the batter, cheeks warming under the compliment.

Then, quietly: "Is he always like this?"

Mary's gaze shifts. "Adrian?"

I nod.

She takes her time, her answer measured. "He can be cold," she says. "Harsh. Distant. Sharp in ways most people can't stand to be around."

I snap the ends off the green beans one by one, the sound sharp in the quiet.

"But he isn't only that," she continues. "There are moments-rare ones-when you'll catch something different."

I glance at her. "What is he like then?"

Her eyes soften in a way that tells me she's not seeing me anymore, but someone younger, from another time. "Human."

The word lands heavy between us.

"I know it doesn't seem like it," she says, her tone quieter now. "But I've known him since he was barely old enough to look me in the eye. I've seen kindness in him, even if it lasts only a second. That doesn't mean he's soft. It doesn't mean he'll let anyone close. But it's there."

I pause, my fingers brushing the small red R at my throat.

"He gave me this," I murmur.

Her gaze lingers on the necklace.

"I know what it means," I say, almost daring her to contradict me.

She stays silent.

"I don't think he did it to be kind."

"No," Mary agrees. "But that doesn't mean it wasn't something."

Silence settles again, thick but not uncomfortable. Outside, the light fades toward evening, and in this polished, untouchable kitchen, something shifts-something small, but real-like the first quiet thread of belonging.

I finish prepping the green beans, sliding the tray into the oven with a soft scrape of metal on metal. The smell in the air is already turning warm and round-garlic, herbs, bread-wrapping itself around the room like something that's been here for generations, even though I know it hasn't.

I wipe my hands on a dish towel and glance up, almost shy. "The garden out back..."

Mary looks up from her stool, one brow lifting, her hands still folded neatly in her lap.

I hesitate, the words soft on my tongue. "Am I... allowed to clean it up?"

There's a pause-not hesitation, just a quiet where she seems to measure the question, and me. Then her expression changes, slow as sunrise, warmth spreading through her face until it feels like the whole kitchen is a little lighter.

"That garden used to be beautiful," she says, and her voice holds something wistful, like she's remembering it in another life. "But no one's looked after it in a long time. You'd be doing the whole house a kindness if you did."

I feel the corners of my mouth tug upward, just a little. "I like being out there."

"Then make it yours," she says simply, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

And for a second, I can't answer, because something catches in my chest.

Mine.

The word feels strange, almost foreign. But I roll it over in my head-like maybe if I keep it there long enough, it'll stick.

Even if it's just a garden. Even if it's just this kitchen and the way the light falls across the marble counters. Even if it's just this moment, Mary watching me with that rare softness, like she's not just seeing me-she's rooting for me.

I've never had that before.

°°°°°

Adrian Rossetti

The knock came soft, barely more than a whisper against the heavy wood of the door. Too soft.

It was the kind of knock that wouldn't have stirred anyone else, drowned out by the steady ticking of the clock resting in the corner of my office. But I heard it clear as day.

I knew exactly who it was before the door even moved. No one else ever knocked like that - like they were afraid the door might bite their fingers off if they came too close.

I didn't bother to look up from the papers spread across my desk.

"Come in."

The hinges groaned low as the door eased open, the faint light from the hallway spilling into the dim room. For a moment, she lingered there - hesitant, uncertain if she was even allowed to cross the threshold.

Then she stepped forward.

Lily.

Her sweater sleeves were still rolled above her elbows, a faint dusting of flour clinging to the soft fabric like the last trace of a moment just passed.

Her skirt brushed softly over her thighs as her flats made no sound on the thick rug beneath her feet.

She folded her hands in front of her again - the same way she had the first night - shrinking into herself, trying to take up less space than she deserved.

"I just wanted to let you know," she said, voice quiet but steady, "that dinner is ready. If you'd... like to come down."

That was all.

I raised a brow, almost expecting something else.

And then she added, voice so low it almost surprised me:

"You haven't eaten all day."

Her words stopped me dead.

I studied her face carefully. She said it like a simple fact - something she had noticed without meaning to. But it wasn't something she should have known.

"You've been keeping track of that?"

Her eyes widened, a faint blush crawling up her neck like a slow flame.

"No. I just... noticed. You didn't eat at lunch. Or breakfast. So I thought..."

She faltered, regret flashing behind her eyes. Her gaze dropped to the floor, fingers twisting together.

"If you want to eat, there's plenty. Logan's already downstairs. You might want to get some before it's gone."

A ghost of a smile threatened the corner of my mouth. Almost.

I said nothing, pushing my chair back with a slow scrape against the hardwood floor.

She looked up, eyes catching mine again, uncertainty flickering there.

I followed her down the hall, past the long windows that looked out onto the garden, now shrouded in darkness but etched in silver by the moonlight.

Then the scent hit me - rich and warm and garlic heavy - like a memory I hadn't realized I'd missed until that very second.

Food that wasn't brought in on a tray or set by hired hands.

Food made by someone's own hands.

By hers.

Lily slips inside ahead of me, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she moves to take her seat at the far end of the table.

Logan is already there, feet casually propped on a chair like he owns the place, shoveling pasta into his mouth with the urgency of a man who's missed too many meals.

When he spots me, his brows shoot up in surprise.

"Well, shit," he says through a mouthful, grinning wide. "Didn't think I'd see the day you sat down at the table with us again, Rossetti. You must really be evolving."

"Feet off the furniture," I mutter, but he doesn't budge.

Instead, he jerks a thumb toward Lily. "She made this?"

"She did," I say, sliding onto the chair beside her. "And Mary's joining us."

Right on cue, Mary enters, a towel draped over one arm and that knowing look she always wears-the kind that says she's seen more than I want her to. Without a word, she takes a seat and pours herself a glass of water.

Logan slaps the table, grinning. "Now this? This is civilization."

Lily shifts nervously in her seat, eyes flicking between us. Her plate holds just a modest scoop of pasta, a single slice of garlic bread, a few green beans-as if she's afraid to take more, like she doesn't quite believe she's allowed to enjoy it.

I pile her plate higher, watching her blink in surprise but say nothing. Good.

We eat in relative quiet, broken only by the scrape of forks and Logan's exaggerated chewing. I'd tell him to stop if it weren't for the way Lily laughs quietly under her breath, trying to hide it behind a sip of water.

Her laugh-small and hesitant-lands like something fragile and new.

For a moment, the room feels... human.

Logan leans back, stretching out with a lazy smile. His gaze flicks to Lily, then lingers, and I follow it.

He's staring at the necklace-the small red R resting against her throat, catching the light like a warning.

He doesn't say anything right away, but his brows lift, no longer teasing. Something else-curiosity, maybe caution.

His eyes meet hers, then flick to me. Long, knowing.

I hold his gaze firmly.

Don't.

His smirk twitches, but he says nothing.

The moment he looks up again, I shoot him a sharp look-our silent command, one we've used a hundred times before.

Get out.

Mary reads it, too. No argument. She smooths her apron, gives Lily one last gentle smile, and follows Logan out, closing the door behind her.

Now it's just the two of us.

She sits still, but I see the tension in the way her fingers twist in her lap, like she's bracing for punishment she doesn't deserve. I've seen it before-in people broken by discipline rather than taught through it.

Still, she doesn't flinch when my eyes meet hers.

That's new.

Logan's voice cuts through my thoughts from the other room before the door shuts fully.

"Hey, Lily," he calls softly. "Where the hell did you learn to cook like this?"

She freezes. I catch it-the brief hitch in her breath, the way her hands still.

I watch her from the corner of my eye.

A faint smile flickers on her lips-too quick to be genuine.

"I liked to cook for my foster parents," she says quietly.

I know it's a lie.

But I don't say a word.

Not yet.

I watch her for a long moment, the way the soft kitchen light catches at the edge of her jaw, the faint tremble in her hands resting on her lap. I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin as if I'm measuring something far bigger than a plate of food.

"Well," I say finally, voice low, deliberate, "are you happy with yourself?"

Her eyes widen, as if the question is unfamiliar, unexpected. "I-what do you mean?"

I meet her gaze, holding it steady. "The food. The whole thing. Did it make you feel... good? Like you did something right?"

She blinks slowly, as if weighing the truth against the fear of saying it out loud. Then, softly, carefully, she answers.

"Yes. It did. I... I like doing things with my hands. It helps me think. It makes me feel like I'm not just..." She trails off, like the words won't come. "Not just here."

There's a pause - the kind that fills the air with more than silence.

It's not the answer I expected. Not a deflection, not a lie. Something honest, raw even, and that... unsettles me more than I want to admit.

Before I can say anything, she looks up again, voice barely above a whisper.

"There's something else I wanted to ask."

I raise an eyebrow. The shift in her tone is sudden - bold, even - and I'm caught off guard. "Go on."

Her lips part, hesitating, but then she finds the words. "I made muffins too. And, of course, you can have as many as you want. But... I was thinking maybe I could give the rest to the staff. The men who watch the halls. The ones who keep the house safe."

I stare at her, the weight of her offer sinking in deeper than I thought it would.

She doesn't fidget or look away. Her eyes hold mine, open and sincere, with a vulnerability that twists something tight and unfamiliar inside me.

She sees them.

The guards. The ones everyone else pretends aren't there. The ghosts in the edges of this place. The ones I keep tucked away, out of sight and out of mind.

But not Lily.

She wants to feed them.

I should remind her where she is. That this place is built on power, on fear, on control. That kindness like hers is a liability here.

Instead, I ask quietly, "Why?"

She shifts in her seat, voice steady, "Because they haven't done anything wrong. They work hard. They deserve it. It just... feels like the right thing to do."

Her answer-so simple, so unyielding-pushes against everything I believe about this house and the life I've carved out here.

Because she's right.

And if she's right, then she doesn't belong here.

If she doesn't belong, then why the hell am I letting her stay?

I let out a long, slow breath, the weight settling heavy in my chest.

"Fine," I say, the word rough but final.

Her face brightens instantly, like the room has been lit from within. I almost flinch at the intensity of it - not just a smile, but something more like hope breaking through a long, cold winter.

She stands quickly, gathering the empty plates with a careful touch, almost knocking over her glass in the process.

Then she hesitates, glancing up at me nervously.

"Would you... come with me?"

I look at her, surprise flickering in my eyes.

"I don't know the house well yet," she says softly. "And I don't want to miss anyone."

Of course she wouldn't.

I run a hand over my face, feeling the sharp knot of something close to guilt tighten in my gut. I've done worse for less.

"Yeah," I mutter.

Her head lifts, eyes bright with a fragile kind of hope.

"Really?"

I say nothing more. I rise, straighten the cuffs of my shirt, and nod toward the kitchen door.

She moves ahead of me, steady now but still carrying that undercurrent of nervous energy, and as we walk down the hall together, I find myself wondering how long it's been since she felt this alive - this needed.

And how much longer I'm willing to let her keep it.

She slips ahead of me, her hair falling soft and loose down her back, the faint scent of cinnamon and sugar clinging to her like a goddamn halo. The kitchen still smells like something warm and honest-something I haven't breathed in years.

Two trays of steaming muffins wait on the counter, stacked high, promising more than just food-hope, maybe. She tries to lift both at once, like it's no big deal, but fuck, I see her arms wobble under the weight the second she picks them up.

I don't say a word. I just reach out and take the top tray from her hands.

She freezes. I can practically hear her heart pounding. Then she exhales a quiet, almost reverent, "Thank you."

No eye contact. Just smooths her skirt and lowers her head like she's trying to disappear, then leads the way toward the hallway.

I fall in step behind her-intentionally. Not beside her. Not in front. Behind.

I tell myself it's for her protection. Not because I don't trust her, but because I sure as fuck don't trust the guys standing guard like fucking statues along these sterile white walls.

But that's just the bullshit story I tell myself.

The truth? I keep behind her because I need to watch. I need to see. Because if I let myself walk beside her, if I get close enough to believe this fucked-up place could ever be a home, I might lose my mind.

And this place? It's not a home. It's a fortress. A goddamn tomb built on blood and broken promises.

We start at the front, the outer perimeter where the guards stand like statues-men who've long since stopped caring about anything but their next paycheck.

Lily stops at each one, holding the tray like it's sacred, offering muffins with a voice so soft it's almost a whisper.

"I made muffins," she says. "Carrot. Would you like one?"

She doesn't push. Doesn't linger. Just offers, small and sincere.

I wait for the first idiot to say no. To tell her to fuck off.

But none of them do.

Some take the muffin awkwardly, like they don't know how to accept kindness. Others-older, quieter men-nod with cautious thanks.

I watch everything-their hands, their eyes, the way their shoulders slump like they've been carrying too much for too long.

Nothing slips past me.

And still, the way they look at her tightens my jaw. Fucking pisses me off.

Not because they disrespect her-not out loud. But because she's doing this. Walking through my house like she owns part of it. Like she belongs here.

Smiling.

Spreading sugar and softness through a place built on fear and steel.

The scent of cinnamon still clings to her sweater like a goddamn stain.

Two days.

Two fucking days.

And already she's turning this cold fortress into something else. Something I don't fucking recognize anymore.

She moves up the stairs next, holding the tray lower now. Lighter, but her arms still small. Her fingers pink at the knuckles, shaking a little.

I should offer to take it.

But I don't.

She turns left at the top, toward the east wing-where the heavier security waits, the real muscle that keeps this place locked tight.

I follow behind, the weight of her fragile presence settling deep inside me like a bad fucking secret I can't shake.

Because this isn't normal.

And I know it.

I know it, and I hate it.

She reaches the top level and turns left, toward the east wing-where I keep some of the heavier security.

The whole goddamn place is built on layers of control. Layers of bullshit. And here she is, stepping into the lion's den without a clue. A deer wandering into a pack of wolves, blind to the teeth flashing just beyond the shadows.

I shouldn't give a shit. I don't do this. I don't get involved. I don't let anyone close. Not anymore. Not since the world taught me the hard way that soft is weakness, and weakness gets you broken.

But something about her-that fragility that reeks of someone who's been crushed and thrown away-makes me want to watch every step she takes. Like she's a fucking puzzle piece I'm supposed to figure out, but she's missing half the edges.

The man posted outside the study is newer. Young. Too young, too soft, just like the rest who think this is a game and don't realize what the stakes really are.

I see it immediately-the flick of his gaze, the way his eyes don't stay on the damn tray where they belong.

They linger.

On her.

Not just her face. Her neck. Her legs.

Like a damn predator sizing up prey.

She doesn't notice.

But I do.

And that pisses me off.

I close the distance in two strides, my hand slamming down on his shoulder with enough force to remind him who the fuck is in charge.

He freezes. The kind of stiff that says "I'm about to get fucked."

I lean in, my breath low against his ear, voice sharp and lethal, the kind that cuts through any bullshit.

"Next time your eyes drift," I murmur, making sure she can't hear, "I'll take them."

His Adam's apple bobs like it's trying to swallow a lump of fear. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

I turn back toward Lily just in time to see her pause at the corner, her head tilted in confusion. She's noticed I'm gone.

Her voice is quiet, almost fragile. "Everything alright?"

I study her. The sweater slipping off one shoulder, the necklace catching the light just right. She's unaware of the gravity hanging over her like a dark cloud. She doesn't know what she does to people. Not yet.

She's a fucking wild card, a goddamn storm that hasn't broken loose yet.

"Perfect," I say, voice cold as winter stone.

She nods, satisfied, and steps forward again. Her footsteps are soft but sharp on the marble, curls brushing her spine like a whisper.

And I follow.

Silent.

Watching.

Waiting.

Every second more certain of one brutal truth:

She doesn't belong here.

And yet I'm already reshaping this world around her.

Why the fuck am I doing this?

I don't fucking do this.

I'm not the guy who takes something fragile and tries to make it fit. I don't do care or soft or hope. I don't want connections or feelings or whatever the hell this is starting to feel like.

She doesn't know me.

I don't know her.

She's a damn chess piece in a game I'm still trying to understand.

A wild card thrown on the board.

And I'm supposed to make her play by my rules.

Fuck.

Maybe I'm doing this because I'm tired of breaking everything that matters. Maybe it's because somewhere inside me, buried under years of rage and scars, there's a spark that wants to build instead of destroy.

Or maybe it's just that I'm fucking insane.

Either way, this isn't about her.

It's about the game.

And I'm the one holding the pieces.

I'll keep her safe.

But only because she serves a purpose.

Because in this world of blood and betrayal, softness gets you killed.

And I'm not planning to lose.

°°°°°

Heyyyy

I know we might like Adrian letting loose a little...

But things can change... Just fyi