Chapter 27 Portraits of a Ruler #2
He had said I was safe and, irrationally, I believed him, despite how dangerous that could end up being.
Was it because of what he had done with the statues?
Because he had destroyed stone without hesitation simply to ease a fear?
Or was it because standing here in a space that radiated power and history, I understood that if anything in it chose to turn hostile, he would be the only thing capable of standing between it and me?
The thought should have frightened me more than it did.
Instead, it anchored me.
If something were to shift in the shadows right now, if glowing eyes were to emerge, I knew without doubt I would not run from him. That I would move toward him, and that truth settled heavily in my chest.
So slowly, before I could talk myself out of it, I placed my hand lightly against his offered arm.
Muscle tensed slightly beneath my touch, but beyond the faintest tightening of his posture, he didn’t react further.
Yet I felt the subtle shift nonetheless, as though something unspoken had just been acknowledged between us.
Perhaps the slightest hint of trust forming.
“Come,” he said softly, and this time, I followed more willingly than before. His arm remained steady beneath my hand as we began to cross the imposing entrance hall. The marble beneath my heels echoed far too loudly as we made our way toward the staircase.
To my left, a set of double doors stood slightly ajar, and I couldn’t help but look.
Beyond them lay a drawing room that felt almost disarmingly human.
A low fire burned steadily within another hearth, its glow casting warmth across deep green upholstery and a scattering of cushions that looked less staged and more disturbed.
As though someone had risen from them not long ago.
A book lay open on a side table beside an armchair, its spine bent mid-read.
A glass rested nearby, amber liquid catching the firelight.
Not a throne room. Not a lair, but instead a room that looked lived in.
On the opposite side of the hall, another doorway revealed a long dining table laid not in opulence, but in readiness.
Polished wood reflecting even more candlelight with high-backed chairs slightly angled as if recently used rather than ceremonially aligned.
The house didn’t feel staged as often as such luxury did, but instead it felt more like a home its owner enjoyed. And that unsettled me in an entirely different way. For a moment, I simply stared.
“All of this in… in a warehouse?” I murmured, unable to mask the surprise in my voice.
“Like I said, people see what I want them to see,” he said evenly as he continued to lead me past the open doors, and I tightened my fingers unconsciously against his arm.
“Does it surprise you?” he asked quietly, not looking at me, but somehow aware of the direction of my gaze as I soaked up the sight of those rooms for as long as I could until they were out of sight.
“Yes,” I admitted before I could stop myself.
“Why?”
Because I had expected stone and severity. Because I had imagined something colder. Because warmth complicated the dark narrative I had been trying to build around him. The inhuman ruler that was far safer to fear than it was to fall for.
“I don’t know,” I said finally, unwilling to give him the real reason. As well… I wasn’t quite that foolish… yet.
His arm shifted ever so slightly beneath my hand. Not yet ready to pull away, but simply adjusting to my pace as we reached the base of the staircase. As if he had only just noticed the difference in our height and that I was having to quicken my steps to match his long strides.
“And what did you expect exactly, I wonder?” he mused, glancing down at me as we began to climb the staircase. One that curved upward in a slow, sweeping arc. The carved banister was cool beneath my free hand as we climbed.
Even with his arm beneath my fingers, I was acutely aware of the difference between us.
The breadth of his shoulders beneath the dark fabric of his jacket, the quiet strength in the way he moved.
Each step seemed effortless to him, measured, controlled, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he would look like if he ever lost that cool restraint.
As for our height difference, again, I ended up having to take two steps for every one of his.
“I don’t know, mounted demon skulls on your walls and a throne made from their bones?” I half-teased in answer to his question.
He gave me a wry look in return, before admitting,
“I guess I asked for that one, didn’t I?”
I chuckled and agreed.
“Yeah, you kind of did.”
After that, he looked deep in thought, as if putting himself in my mortal shoes when first setting foot inside his club.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked lightly, changing the subject as my voice echoed faintly against the height of the hall. However, he didn’t reply straight away, instead, he paused as if about to choose his words carefully.
“Long enough,” he replied cryptically, making me huff.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Perhaps not, but for now, it’s the only one you are receiving,” he replied, and despite his words, there was no sharpness to it. If anything, there was something almost amused beneath the restraint.
I glanced up at him, catching the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.
“So, this is yours then… all of it?” I pressed, regardless, and he simply replied with a curt,
“Yes.”
“And do you live here alone?” I asked, quick to push for more at this point. Something that earned me a look. It wasn’t irritated or harsh, but more… calculating.
“Does that concern you?” he asked as way of answer.
“It might,” I confessed as we neared the top of the staircase.
“And why is that?” Because the idea of him inhabiting this vast, lavish house entirely alone felt… well, it felt almost wrong. Because warmth had lingered in the rooms below, and I couldn’t imagine all of this belonging to someone who lived in it by himself.
“I was curious,” I said instead.
“I imagine you are,” he said softly, and the sound of it lingered in my head long enough that I failed to notice we had reached the landing.
Which meant the final step came sooner than I anticipated.
The change from marble to carpet snagged at my heel, and my balance shifted abruptly beneath me.
I caught a breath that never quite became a gasp.
That was because his hand closed around my waist, warm and certain, drawing me back into the solid line of his body with a control that made the stumble feel almost irrelevant.
My body collided lightly with his and was held there for much longer than was necessary.
Which left me pressed firmly against him, my breath catching as I registered the solid heat of his chest against my back.
That and the unyielding strength of the arm anchoring me at the waist. As though letting go had never been an option.
“Careful,” he said softly, far too close.
I swallowed hard, trying to ignore what his touch did to me and bury the desire I could feel building between my thighs.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, though my hand had instinctively gripped the front of his arm, making me question why I wasn’t pushing him away when I said this.
“I see that,” he replied in a slightly smug tone, as if he knew precisely why he made me breathless. Which had me questioning if this was the reason he hadn’t yet released me. Instead, his thumb shifted almost absently at my waist before he stepped back just enough to restore a semblance of space.
“Perhaps I should carry you again?” he asked, the faintest thread of teasing woven through the words.
“You seem prone to instability.”
I grumbled at this before turning around to face him.
“That won’t be necessary,” I replied quickly, smoothing my skirt as though dignity could be restored through fabric alone.
“As you wish,” he said, though something in his tone suggested he would not have minded.
As for the upper landing, this had opened up not into another cluster of rooms, but into a long gallery that stretched what could have been the length of the house. The upper landing opened into a long gallery that stretched ahead of us, darker than I expected, given the hour.
At the far end, a single arched window let in just enough daylight to remind me it was still morning, though not enough to brighten the gallery fully.
It was the first true glimpse of the outside world I had seen since we had stepped inside, and for a fleeting second, the brightness beyond it felt almost unreal.
A reminder that the day was still moving forward without me and was far from over yet.
The light did not reach far. It thinned quickly across the length of the gallery, leaving the majority of the space dependent on the fancy glass wall lights set between heavy gilt frames.
The glow settled unevenly across the oil paintings, warming some and leaving others half in shadow.
The air was also cooler here, touched by a subtle draft that slipped through the old glass, skimmed along the floor, then climbed slowly upward.
But then something caught my eye, and I paused my steps without meaning to.
The nearest portrait drew me in almost immediately.
A man stood poised in dark eighteenth-century attire, coat fitted close to broad shoulders, one hand resting against the pommel of a sword.
His expression was composed, measured, and almost severe.
Familiar.
Way too familiar.
He cleared his throat, and we continued walking, but my unease deepened.
Another portrait followed, this one older, the clothing different, the setting altered.
Yet the eyes were the same piercing blue, and the jaw was cut with the same restrained authority.
The posture. The stillness. Even the way the painter had captured the set of his mouth felt recognizable.