Chapter Five
Draco
The tea tastes like liquid gold—rich, complex, probably worth more per ounce than I made busking yesterday. Charity sits cross-legged in the window seat, cradling her mug like it’s a shield between us, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m watching some elaborate performance.
Nobody is this trusting. Nobody finds a stranger living in their private sanctuary and responds by making him gourmet tea. There has to be a catch—cameras recording this for some social media stunt, security waiting outside for her signal, something.
But the cottage feels empty except for us, and her hands shake just slightly when she lifts her mug. Real nerves, not performed ones.
"So," she says, then stops, staring into her teacup like it might tell her what question to ask first.
I lean against the kitchen counter, maintaining distance, the coin rolling steadily across my knuckles. Old habits. Keep the hands busy, stay ready to run, never fully relax, no matter how safe things seem.
"You’re wondering what kind of person I am," I say when the silence stretches too long. "Whether I’m dangerous, whether you’re making a huge mistake right now."
Her gaze snaps to mine, blue as open sky. "Are you a mind reader too?"
"Too?"
A blush creeps up her neck. "I mean, along with being… whatever you are."
I can’t help but smile at that. "Street performer. That’s what I am. Magic tricks, sleight of hand." The coin vanishes from my fingers and reappears behind her ear—a basic trick, but she gasps like I just levitated the cottage.
"How did you—" She reaches up to touch the spot where the coin appeared, and her fingertips brush mine as I pull my hand away.
Electric shock, straight through my nervous system. From one innocent touch.
Shit.
I step back quickly, dropping the coin into my palm. "Practice," I say, voice rougher than it should be. "Lots of practice."
She’s still staring at me with that wonder, like I’m actually magical instead of just a guy with good hand-eye coordination and trust issues.
"Where did you learn?" she asks.
Rome, I think. From a drunk named Titus who taught me to palm coins in exchange for half my daily take. But that’s not exactly a conversation I’m ready to have.
"Here and there," I say instead. "You pick things up when you need to survive."
She nods as if this makes perfect sense, then gets up and moves to the small kitchen area, restless, trying to process everything. The fruit bowl gets repositioned exactly two inches to the left. A dishtowel gets refolded.
"I've never had anyone in here before," she says without looking at me. "I mean, except for staff who occasionally clean or bring supplies. But never… anyone."
"This is your private space."
"My sanctuary." She abandons the honey jar and moves to the bookshelf in the living area, running her fingers along the spines. "I come here when the main house gets too overwhelming. When I need to think or just… breathe."
The main house. Right. Through the trees, I caught glimpses of what looked like a mansion. "You live… alone?"
"With my parents." She pulls a book from the shelf—poetry, from what I can see—then slides it back in place. "But it's a big house. We don't… interact much."
"You don’t have to be nervous," I tell her. "I meant what I said—I’m not going to hurt you."
"I’m not nervous about that." She stops moving and looks at me directly.
Suddenly she’s close. Close enough that I can smell the lavender on her skin, and every part of me wants to close the distance. The air between us feels charged.
The gladiator in me calculates distance, leverage, escape routes. The man I’ve become forces a different discipline — restraint.
Control used to mean survival. Now it means not touching her until she asks. But holding back sharpens everything—her scent, her breath, the way her presence pulls at me.
It suddenly sneaks up on me—how beautiful she is. Petite, maybe 5'2" in her expensive flats.
Her platinum blonde hair catches the dim light streaming through the cottage windows, so pale it's almost silver, falling straight and smooth past her shoulders.
But it's her eyes that get me—pale blue, almost silver in certain light, like winter sky.
Porcelain skin that probably never sees the sun, delicate features that belong in some Renaissance painting.
But then I notice the rest.
Her shoulders have more strength than softness. Her arms look like they know work—real work, the kind you do with your hands. And her chin is set with a determination that doesn’t match the fragile packaging.
She looks breakable at a glance, but she isn’t.
"I’m nervous because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now." She answers the question I’d forgotten I asked. "There’s no protocol for this situation."
"Protocol?"
"I’ve been… sheltered," she says simply. "Very sheltered. Homeschooled. My parents… they worry about everything. Every possible danger, every risk, every way the world might hurt me." She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. "They’d have a heart attack if they knew I was here with you right now."
She turns toward the window, looking out toward the main house, and her shoulders look tight as concrete.
Something ancient stirs in me — the old instinct to read bodies the way I once read an arena crowd. Not for weakness. For danger. For what might be coming.
She isn’t prey, and this isn’t a fight, but my mind still catalogs every tension in her frame, every flicker of fear she tries to hide. Two thousand years, and the training doesn’t fade.
She’s fragile in some ways, but the curve of her shoulders and the strength in her arms say she’s worked for something. That hidden steel pulls at me harder than her porcelain-doll face ever could.
"They sound protective," I say carefully.
"They’re terrified." She turns back to me. "After… after they lost someone important, they became obsessed with keeping me safe. Sometimes I think they’d put me in a bubble if they could."
Lost someone. The careful way she says it tells me everything—death, probably sudden, probably traumatic enough to turn her parents into overprotective guardians.
"That must be lonely," I say.
"It is." The admission seems to surprise her. "I’ve never said that out loud before. I always wanted a pet. Thought my life wouldn’t be so lonely," she says, pulling out a jar of what looks like artisanal honey.
The neck of the jar is tied with a purple ribbon, even though it will be ruined the moment she unscrews the top.
"A dog, or even just a cat. Something alive and warm and… mine."
The longing in her voice guts me. She doesn’t even hear it, but I do. It’s not about a pet—it’s about needing something that belongs only to her, something no one else controls. Goddess, I know that hunger.
"But your parents said no?"
"They said pets were too dirty. Too unpredictable." She picks up the jar of honey again, then sets it on the counter with more force than necessary. "But I think they didn’t want me to get heartbroken if it died. They’ve spent so much energy protecting me from pain that I sometimes wonder if I’ve missed out on… everything."
The raw honesty in her voice hits me harder than it should. This isn’t some rich girl playing at rebellion—this is someone who’s been sheltered like a relic in a temple and is finally questioning the walls.
I watch her fidget with the honey jar, unscrewing and rescrewing the lid, and something protective unfurls in my chest. Dangerous territory, that feeling. I’ve survived this long by not getting attached, not caring about anyone enough to make stupid decisions.
But looking at her—at the way she holds herself like she’s not sure she deserves to take up space, the careful politeness that can’t quite hide her hunger for something real—I feel that old familiar ache of recognition.
Another lost soul looking for somewhere to belong.
"What about you?" she asks, looking up from the honey jar. "Do you have family?"
"Not anymore." It’s my automatic response when someone treads too close to being real. It’s effective, shuts down further questions.
But instead of dropping it, she nods as though she understands. "Death or distance?"
The question catches me off guard. Most people hear "not anymore" and change the subject, uncomfortable with the implications. But she asks it like someone who knows loss personally.
"Both," I admit. "Long story."
"I’m good with long stories." She finally stops fidgeting with the jar and looks at me directly. "I’ve got time if you do."
Time. When was the last time someone offered me their time just to listen? Not to get something from me, not because they wanted entertainment or felt sorry for me, but because they were genuinely curious about who I am.
The smart play would be to deflect, keep things surface-level, maintain the distance that keeps both of us safe. But something about the way she’s looking at me—like she sees more than just a homeless guy who broke into her sanctuary—makes me want to take the risk.
"My family died when I was young," I say slowly. "I’ve been on my own ever since."
"I’m sorry." Simple words, but she means them. I can feel her concern from across the room. "That must have been terrifying."
"You learn to adapt." The coin reappears in my hand, rolling across my knuckles in that soothing rhythm. "You figure out who to trust and who to avoid. You develop skills that keep you alive."
"Like magic tricks?"
"Like reading people. Like knowing when someone’s about to cause trouble, or when they might have a few coins to spare for a good show." I pause, studying her face. "Like recognizing when someone’s never had to worry about any of that."
She doesn’t take offense at the implication that she’s na?ve. Instead, she nods thoughtfully.