Chapter Five #2
"You’re right. I’ve never had to worry about survival. I’ve never been truly hungry or homeless or… any of it." She moves to the window again, looking out at the grounds. "Sometimes I feel like I’m living behind glass, watching the real world happen to other people."
"Glass can be broken," I point out.
She turns back to me, and there’s something different in her expression. Determination, maybe. Or desperation.
"Is that what you’re offering? To break the glass?"
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I’m not sure either of us is ready to handle.
She’s asking for more than just information about the outside world.
She’s asking for freedom, for experiences, for all the messy, dangerous, beautiful things her parents have spent their lives protecting her from.
Smart money says I should back away from this conversation, keep things simple, maybe accept a meal and a night’s shelter, and then disappear back into the city. Getting involved with someone like her—sheltered, wealthy, innocent—is a recipe for disaster.
But looking at her standing in the window light, chin raised like she’s ready to fight for something she’s never been allowed to want, I feel that old familiar stirring.
The same impulse that made me pocket my first coin, that drove me to learn magic tricks from a drunk in the Forum, that’s kept me moving forward through twenty centuries and a dozen different kinds of hell.
The urge to take what I want, consequences be damned.
And what I want, I’m realizing with growing alarm, is to show her exactly what exists beyond that glass.
"I can’t make that decision for you," I say finally. "Breaking glass is dangerous. You might get cut."
"I’m tired of being safe," she says, and there’s steel in her voice that I didn’t expect.
"Twenty-five years old, and I’ve never made a single decision that wasn’t approved by someone else first. I’ve never taken a real risk or had a real adventure or even…
even had a real conversation with someone who wasn’t paid to be polite to me. "
The words hit me like a punch. Goddess. Everyone in her life—every single person—gets compensated for spending time with her. Staff, tutors, probably even her social acquaintances. She’s never had a genuine human connection that wasn’t a transaction.
I study her face, really look at her, and suddenly I see past the expensive clothes and perfect manners to something raw and lonely underneath. She’s not na?ve—she’s starving. Starving for something real, something honest, something that belongs to her instead of being managed by her parents.
She’s moving toward me now, and I can smell her perfume—something floral and probably expensive that speaks of designer boutiques and trust funds. But underneath it, there’s something else. Something warm and alive and purely her.
"Stay," she says suddenly. "Here, in the cottage. For a few days at least, while you figure out what comes next."
Her voice is steady, but her fingers tighten around the mug like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. Her breath hitches, almost too soft to catch, and I realize this costs her more than she wants me to see. This isn’t some casual invitation—it’s a dangerous leap, and she knows it.
I stare at her. "You’re offering me shelter."
"I’m offering us both something we need." Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn’t back down. "You need somewhere safe to stay, and I need… I need to know what it feels like to make a choice that’s entirely my own."
"Your parents—"
"Don’t have to know. They never come to the cottage. “As far as they’re concerned, I’m here working on some art project or other.” Her voice goes soft, almost evasive, like the details don’t matter—or like she doesn’t want to share them yet.
"You could stay here, and I could… I could learn what it’s like to have a friend who isn’t an employee."
Friend. The word shouldn’t disappoint me, but it does.
"This isn’t a game, Charity." I need her to understand the stakes here, need to push past whatever romantic fantasy she might be building. "I’m not some project you can rehabilitate and then show off to your parents. I’ve done things, seen things, that would give your sheltered life nightmares.
You invite me in, you’re inviting in everything that comes with me. "
She's quiet for a long moment. I can see her weighing it—the risk, the rebellion, the choice that's entirely hers. Finally, she nods.
Instead of backing down, she steps closer, chin lifted with a level of confidence I haven’t seen from her until now. Close enough that I can see flecks of silver in her blue eyes, close enough that the heat from her skin makes my pulse quicken.
"Good," she says quietly. "Maybe I need some nightmares. Maybe I’m tired of dreaming about nothing but safety."
Her last word slides under my defenses. Safety. The one thing I’ve never been able to offer anyone, even myself. And here she is, asking me to take it away from her.
I should say no. Should walk out right now, before this gets complicated, before either of us gets in too deep.
Instead, I find myself nodding.
"A few days," I agree. "While I figure out what comes next."
The smile that lights up her face is worth every stupid risk I’m about to take.
She’s practically glowing with excitement, pacing again but this time with purpose instead of nerves. "I’ll bring supplies tomorrow—better food, coffee, whatever you need. And maybe… maybe you could show me some of your magic tricks?"
The request is so innocent, so hopeful, that something clenches in my chest. When was the last time someone asked to see my skills just for the joy of it? Not for money, not for distraction, just because they wanted to share in something that made me happy?
"I could do that," I say, and my voice comes out rough as sour wine.
She stops pacing and looks at me, and for a moment the air between us feels charged with possibility. All the things we’re not saying, all the risks we’re both pretending not to see.
Then she steps back, creating a safe distance again.
"I should go," she says. "But I’ll come back tomorrow morning, okay?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She gathers her things quickly, efficiently, but pauses at the door. Her fingers rest on the handle, and she glances back at me.
"Draco?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're staying."
"You might change your mind about that," I warn her. Part of me hopes she does.
Because she doesn’t know me yet—not the parts that don’t fit neatly into pretty cottages and curated quiet.
I’m not dangerous to her, but I’m not domesticated either, and most people don’t expect the difference.
If she’s going to regret this, it’ll be because she realizes I don’t smooth out just because someone invites me in.
"I doubt I’ll change my mind." A small smile curves her lips. "Tomorrow morning, then."
And then she’s gone, leaving me alone in the cottage with the lingering scent of her perfume and the absolute certainty that I just made the most dangerous decision of my very long life.
Somewhere between her first nervous question and that determined smile, I stopped thinking of her as just another mark or another temporary shelter.
I started thinking of her as someone worth protecting.
And that, I know from hard experience, is when everything goes to hell.