Damian’s POV

The house looked different at dawn. Not quiet just holding its breath. Pale light crept along the marble floors like it wasn’t sure it was allowed there. Smoke curled from the cigarette between my fingers, burning too low, ash spilling over the tray.

I’d been up for hours, staring at the same set of numbers on the ledger, not really seeing them. Thinking about her instead. About the way silence can be louder than a scream. Elena hadn’t made a sound all night. My men reported nothing, but nothing is its own kind of problem.

I didn’t go to her room. Not yet. I needed the quiet to settle inside me first. Vulnerability is like a cracked bottle it leaks. Handle it wrong and you cut yourself. Handle it right and you can pour it out slowly.

By eight, the cigarette was gone and my decision was set.

I called the men to the great hall. They filed in one by one, boots thudding against the marble, faces schooled to blankness but their eyes darting, curious. They knew what this was about.

“No one touches her,” I said, voice low but hard. “No intimidation. No punishment. Not unless it comes from me. If she so much as sneezes differently, you tell me first. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” came back like a roll of thunder.

I shifted my gaze to the cook at the edge of the hall. “Three meals a day,” I ordered. “Real food. Ask her if she’s allergic to anything. If she refuses, you tell me. She stays alive. She stays strong. I want her healthy.”

The cook’s head bobbed quickly.

“She’s mine to handle,” I finished. “That’s all you need to know.”

Boots echoed as the hall emptied, leaving me alone again. Orders given. Now the execution.

I went upstairs, slow and deliberate. Not to drag her like an animal. Not to shout. A cage works better when the captive feels its shape before the door slams.

Her room smelled faintly of lavender one of the maids must have tried to cover the scent of fear. She sat at the edge of the bed, hair a tangle, skin pale. She looked up once, then away, eyes fixed on some invisible point on the floor.

“Elena,” I said.

Her fingers twisted in her lap.

“You know what running gets you.” My voice stayed calm, almost quiet. “I’m going to make this simple.”

I laid the folded document on the desk between us.

“Rules,” I said. “They’ll decide everything for you your movements, your speech, your clothes. Break them, and there are consequences. Sign it.”

She swallowed, throat working, but didn’t lift her eyes.

I stepped closer, low enough for her to feel my presence before she saw it. “I’m not shouting. I’m not dragging you. You’re here because of what you chose. Before this is done, you’ll understand.”

I gestured to the adjoining door. My men opened it.

“Come.”

She rose slowly, knees unsteady, following me into a room colder than the one we’d left.

The walls were lined with metal fixtures. Leather hung in loops from hooks, chains glinted faintly in the low light. The smell of steel and old leather filled the air a space built for control, not comfort.

She drew in a sharp breath. For the first time since I’d entered, she showed something real in her eyes.

“This,” I said quietly, “is where the rules you break will be answered. Not with death. Not with freedom. With consequences.”

She stood rigid, fists clenched at her sides.

“And one more thing,” I added. “You won’t wear whatever you please. I’ve ordered a uniform a maid’s uniform. Simple. Restrictive. Every time you put it on, you’ll remember your place.”

Her breathing quickened. Her gaze flicked from the chains to the floor as though she could still find an exit there.

I leaned in close enough that my words brushed against her panic. “You tried to escape me once. You won’t escape again.”

I turned and walked out, shutting the door behind me. The sound echoed through the stone like a verdict