Elena pushed the last bite of chicken around her plate before finally finishing. The meal was delicious, but eating alone made the meal… undesirable. The manor’s quiet was strange to get used to again. Stepping away from her plate, she headed back upstairs.
Back in her room, she peeled off her clothes, dropping them in a heap on the floor. Turning on the water, the shower burst out and quickly warmed to hot water, releasing steam into the room. She slipped under the spray, letting the water relax her muscles. Focusing on washing, she tried to wash away the feeling of his hands, the phantom echo of his command that still lingered in her muscles, the shameful ache between her legs that only he could soothe.
She stepped out, water puddling at her feet on the cold tile. Grabbing a white, fluffy towel, she wrapped it tightly around her body. She worked another through her long hair, the brown waves heavy and dripping down her back.
She stood before the open wardrobe. The few dresses, the blouses, the nightgowns. The options felt so… limiting. The thought was a spark. She could ask him for more. It was a regular need, but the cost… who knows what kind of cost he’d give her. She knew that she could refuse if she wished; the options were not bad, but she definitely wouldn’t mind a few more.
She pulled a silky ivory nightgown from the drawer. It slithered over her skin, cool and clinging. Her hair was still damp, sending trails of cold water down her spine as she left her room.
The hallway was a tunnel of shadows. No one around, just the distant groan of the old manor settling. Her bare feet were silent as she moved through the hall. She didn’t let herself think about why she was walking toward his study. The pull was a physical thing, a low current in her blood.
The double doors to the study were ahead. A sliver of amber light leaked from the crack between them. She lifted her hand, knocked softly. The thick wood absorbed the sound. No answer came.
She waited. Listened. Nothing but a faint pop of dying embers from within. Her hand found the cold brass handle. She pushed.
The door lightly swung open without a sound.
Liam was slumped over his desk, his head resting on his forearm. Asleep? She slipped into the room quietly, a small level of concern washing through her. The desk looked like a war zone. A large map was spread across his desk, covered in clear plastic sheets marked with frantic, colored lines. Tablets and folders were strewn all accross the floor. An empty glass. A cold plate.
Her first thought was concern, a sharp and unwelcome pang. He looked… drained. The powerful lines of his shoulders were slack. The face’s normal mask was gone, replaced by the stark vulnerability of exhaustion. Dark lashes fanned against his cheek, his brow slightly furrowed even in sleep.
She took a step closer, the rug muffling her step. She should wake him. Tell him to go to bed. The thought died in her throat as her eyes caught on the photograph pinned at the edge of the chaos.
She recognized that face. The blond man from the dinner. The one who had invaded Liam’s spot to sit and talk with her. Her breath hitched. She leaned in.
The photo was grainy, but the face was unmistakable as he had turned towards the camera. Perfectly styled golden hair. An expensive suit. The name was handwritten on a sticky note beneath it: ‘Xander Stern.’ Not Alexander. Xander.
Her gaze swept the map. The yellow marks. She didn’t need a legend to understand. Clusters. Downtown. Blue markings labeled Eros. Yellow marks—too many of them. Her hand rose to her lips—memory hitting hard and unwelcome.
The pieces clicked into place with a cold, metallic finality. The warnings. The increase of the large man... Victor's presence in the manor. Liam’s obsessive work. This wasn’t just a business rival. Liam was preparing for war. The man who clearly had connections to an underworld… One she had only heard rumors of before.
Who was this man sleeping on the desk? He was something else entirely—a power moving in a game far bigger than she’d ever imagined. The man had taken her virginity. He claimed her pleasure and her shame. But he was also here, in the dead of night, mapping the movements of a monster. Was he another monster? The contradiction was a fissure in her world, splitting her clean in two.
“Liam.” His name left her lips before she could stop it, a whisper frayed with fear.
He didn’t stir.
She reached out, her fingers trembling. She meant to shake his shoulder. Instead, her hand hovered just above his back. She could feel the heat of him through the fabric. One touch. That’s all it would take to wake him. She pulled back like it burned.
She looked at the map again, at the spiderweb of lines converging, at the photograph of the shark in a suit. A cold dread, deeper than any she’d felt since her brother’s debt was called, settled in her bones. This was real. This was the world he moved in. And she was falling in the center of it.
She needed to be careful. Very Careful.
Elena's hand snapped back and focused. She retreated from the study, her bare feet silent on the rug, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed in her ribs. The hallway felt colder now, the shadows deeper. She didn't run, but her walk was a swift, panicked glide back to the supposed sanctuary of her room. She shut her own door and leaned against it, the cold wood seeping through the silk of her nightgown. Her mind replayed the map. The photo. The yellow marks.
So many yellow marks…
She climbed into the vast bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. The sheets were cold. She stared at the ceiling, the ornate plasterwork blurred in the dark. She counted her breaths, forcing them to slow. In. Out. The image of Liam, vulnerable and exhausted, warred with the map, with the name Xander Stern. She closed her eyes.
**
Elena jerked awake, her chest heaving. Morning light cut through the gaps in the curtains, sharp and merciless. The bed was empty. Cold. The map and the photograph were gone from behind her eyes, replaced by the ornate plaster ceiling. Normal. She looked at her phone. Thursday - 6:02
She moved quickly, working to prepare herself to see him. She quickly slipped on the uniform—blouse, skirt, stockings—felt like a costume she was putting on for a role she’d almost forgotten how to play. She buttoned the blouse with numb fingers, her gaze catching on the faint yellow-green bruise still marring her sternum.
At precisely seven, she stood outside his study, the doors closed. Following her breathing routine, she used to use before meeting clients, she prepared herself, unsure of what she would find. She knocked, two sharp raps that echoed in the hollow hall.
“Enter.” His voice was flat. A business voice.
He was behind the desk, immaculate in a dark suit, every trace of last night’s exhaustion scoured away. The desk was clear. No map. No scattered tablets. Just a closed laptop, a pen, and a single sheet of paper. He didn’t look up at her as he entered. “Sit.”
She sat in the chair opposite him, her spine straight, hands folded in her lap. The air between them was charged with everything unsaid. Her skin remembered his mouth. Her mind remembered the yellow clusters on the map.
“Your first task,” he said, finally lifting his eyes. They were the color of frost on stone. No warmth. No memory of his confession on the island. “Review these invoices from the Littlem gallery. Flag any discrepancies in the shipping manifests. Use the tablet.” He slid the device across the polished wood. Its screen was already lit, displaying columns of numbers.
She took it. Their fingers didn’t touch. For three hours, the only sounds were the whisper of the central air, the tap of her nails on glass, and the occasional scratch of his pen. He gave orders. She executed them. She fetched files from the cabinet. He corrected a calculation with a detached, cool precision. It was all so fucking normal. Her mind split like fractured glass. One part tracked numbers, dates, and weights. The other replayed the image of him slumped over that desk, defenseless. The other replayed the heat of his skin under her hovering hand.
He stood abruptly. “That’s enough for now. I have other personal tasks I will need to take care of. You are free for the day.” He finally looked at her, really looked, his gaze traveling from the careful knot of her hair down to her clenched hands.
Returning to her routine, Elena entered the library. She walked the familiar path between towering shelves, her fingers trailing over leather spines without seeing them. Her mind was still in the study, with the steel in his eyes, the sterile tap of the tablet. She turned into the narrower philosophy aisle, the one she'd browsed that first disoriented day. The light here was dim, dust motes swirling in a single sunbeam from a high window.
As she browsed, her gaze snagged. A thick volume, bound in cracked brown leather, protruded a half-inch further than its neighbors. It wasn’t its position sticking out, but a symbol on its stem… She reached for it.
The book was made of light leather. It was wedged between the other books tightly, making her have to pull it with both hands. As she pulled it free, a cloud of ancient dust puffed into the air, smelling of decay and dry glue. She turned it, looking at its stem.
On the spine, stamped in faded gold leaf, was a symbol. A single, stylized thorn. For some reason, it looked so familiar… Then she remembered. It was identical to the one she’d randomly drawn with her fingertip on the fogged window of her bedroom. Her breath stopped in her throat.
She turned the book over. No title. Just worn leather, the edges frayed. It wasn't a published work. It was a journal. A latch, simple and tarnished brass, held it closed. Her thumb found the cold metal. It gave with a soft, corroded click.
The cover opened stiffly. The pages were old, high-quality paper gone ivory with age. The handwriting that filled them was not Liam's. It was elegant, flowing, a woman's hand. The ink was faded brown, like old blood.
She read the first entry, her eyes scanning the date at the top. Ten Years, two months, and seventeen days ago.
"Liam argued with his father again at dinner. The same old song. Responsibility. Legacy. The boy is seventeen and thinks he knows the weight of the world. He doesn't. He only knows the weight of his father's normal businesses, not the underworld. I found him afterwards, in the west garden. He'd smashed a terracotta pot against the old oak. His knuckles were bleeding. He wouldn't let me see. He just said, 'It's not enough, Mother. Nothing I do is ever enough.' I held him. He let me, for a moment. Then he was gone. The thorn doesn't fall far from the rose, but God, how it cuts the hand that tries to hold it."
At the bottom, a name signed in fine cursive. Amara Thorn.
Elena’s chest tightened. Her fingers were cold. This must be Liam’s mother… She turned the page. Dated Nine years, eleven months, and twenty nine days ago.
“Security found the listening device in the drawing room today. The third this month. Charles is furious. Liam is quiet. Too quiet. He spends hours in the gym, hitting the bag until his hands are wrapped in bloody gauze. He asked me today if I was afraid. I told him no. I lied. The fear was there, but he couldn’t know."
Each entry signed. Amara Thorn.
The words were a key turning in a lock she hadn't known was there. These were Liam's mother’s words. She was reading the woman's private fear. Her throat felt thick. She leaned back against the solid shelf, the journal heavy in her hands.
"Finding something of interest, Miss Rossi?"
Presley's voice was a smooth intrusion from the end of the aisle. He stood perfectly still, his hands holding a couple of books, his expression one of polite inquiry.
She jerked, nearly dropping the book. She snapped it shut, the sound loud. "Just… browsing. This was out of place." Subtly lower it to make it hard to see.
“Ah.” He took a step closer. His eyes flicked to the book in her hands— and lingered, just for a moment, before returning to her face. Nothing in his expression changed.
Elena adjusted her grip without thinking.
"I'll put it in its right place." Her voice was too high.
"That would be advisable." He didn't move. He waited, watching, until she started to walk away, finding another section she felt the journal would fit better in.
Presley did not follow; he proceeded to place books into spots and find new ones.
She turned away, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was sure she could feel Presley's gaze on her back as she walked out of the aisle. She went to the cataloguing desk, to the stack of untouched art portfolios. She sat. Her hands were trembling as she held the book.
She wanted to read more… But something told her not here. She then decided she would sneak the book out. She loosened the back of her blouse and slipped the book into the back, the base resting at the top of her skirt, the shirt now tucked in.
She knew it would look strange, and would try to keep her back from being easily seen. As she straightened her shirt, she felt it tighter against her chest… The fabric redefines the shape of her bra and breasts against her shirt. God, what was she thinking…
Elena worked her way quickly out of the library, avoiding Presley as he handled books. The journal was held flat against her spine. As she exited, she saw Liam walking down the stairs and turning towards the left wing. She kept her shoulders square, her pace even, fighting the instinct to hunch forward and hide the shape as she worked her way back to her room.
She felt relief reaching her room, the click of it shutting was too loud. She wished her door had a lock, as she really wanted to feel secure right now. She stood with her back against the wood, listening. The house was silent. Slowly, she untucked her blouse and pulled the journal free. The leather was warm from her skin. She carried it to the bed like something precious.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, the journal heavy in her lap. Her thumb traced the thorn symbol. It was exactly the shape she’d drawn. A coincidence that wasn’t. She opened the latch again. The corroded click was a gun cocking in the quiet room.
The next entry was dated a few months later. "Liam brought home a kitten today. A scrawny, grey thing he found in the engine block of one of the cars in the garage. He tried to hide it from his father. Charles found out, of course. He said he wouldn’t allow a wild animal in the manor. He made Liam take it to the woods behind the estate. Liam came back an hour later, his expression carved from ice. He didn’t speak for two days. I went looking. I found the kitten in the old gardener’s shed, with a saucer of milk and a ragged blanket. He’d defied him. I am so terribly proud and so terribly afraid for him. He has no clue of the dangers outside and why his father won’t let him have more."
Elena’s throat closed. She saw the boy. Seventeen. Burying his kindness where his father couldn’t see it. She turned the page.
"The security briefing today was grim. Stern’s organization is making moves at the docks. Charles wants to retaliate. Liam argued for patience, for gathering better intelligence. His father called him weak. The word hung in the air like poison gas. After, Liam didn’t go to the gym. He came to my sitting room. He just stood at the window, watching the grounds. He said, ‘If I become him to beat him, what’s the point, Mother?’ I had no answer. God forgive me, I had no answer for my son."
The entries were a descent. A family being slowly buried alive. Amara’s elegant script began to change. The lines grew tighter, more frantic. Each one dated months apart.
"Liam is gone for three days. No word. Charles won’t say anything, just pacing like a caged animal. I am sick with fear. I cannot eat. I cannot sleep. The house is too large, and my son's absence makes it feel so empty." The date was three weeks before the final entry.
Then, the next page. The next entry only just a couple days after. The handwriting was a controlled scrawl, the ink blotted in one spot as if the pen had paused too long. "He returned tonight. My boy. He is not a boy anymore. There is blood under his fingernails. He will not look at me. He went straight to his father’s study. I listened at the door. He said, ‘It’s handled. The leak at the customs office. He won’t be a problem.’ His voice was flat. Dead. Charles said, ‘Good.’ That was all. Good. My son has crossed a line, and his father handed him the blade. I heard him leave. I went to his room. His jacket was slung over a chair. I checked the pockets. I found a wedding band. A man’s. Not his. I put it back. I will never ask. To know is to drown. My beautiful son. Now that you know, what have we made you?"
Then, as I turned the page, I found one more entry, the following pages blank. The entry. Eight Years, three months, and two days ago.
Stern is making a move. We plan to meet with Nathan Orleth in the north. We want to work out a treaty to help us stop the Sterns’ movement in the Underworld. We hope that with his help, we can stop their push for more power.
Amara Thorn.
The entry ended there. The page was blank below. Amara Thorn’s story stopped.
Elena realized she was crying. The tears were hot and silent, tracking through the dust on her cheeks. She wasn’t crying for the woman, not really. She was crying for the boy. For the terrible, grinding machinery of this family that had taken a seventeen-year-old who saved kittens and turned his heart to stone. She was crying because she understood now. The exhaustion on Liam’s face over that map wasn’t just about a rival. It was the weight of a war he’d been drafted into as a child. A war he’d learned to fight by killing pieces of himself.
She closed the journal. Her fingers were numb. The room was too cold. She saw Liam in the study this morning, steel in his eyes, the island confession locked away. She saw him on the beach, his mouth desperate on hers, his voice breaking as he said he’d been terrified. Two completely different men. Which has he become?
Then there was Stern. All the delays lay out before her. Stern. The Map. The Women. Eros… But why had Stern noticed her at all?
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
But that brought forward the next question—
He knew her name. Not asked. Not guessed.
Known.
The memory pressed in closer the longer she sat with it. The way he’d looked at her—too certain. Too familiar. Like she hadn’t been a stranger to him at all.
Elena’s fingers clenched in the sheets. Her chest tightened. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense.
And yet— The feeling wouldn’t leave.
Like something had already started… And she was the only one who didn’t know it.
He’d chosen to approach her. Sat too close. Spoke too easily. Like he already knew where she would be.
Her stomach tightened. Had he known who she belonged to? The Contract. Her deal with Liam?
Or worse— had he wanted her?
The thought made her skin crawl. She was sure a man like Xander Stern didn’t notice women by accident.
The questions circled, sharp and endless, each one cutting deeper than the last. The pieces were all there—but none of them fit. Not yet.
Stashing the journal away, she finds a way to hide it in between the wall and mattress, resting carefully against the wall.
The journal was a stone on her chest all night. She slept in fits, the leather-bound truth a hard new memory that made the dark hours feel like she was drowning in shallow water. Morning arrived as a grey assault, her eyes gritty, but enough sleep to help her feel rested enough for the day.
The day stretched, the normal routine. The uniform pressed against her skin, the fabric her only distraction from the night. The walk to his study was a silent march through the still house, her own footsteps the only sound, the air holding a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He gave orders, his voice a flat, even line, his eyes fixed on the papers before him as if they were the only real things in the room. She moved through the tasks—dusting, arranging, fetching—her mind split. One part tracked the boy who’d hidden a kitten, a flicker of softness in the gloom. The other part was fixed on the man who now owned her, the weight of that knowledge a cold stone in her gut.
Every moment dragged. Her mind refused to leave him. She heard the scratch of his pen, the sigh of a log settling in the fireplace, the distant call of a crow outside the window. The light in the room faded by slow degrees, the sun bleeding out behind the clouds until the shadows grew long and deep across the floor.
Only then did he look up. His gaze was a physical shift in the air. “Dismissed.” He said it like he was closing a ledger. Then his tone changed. A small recognition of someone who was a few days past. “I look forward to seeing you in the dining hall in an hour.” The words felt wrong. Too soft for the man he’d been all day. Different from the ‘straight-to-business ‘man he had been since their return. Then his face returned to its blank expression. He was a closed door again. But now she’d seen the man on the other side, and the memory of it gave her hope.
Elena walked quickly back to her room. Her chest was too tight, each inhale a shallow reminder of him. The Liam she wanted to see again.
She quickly but efficiently showered, focusing on preparing herself for dinner. She dried with rough, deliberate strokes, the towel catching on her skin. She then adorned the lace panties, feeling them slide against her thighs. She returned to the bathroom and began styling her hair into a fall of dark waves, applied a hint of perfume at her wrists, the scent of night-blooming jasmine. Every motion was ritual, a step-by-step motion to help her prepare for the unexpected evening to come.
The black dress slipped over her head, a cool sheath of silk. The earrings were simple diamonds, cold points of light. Finally, her fingers found the moonstone necklace on the counter. It’s stone smooth, heavy, a captured piece of sky. She fastened it, the cold weight settling in the hollow of her breasts. The woman in the mirror was beautiful. It was her. She was polished and poised, but her green eyes held the shadow of a boy who hid the kitten. She slid her feet into the heels, a final click on the floor, and turned toward the door.
Stepping down the stairs,
She approached the dining hall, her hand pausing on the cold brass of the door handle. A breath caught in her throat, tight and hopeful. The air felt charged, a silent hum in her ears.
She turned the handle.
Liam stood waiting… and she realized, with a chill, that she had stepped into this room as a very different person than she had been the times before.