Tuesday arrives, and the thought of his return fills her mind

Elena quickly wakes, ignoring the lingering aches. Today she woke with a new ache. Lower, an empty throb. Liam returns tonight. The thought is a live wire down her spine, and the idea of being with him against excited her.

She pushes back the duvet. She walks to the massive armoire he had filled for her, its dark wood imposing in the grey morning. She opens the double doors.

Now that she was trying to find the perfect outfit, the volume hit her like a physical blow. Silk, lace, satin, cashmere. Colors she didn’t own. Fabrics she’s only touched in store windows. When she pulls the drawers, they reveal the true assault: rows of lingerie. Very little functional cotton. Delicate scraps of black lace with cruel-looking straps. Blood-red silk cupped for breasts. Sheer mesh panels meant to reveal, not conceal. A white set so innocent it feels like a lie. Her hand hovers over the options, her skin prickling. She feels naive. Stupid. Overwhelmed by the map of a territory, she doesn’t know how to navigate.

She closes her eyes, breathes. She doesn’t want a costume or special outfit. She wants something that feels like her, or the ghost of who she was. Her fingers find a soft bralette in pale lavender, the matching panties a simple French cut. The cotton is impossibly fine. It feels like a secret kindness against her skin. She puts it on.

The dress is easier. A flow of violet and lilac, the skirt light, the straps thin ribbons that sit off her shoulders. It’s pretty. It makes her green eyes look darker. She stands before the mirror, the girl in the reflection a careful construction. Beautiful, arranged, waiting.

On the nightstand, the pill packet waits beside an empty glass. She picks up the small white tablet. She swallows it dry, the aftertaste clinging to her tongue.

Downstairs, the manor is quiet. She drifts through the halls, the skirt whispering around her legs. Morning sun spills through the tall windows, gilding the dust in the air. She finds the doors to the rear balcony and pushes them open. The air is warmer outside, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant ocean. She leans on the stone railing, her fingers tracing the cool, rough surface.

The heavy tread of boots on gravel comes from the east pathway. Victor emerges into the sunlight, his broad frame casting a long shadow. He stops a few feet from her, his eyes scanning the tree line before settling on her. His gaze is a quick, professional assessment—posture, expression, the dress.

“Morning.” His voice held its normal rough tone. “Are you still sore?”

She nods. “A bit. Everywhere. It’s a good sore, though.” She turns to face him fully. “I appreciate the lesson. I’d like more. If you have time sometime.”

He’s quiet, his eyes not leaving her face, then dropping to take in the dress again—the careful hair, the exposed shoulders. A grim understanding settles into the lines around his mouth. “You’re dressed for him.”

It isn’t a question. The accuracy of it stings, hot and sudden. She looks down at her skirt and smooths it. A useless gesture. “He’s coming back tonight.”

“I know.” Victor takes a step closer. The air between them changes, charged with a sense of danger. “Elena.” He says her name like it’s a weight. “Listen to me. It’s ill-advised.”

She meets his eyes. “What is?”

“Letting yourself want this.” He gestures, a short, sharp motion that encompasses the dress, the manor, the invisible chain. “You don’t know what they are. This family… It’s not what you think. Getting involved with a Thorn isn’t romance. It’s dangerous. I’ve seen what happens.”

But she did know what she was getting into. And for some reason, it didn’t scare her away.

He holds her gaze for a long, silent moment, letting the words sink in like stones. Then he turns, his boots crunching on the gravel as he walks in the direction he was going when he came, leaving her alone on the sun-drenched balcony with a hollow opening up beneath her ribs.

Elena pushes off the balcony railing, the stone’s cold bite lingering in her palms. She cannot stand still with Victor’s warning echoing in her bones. The manor’s interior swallows her, the grand hall silent and watchful. Her small heels make little sound on the marble as she drifts, a ghost in a violet dress, seeking any new form of entertainment while she waits the day away.

Going into the library, she finds Presley. He is at the far end, one of the rolling ladders propped against a high shelf, methodically dusting the spines of leather-bound volumes with a soft white cloth. His movements are precise, economical. He does not look down as she enters.

“Presley.”

He pauses, cloth stilling on a gilded title. Slowly, he looks over his shoulder, his expression the same polite mask it always is. “Miss Rossi. Can I assist you?”

“I…” The excuse dies. She walks further into the room, the scent of old paper and beeswax filling her nose. “It’s quiet. I thought I might find a book.”

He descends the ladder without a sound, landing softly on the Persian rug. “Of course. Any particular subject?” His eyes, a calm grey, sweep over her. They take in the dress, the carefully arranged hair, the unsettled energy she knows she radiates. He says nothing.

“History,” she says, the word coming out too quickly. “Local history, maybe.”

“A broad category.” He moves to a different section, his tailcoat brushing against a chair. “The Thorn family archives are extensive, though largely uncatalogued. I would not recommend them for casual reading.” His tone is neutral, but the meaning is clear: some doors are better left shut.

She runs a finger along the edge of a reading table, feeling the smooth, cool wood. “What do you recommend, then?”

“For distraction?” He meets her gaze, and for a fraction of a second, the professional veneer thins. He sees her. He knows exactly why she is here. “Mystery,” he says, turning back to the shelves. “I’ve always enjoyed the misdirection they present.” He selects a slender volume bound in dark blue and offers it to her. “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.”

She takes the book. The cover is soft under her fingertips. “Thank you.”

He nods, returning to his ladder. The conversation is clearly over. Yet he speaks again, his voice measured. “He is expected by seven. Dinner will be served in the west dining room at eight.” A simple statement of fact. Then, quieter, almost to the bookshelf: “The waiting is often the most precise form of torture.”

Elena’s breath catches. She watches his back, the straight line of his shoulders. This is not Victor’s blunt warning. This is colder. Sharper. A scalpel instead of a hammer. She clutches the book to her chest. “You make it sound like an execution.”

Presley looks down at her, his face all polite angles in the lamplight. “I make it sound like a schedule, Miss Rossi. All else is your interpretation.” He ascends two steps on the ladder, dismissing her. “The tea tray will be in the solarium in twenty minutes, should you require it.”

“Thank you, Presley.” She turns and walks out, the book in her hands.

Then the idea struck her mind. She wanted out of this normal routine. “Presley, do you know where I could find some paper and charcoal?”

“Of course. Did you have a size of paper in mind?” His eyes, a calm grey, sweep over her. They take in the dress, the carefully arranged hair, the unsettled energy she knows she radiates. He says nothing.

“Any size would do,” she says, the word coming out too quickly. “A few regular sheets would be nice.”

“I can bring you some supplies shortly.” He starts to move for the doorway, his tailcoat brushing against a chair. “The supplies are in the other room. I will collect them for you.”

Plesley then, with a light nod, heads out of the library. She looks at the book in her hand. She was curious to read this still, but today she wanted something different. To bring back her old hobby.

For years, she has studied art; she loves seeing the lines and movement, but she herself has always found herself too busy to continue practicing.

She stepped out of the library door to find Presley leaving the study. “These are the supplies we have, Miss Rossi.” He brings forward a container of different white and black charcoal and a few graphite pencils. with a small stack of printer-sized paper.

“Thank you, Presley.”

“Of course, Miss Rossi.”

The pencils felt alien in her hands after so long, the weight all wrong. She spread the paper across the desk. Her first strokes were hesitant ghosts, lines that barely clung to the surface. She started with the easy shape of her mother’s laugh, the familiar slope of her father’s shoulders. Marco’s mischievous grin came easier, a muscle memory from a lifetime of sketching him doodling in schoolbooks. The drawing was competent, clean, and better than she remembered she could do.

Looking at the picture, it started to feel like visiting a museum of a life she could no longer touch.

Moving to the second sheet was a challenge. She closed her eyes, summoning an image to draw. Then it came to her, an image from the garage: the stark black lines of the Iris flower on Victor’s shoulder. Her hand moved with more certainty now, chasing the memory of ink embedded in skin. She carved the sweeping curves of the stem around, the sharp blade of the knife. The image flooded her mind as she drew, helping her draw each line.

Hours were passing, and the third sheet was a dare. She didn’t plan it. Her hand just moved, hungry and treasonous, dragging the charcoal side across the paper to block in the shadow of his jaw. She didn’t draw the cold CEO or the violent man in the study. She drew the man on the boat, the one whose smile was a secret just for her. She sketched the exact angle of his brow, the cruel curve of his mouth that could soften so unexpectedly. She lost time in the hollow of his throat, the specific fall of hair across his forehead. Her knuckles ached from gripping the charcoal too tightly.

It was the eyes that betrayed her. However hard she tried, the graphite refused to capture that frozen blue. Her lines went hard, then smudged into uncertainty. She kept erasing, reworking, until the paper grew soft and furry with abuse. The portrait became a ghost of him, hovering between menace and mercy. A sharp, frustrated sound escaped her throat.

The light in the room had changed; the afternoon sun now a thin, cold bar across the floor. She looked down at her hands, coated in a fine grey silt, her fingers permanently marked. Three images stared back from the desk: Her family, the flower and blade, and the unfinished man. The evidence of her hours was not in finished art, but in the dust of charcoal under her nails and the deep, silent throb of understanding in her chest.

A vibration against the desk startled her. Her phone screen glowed green: 6:38 PM. Her heart slammed against her ribs. He would be here in twenty-two minutes!

She stood so fast that some pencils tumbled to the floor. She ran to the bathroom and washed her hands. She smoothed the dress, ran her hands through her hair, and pressed cool fingers to her hot cheeks. A frantic check in the mirror: the girl was still there, arranged and waiting. She left the room, her steps quickening as she descended to the main hall.

She positioned herself near the great door, where the fading evening light painted the marble in streaks of gold and violet. She waited. She listened. The clock in the hall ticked. Seven o’clock came. The silence deepened. Seven-ten. Her chest tightened. Then, the low growl of an engine on gravel.

The door opened. Liam stepped through, backlit by the dusk. He carried the cold outside air with him, along with the scent of him. He looked tired. His suit was impeccable but worn, his jaw shadowed with a day’s growth. His eyes, those blue depths, found her instantly.

Elena’s face broke into a smile. It was wide, relieved, involuntary. It reached her eyes. It was the first real thing she’d felt all day.

Liam’s expression did not change. It was stone. Polished, impenetrable granite. He looked at her smile as if it were a document to be filed. He gave a slight, polite nod. “Elena.” His voice was flat, drained of the heat she’d memorised. He moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers with impersonal contact. “Excuse me.”

She stood frozen in the space he’d occupied. The smile died on her face, leaving her skin stretched and cold. The dismissal was absolute, surgical. It left no wound, only a hollow vacuum where her hope had been. She heard his footsteps recede toward the east wing.

Presley materialised from a shadowed archway. His attention on Liam. “Dinner will be served shortly, Mr. Thorn. Welcome home.”

The car’s leather seat is cold against Liam’s back. The taste of copper and failure is a film on his tongue, stubborn as the scent of antiseptic and burned flesh that has woven itself into the wool of his suit. He stares out the tinted window at the blur of pine trees and stone walls, his knuckles resting against his mouth. The vibration of the engine travels up his spine.

Three days. Sixty-three hours of surveillance, of whispers in dark rooms, of following a ghost. The silhouette from the manor’s perimeter camera flickers behind his eyes: a man’s back, familiar in the set of the shoulders, caught for three blurred frames before dissolving into the blind spot. Victor’s voice, flat and sure over the secure line: Based on the description Presley saw, it appears to be Tomas. One of ours. Entered the compound while you were away. We believe he was looking for her.

Tomas Varga. His Lieutenant. Controlled the middle district of Las Lona. All the evidence confirmed it was him. He had full access to Eros, to shipment manifests. He knew Thorn Manor from the meetings held there. A man who had eaten at Liam’s table. He had access to information through Thorn’s network in the underworld.

The safehouse basement was concrete and had a drain. They worked on him for hours. Liam watched from a chair in the corner, his suit jacket folded over the back. He did not participate. He observed. The sounds were methodical: the wet crack, the choked scream, the desperate, bubbling denial. I don’t know. I swear. I don’t know. The words became a mantra, then a gurgle. The man who swung the pipe hit a little too hard. Arterial sprayed the wall in a sudden, shocking arc. Silence, then. Just the drip onto the floor.

He never got his answers. Only an unwanted corpse, a lost lieutenant, and a bigger question... Who had him turned against him? Stern’s movements were everywhere. Had he really networked into his own men?

Liam closes his eyes. The car slows, turns. The iron gates of the manor loom, then swing inward. Home. After what he just endured, he had to see her.

Her beautiful green eyes. Her long brown hair. The intelligence she always brought… He couldn’t bear to touch her with bloodied hands. Even if he hadn’t done anything… It was his men. His orders.

He steps through the great door, the evening cold clinging to him. And there she is. A splash of violet in the marble hall, waiting. Her face lights up. It’s a sunburst, genuine and warm, and it hits him in the gut like a sucker punch. For a fractured second, he wants to fall into it. To let that smile erase the last seventy-two hours. To bury his face in her hair and breathe something that doesn’t smell of death.

He locks it down. The mechanism is old, practiced. His face becomes stone. His voice, flat iron. “Elena.” He nods. He tries to slip past her. The contact is a static shock, impersonal. He feels her smile die in the air he displaces. He walks toward his room, every footstep echoing in a silence he created.

The only thing he hears is Presley, his specter of order. “Dinner will be served shortly, Mr. Thorn. Welcome home.”

Liam doesn’t answer. He enters his bedroom. Turning on the lights, he slips out of his suit. Dropping it to the floor. He realized the scent of death wasn't coming from it—It followed him. It was on him. He strips down naked and turns on the shower. Stepping inside before the water heats. He deserved whatever the world gave him right now. The cold, the hot. He deserved the punishment.

He scrubs every edge of himself, as if he could peel the memory from his skin. Leaving the shower, he then dries off and, wrapping the towel around his waist, goes to the counter. He starts to shave, cleaning himself of anything he had brought with him.

Once done, he quickly worked to dress, walking into his closet, he found the one row of blue suits. All in perfect, clean order. He grabbed a new one. Slipping it on. Correcting his outfit, he left the tie away, leaving the top button undone to allow himself to breathe. He wanted to feel less restricted right now. Any binding just felt like a reminder.

With one final glance over his bedroom, his large bed was perfectly made. He left his room. He works his way to the dining room. Entering inside.

The table is set for two. Crystal glitters. Silverware is laid with geometric precision. A single orchid floats in a low centerpiece. Elena was standing there in her violet dress. It feels like a stage set for a play he no longer has the script for. He takes her chair, pulling it out. He braces his hands on the high back, his head bowed. He hears the whisper of her dress as she moves towards the chair.

He doesn’t face her. “Sit.”

She moves. The chair scrapes softly on the parquet. He listens to the rustle of fabric as she settles. He finally turns, taking his own seat. The distance of the long table stretches between them, a canyon laid with linen and lit by candlelight.

Presley serves the first course. A clear consommé. Liam picks up his spoon. The movement is automatic. He takes a sip. It tastes of nothing. He can see her from the edges of his eyes, no matter how much he avoids looking. She hasn’t touched hers. Her hands are in her lap. Her green eyes are on him, wide, confused, hurt. He sees the questions piling up behind them. He sees the hope, now wounded, trying to understand the rules of this new game.

He had to come up with something. Anything to help distract him.

“You trained with Victor,” he says. His voice cuts the quiet.

She flinches, almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I told him I didn’t want to feel helpless.”

Liam sets his spoon down. It chimes softly against the china. “And do you? Feel helpless?”

Her throat works as she swallows. “Right now? Yes.”

Good. Let it hurt. It’s cleaner that way. Safer. For her. The thought is a lie, and he knows it. He pushes back from the table, the legs grating. “We’re done here.”

“Liam—”

He is already walking out, leaving the soup, the decorated room, and her stunned silence behind him. His own hatred of himself is a sharp, twisting thing, and he just wanted to drown out the misery.

He heads towards his room, passing through the grand hallway.

He hears her before he sees her. The clicking of her low heels in the hallway. He continues towards his room, his hand on the doorknob. She stops at the end of the east wing’s entryway, a silhouette framed by the softer light of the hall. Her eyes were looking him over frantically, tears growing in them.

The sight of her eyes felt like a stab to his heart.

“You’re trying to push me away!”

“I want space.” He responds calmly.

“You’re scared.”

The words land in the quiet room like a thrown knife. He goes very still. “Careful.”

She takes a step towards him. “You came home cold. You looked at me like I was a stranger. After… after everything. Why?!”

He wants to tell her. The confession claws at the back of his teeth. Because a man who stands before you is connected to a world so dark. A world she doesn’t deserve to be in. Because Stern is closer than I thought. Because the only clean thing in my life is standing ten feet away, and I will ruin it. I will ruin you.

And you’re here because of me!

He says none of it. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.” She is closer now as she steps forward. He can smell the faint scent of her shampoo. Vanilla. Something innocent. It makes the bile of the safehouse rise in his throat.

“You don’t belong here with me!” The cruelty is deliberate. A weapon he wields on himself as much as on her.

She doesn’t retreat. Her eyes glisten in the firelight, but her chin lifts. “Liar.”

She closes the distance between them in two strides. Her hand raises. He starts to bring his own up to defend, then he sees it’s not to strike him, but to gently place her hand on his face. His thumb rests against his chin.

The torment in his mind goes silent.

Her breath hitches. Her eyes search his, looking him over.

Her lips part. No sound comes out.

He drops his hand. The warmth of her skin lingers on his face. He turns away, pulling his face from her hand. A small part of him wished he could hear the sound of her fleeing footsteps.

It doesn’t come.

He hears a soft rustle. Then her hand, small and cool, slips into his. She laced her fingers through his. She doesn’t pull. She just holds on. She presses her forehead against his chest.

He stands there, paralyzed. The dead man’s face. The spray on the wall. The images faded from his mind. The only thing her hand in his. The screaming chorus goes silent. His control, the edifice he rebuilt brick by brick over three days, cracks.

He doesn’t move. He can’t. But his hand tightens around hers. A desperate, silent anchor. He just stands there. Eyes closed, his head leaning against hers.

And he felt a tear form in his eye.

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