Lena's POV

The Blackwood mansion wasn't a home.

It was a mausoleum dressed in marble, every hallway lined with oil paintings of dead men who'd worn the same cruel jaw as Damian. Servants moved like ghosts, quiet, hurried, never meeting my eyes.

My room was on the east wing and Damian's was directly across the hall.

I discovered this at midnight when I stepped out for water and found him leaning against my doorframe, shirtless, hair damp, water still beading on his chest.

"Lost already, princess?"

I gripped my door handle. "Don't you have someone else to terrorize?"

His mouth curved. "I prefer to focus my attention."

He pushed off and walked past me, close enough that his arm brushed mine. He smelled like chlorine and something darker. Midnight swim, I realized.

I didn't sleep well.

The first week was a war fought in stolen moments.

Breakfast: he appeared behind me, reaching across my body for the coffee, his chest against my back. "Didn't hear you come in last night." I didn't flinch. "Maybe I was already here."

The library: I found his annotations in a book I'd borrowed. Not notes, taunts. Boring and predictable. Try harder.

I wrote back in the margins: Rotten inside and out. Must be exhausting.

The next day, the book was gone. A new one waited in its place. The Art of War.

I refused to laugh.

---

But the house was watching me.

Security cameras in corners where no valuables sat. Staff who flinched when Richard entered a room. A locked door in the west wing that had three separate key card scanners.

And Damian.

Fresh cuts on his knuckles every few days. A limp he hid before I could ask. Bruises blooming beneath his collar that I pretended not to see.

I told myself I didn't care but I was lying.

On night eight, sleep wouldn't come.

I wandered the halls until I found the private gym, glass walls, mirrors, equipment arranged like a shrine. Through the door, I saw him.

Damian stood in the center, shirtless, back to me. Sweat darkened his shoulders. His hands were wrapped, but not for training.

He was hitting a heavy bag. No, he was destroying it.

Each punch landed with a sound like meat hitting concrete. Blood smeared the leather. The violence in him wasn't controlled. It was barely contained, rage wearing skin and pretending to be human.

He hadn't seen me. I should have left but I didn't.

His fist connected one last time, and the bag split open. Sand poured onto the floor in a soft, final rush. He turned and saw me.

He crossed the room in five strides.

I backed up. My spine hit the door. He reached past me,slow, deliberate and pushed it shut. The click of the lock echoed in the silence.

His palm flattened against the wood beside my head. He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear, his body blocking everything else.

"You really need to stop walking into rooms you're not ready for."

My heart slammed against my ribs. I lifted my chin, "Then stop leaving doors unlocked."

Something shifted in his face, his voice dropped lower. "You have no idea what you're asking for."

"Then show me." The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

Damian went very still, and from somewhere deep in the mansion, a scream shattered the night.

We both froze.

Damian's hand shot to my mouth, pressed there, hard and fast. His eyes locked on mine. Warning, silence.

The scream cut off. Then came footsteps, running. Too many to count.

Damian's thumb brushed my jaw quickly, almost gentle. Then he stepped back, grabbed a towel, and was gone through a side door before I could breathe.

I stood alone in the gym, my back against the locked door, my lips still warm where his hand had been.

The mansion was silent again, but something had changed.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the hall. At the far end, near the west wing, a pool of light spilled from a room that was never open.

And standing in the middle of it, backlit and motionless, was Richard Blackwood. He was looking directly at me.

He didn't smile, didn't speak. He simply raised a finger to his lips. Shh.

My blood turned to ice.

I didn't remember walking back to my room. But when I locked my door, three locks now, three locks I hadn't noticed before, my hands were shaking.

And across the hall, through the wall, I heard Damian moving, pacing, waiting. The same way a predator paces a cage before the door swings open.

Lena's POV

I should have walked away.

Instead, I followed Damian through the side door into a bathroom I didn't know existed. A first-aid kit already open on the counter, as if violence here was routine.

He leaned against the sink, watching me in the mirror. "You following me now, princess?"

"You're bleeding on the floor."

"So?"

I wet a cloth and stepped between his legs before I could talk myself out of it. His thighs bracketed mine. He didn't move. Didn't help.

I pressed the cloth to his split knuckles. He didn't flinch. "You do this often?" I asked.

"Only when people annoy me."

I ran the cloth over his raw skin, slow and methodical. His breathing changed. Almost imperceptible. But I felt it, the shift, the tension coiling tighter beneath his silence.

"People annoy you a lot."

His eyes dropped to my mouth. "Some more than others."

I looked up. The cloth paused. The air between us turned thick, heavy, too small for both of us.

He tilted his head, "You always nurse strays, or am I special?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

"You're the one between my legs."

I pressed harder than necessary. His jaw tightened, but he didn't pull away.

"Careful," he murmured.

"Or what?"

He took the cloth from my hand. His fingers brushed mine, then wrapped around my wrist. Not tight, but not letting go either.

"Or I might start thinking you like being close to me."

I should have laughed. Should have stepped back. Should have done anything except sit in the heat of his grip and let my pulse betray me.

I did none of those things.

"You think everything is about sex," I said.

His thumb pressed into my pulse point. Feeling me race, knowing exactly what he did to me.

"No," he said quietly. "I think you walk around this house in tiny clothes and careless defiance with no idea what you're waking up."

His free hand caught my jaw. "Don't start something you can't finish."

My breath caught.

His thumb dragged across my lower lip, testing.

"If I kissed you right now," he said, "you'd let me."

"Maybe."

His eyes darkened. "And then what?"

"You tell me."

Something broke behind his eyes. Or maybe it was me. He leaned in, slow, giving me time to stop, daring me not to then the bathroom door opened.

Richard Blackwood stood in the doorway.

He didn't shout. Didn't react the way a father should. He just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, expression pleasant in a way that made my stomach turn inside out.

Like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

Damian didn't move. His hand stayed on my jaw. His body stayed between my legs. If anything, he shifted closer.

"Father."

"Damian." Richard's gaze moved to me. "I see you've made yourself comfortable."

I tried to pull back but m Damian's grip held. "Lena was just leaving," Damian said.

"Was she?"

The silence stretched. Richard smiled, but It didn't reach his eyes. "You know," he said, "I had hoped this might happen."

My blood went cold. Damian's hand finally dropped. He straightened, turning to face his father, positioning himself between me and the door.

"Careful," Damian said softly.

Richard tilted his head. "Careful? I'm not the one who found my son with his hands on his stepsister."

The word landed like a slap. I slid off the counter. Damian's arm caught my waist, steadying me. I should have pulled away but didn't.

Richard noticed, his smile sharpened.

"You have no idea what you've walked into, do you, Lena?" He stepped back into the hallway, leaving the door open behind him. "Your mother told me you were clever. Let's hope she was right."

He paused. "You're going to need it." Then he was gone.

I stood frozen, Damian's hand still at my waist, my heart pounding against my ribs. "What does he mean?" I whispered.

Damian didn't answer.

I turned. His face was unreadable. But his hand tightened on my hip, and when he looked at me, there was something I hadn't seen before.

Fear.

"Damian."

He pulled me closer. Not seduction now, something else, something desperate. "Stay away from him," he said.

"Who? Your father?"

He didn't answer. His forehead pressed to mine, his breath came uneven. "You should have stayed out of this house, Lena."

"Tell me what's happening."

He shook his head once. Then his mouth was on my forehead, my temple, the corner of my lips, not kissing, just breathing me in, like he was memorizing something he couldn't keep.

"Stay away from him," he repeated.

"Damian"

"Promise me."

I opened my mouth.

From somewhere in the mansion, a door slammed, footsteps echoed. Damian released me.

He was gone before I could speak.

I stood alone in the bathroom, Damian's blood still on my hands, my mother's terrified face flashing behind my eyes.

I looked at the door Richard had left open. The hallway beyond was dark. But I could have sworn I saw someone standing in the shadows.

Watching, waiting and smiling.