The walls watched her.
For hours after Lucien left, Elara sat motionless on the cold marble floor, knees hugged tightly to her chest, her cheek pressed against her arm. Her back burned where the soft leather had kissed her skin, not deeply wounded but marked enough to remind her of what he could do. What he would do if she dared again.
She swallowed hard, tasting salt and fear.
But beneath that bitter taste, something else stirred.
A quiet rebellion. A spark. Faint. Weak.
But alive.
Elara's fingers tightened on the fabric of her dress as she slowly lifted her head. The grand drawing room stretched wide and silent around her, its velvet drapes and glittering crystal chandeliers gleaming in the gray light. A room built for beauty, now thick with menace.
She would not break. Not yet.
Lucien Moretti might own this house. Might control these walls, these doors, these guards. But he would not own her mind. Her thoughts. Her spirit.
Not unless she let him.
And she would not.
She pushed herself up, biting back a wince as her muscles protested. The sting across her back made her shoulders stiff, but she forced herself to move. Slowly, carefully, she crossed the room toward the large window. It looked out over the garden—roses, iron fences, manicured gravel paths.
No escape there.
But her eyes wandered. Above the garden wall rose rooftops. Other buildings. The city itself, beyond reach but still breathing just outside this gilded cage.
She pressed her palm to the cold glass.
Someday.
Her gaze dropped to the garden below. A figure moved among the flowers, trimming a hedge with slow, deliberate care. The gardener. An old man, thin and gray-haired, his back bent. No guard. No soldier. Just a servant.
Could he help her?
Or would fear make him betray her the moment she spoke?
Her heart fluttered uneasily.
No. Not yet.
She needed time. To learn. To listen. To understand the shape of this prison and the mind of its master.
Lucien.
Even now, the memory of his hand on her throat made her shudder. But his face lingered in her mind more than the touch. His calm. His quiet certainty. As if the world bent to him without effort.
Why?
Why her?
Why this obsession with keeping her here?
She turned away from the window and moved to the bookshelf. A wall of leather-bound volumes stood in silent rows. She reached for one and slid it free.
A book of Italian poetry. Old. Fragile. Handwritten notes in the margins in crisp, dark ink.
She frowned.
The handwriting was not Lucien's.
Her fingers brushed the pages. A small flower, pressed and dried, crumbled at the seam.
Someone else had read this book before. Someone who cared for words, for beauty.
Who?
Lucien's mother?
His sister?
Did he even have family left?
The thought stirred something inside her. A whisper of curiosity, fragile as thread.
What made Lucien Moretti this way? What broke him into the man who punished disobedience with soft leather and silk threats?
Elara sat down in the deep armchair by the fire, the book open in her lap. The flickering flames cast long shadows across the room, turning the velvet walls to blood and gold.
She would wait. She would learn.
And slowly, carefully, she would unravel him.
Every man had cracks. Weaknesses. Wounds.
Even Lucien.
Especially Lucien.
She thought of his eyes when he spoke to her last night. The faint shadow that flickered there. Not anger. Not cruelty.
Loneliness.
It hung on him like a second skin. Hidden beneath power and control. But real.
She closed the book and pressed it to her chest.
Loneliness could be useful.
A lonely man made mistakes. A lonely man might open doors he thought forever locked.
A lonely man might trust.
If she could find that crack in his armor, she could slip through.
Elara's breath came slow and steady now, her heart no longer racing. The fear was still there. The shame of failure. The sting of punishment.
But something else was stronger.
Resolve.
She would play her part. The frightened captive. The obedient guest.
For now.
When the time was right, she would strike.
A knock on the door broke her thoughts.
She tensed.
The door creaked open, and a woman entered. Middle-aged, dressed in simple black. Her dark eyes were sharp but not unkind.
"Signor Moretti sent me," the woman said softly. "I am to tend to your back. He says you are not to scar."
Elara stared.
Kindness? After punishment?
A game. Everything here was a game.
The woman crossed the room and knelt by the chair, opening a small wooden box. The scent of herbs and oil drifted into the air.
"Turn, child," the woman said gently.
Elara hesitated. Then obeyed.
The woman parted the back of her dress and dabbed the stinging oil onto the thin welts across her skin.
"You tried to run," the woman murmured. "They always try at first."
Elara stiffened.
"Do not fear. He does not truly wish to harm you. Only to break the wildness. To make you safe. For him. For yourself."
Elara clenched her jaw.
The woman worked quickly and gently, her touch surprisingly soft.
"When he tires of this mood, things will be easier. He always tires, eventually."
Elara swallowed the lump in her throat.
"How long?" she whispered.
The woman paused.
"Some break in a week. Some in a month. Some never. But those do not last long."
The words chilled her to the bone.
When the woman finished, she fastened Elara's dress and rose.
"Rest now," she said. "He will summon you for dinner."
Then she was gone.
Elara sat in the silence, the fire crackling low, the book of poetry warm in her hands.
Dinner.
Another performance.
Another chance to watch him. To learn.
She would not break.
She would not fade.
Not yet.
The quiet rebellion burned inside her, small but fierce.
Lucien Moretti thought he held her.
But she would hold him in return.
And when the time came, she would shatter his world.
One crack at a time.