Lydia had expected Devereaux Manor to be grand. She had not expected it to feel like a kingdom.
Towering walls. Endless hallways. Chandeliers that dripped with wealth. But it wasn't the luxury that unsettled her—it was the sheer emptiness.
This was not a home. This was a fortress.
"You're staring."
Adrian's voice came from behind her, quiet but laced with something she couldn't quite decipher.
Lydia turned, her expression cool. "Trying to decide if I should be impressed or concerned."
"And?"
"Both."
Adrian's lips twitched, but it wasn't quite a smile. "Welcome home, Mrs. Devereaux."
Mrs. Devereaux.
The words felt like iron shackles around her wrists.
She straightened. "This is not my home."
Adrian took a slow step toward her. Then another. His presence was suffocating, his eyes dark and unreadable.
"It is now."
Lydia refused to step back, refused to let him see the war raging inside her. "A home is built with warmth, with love. This?" She gestured around her. "This is a cage."
Adrian tilted his head slightly, studying her. Then, in one smooth motion, he closed the final distance between them.
"And yet, Lydia…" His voice dropped lower. "You're already learning how to survive inside it."
The air between them crackled. Lydia's breath hitched as his fingers brushed against her wrist—so light, so fleeting, she almost convinced herself she imagined it.
Almost.
Adrian leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me something… is it the cage that scares you? Or is it me?"
Lydia's pulse thundered.
But she would not break.
Not yet.
"Neither," she said smoothly, tilting her chin up. "What scares me is how much you think you know me."
Adrian exhaled a quiet laugh, low and dark. "Oh, Lydia…" His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before flicking back up. "I haven't even begun."
—
Later That Night—The Storm Within the Walls
The storm had arrived.
Rain pelted against the grand windows of Devereaux Manor, the wind howling through the trees beyond the iron gates. Inside, the house was silent, save for the occasional crackle of distant thunder.
Lydia stood by the fireplace in the sitting room, the flames casting a golden glow on her skin. The warmth didn't reach her, though—not when she was trapped in a house that felt more like a prison.
She turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. She already knew who it was.
Adrian.
Dressed in an open-collared shirt and dark slacks, he looked… unguarded. Almost relaxed. But Lydia knew better. This man was never truly at ease.
"Can't sleep?" His voice was smooth, unreadable.
"Should I be able to?" She turned back toward the fire, refusing to let him see how unsettled she was.
Adrian walked closer, the sound of his steps slow, deliberate. "You'll adjust soon enough."
"Adjust?" She let out a short, bitter laugh. "Is that what you call this? You expect me to slip into this life as if I belong here?"
Adrian didn't answer immediately. Instead, he poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter on the side table. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
"You think I belong here?"
Lydia frowned, turning to face him fully. He was watching her carefully, as if weighing whether or not to say more.
"You were born into this world," she said, crossing her arms. "You're feared in it. Doesn't that mean you belong?"
Adrian studied his glass for a moment, then took a slow sip.
"Belonging and being trapped aren't the same thing, Lydia."
The words sent a strange, unexpected shiver through her. There was something in his voice. Something raw.
For the first time since meeting him, she caught a glimpse of something beneath the steel exterior.
And that was more dangerous than anything else.
She needed to remember who he was.
"Goodnight, Adrian." Her voice was steady as she turned to leave.
But before she could take a step, his hand caught her wrist.
Not hard. Not forceful. Just… firm.
Enough to make her pulse spike.
"Lydia." His voice was lower now, almost… careful.
She swallowed, refusing to look at him. Refusing to acknowledge the way his touch made her feel.
"Let go."
For a moment, he didn't.
Then, as if he had just realiz
ed what he was doing, he released her.
"Goodnight, Lydia."
And just like that, the battle lines were drawn.