Day Five
Jemma had decided she'd be unshakable today. No matter what Xavier tried, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
The morning passed without him appearing, which was unusual. She almost relaxed, thinking maybe he'd given up. But just before lunch, she heard the familiar sound of his footsteps in the hall.
He entered the dining room like he owned the air she breathed, which, technically, he did.
"You're late," he said, glancing at the empty plate in front of her.
"I wasn't aware I had a schedule," she replied coolly.
"You do," he said simply, taking the seat at the head of the table. "You just like to pretend you don't."
She ignored him, slicing into the bread roll on her plate. The knife trembled slightly, not from fear, from the effort of keeping her composure.
Xavier leaned back, watching her like a predator with no urgency to pounce. "You've been quiet. Still angry?"
Silence.
"Good," he murmured. "Anger means you still care enough to feel something."
Her eyes flicked up at that, sharp and dangerous. "And indifference means I'm finally free from you."
He chuckled low, leaning forward on his elbows. "Jemma, you could be in another country, another life, another man's house… and I'd still own the air you breathe."
The fork froze halfway to her mouth. "That's not ownership. That's obsession."
"And yet," he said softly, "here you are."
She dropped the fork onto the plate with a sharp clatter. "Not by choice."
He stood then, slow, deliberate, and came around the table until he was beside her. She thought he'd just loom there, but instead, he slid her plate away and leaned down, his hand gripping the back of her chair.
"You've been giving me your little cold shoulder for days," he said, his voice low and edged. "But you forget something, piccola ribelle, capisci? I don't wait to be invited into your head. I take the space I want." (meaning: little rebel, do you understand?)
The Italian rolled off his tongue like something old and dangerous. Piccola ribelle — little rebel.
Her jaw tightened. "Then maybe I'll burn the whole space down."
He smiled, and it wasn't a nice one. "Then I'll rebuild it around you."
That was when she realized, he wasn't playing for a reaction anymore. He was playing for possession.
The day dragged on under the weight of their stalemate. Jemma stayed in the library most of the afternoon, curled into one of the armchairs with a book she wasn't reading. Every time she heard his footsteps somewhere in the house, her muscles went rigid, but she refused to look up.
When the sun dipped low, the door opened without a knock. She didn't move.
"Still reading that same page?" Xavier's voice was casual, but there was a dangerous undercurrent to it.
She turned a page without looking at him. "Maybe I just like the words."
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "You're not reading. You're hiding."
"I'm not hiding."
"You are. From me."
Her hands tightened on the book. "If staying in one room keeps you out, then yes."
A low laugh escaped him. "You think doors stop me?"
He moved closer, slow, circling her chair like a wolf deciding where to sink its teeth. She tracked him with her eyes now, she couldn't help it.
"You've been freezing me out," he said, voice dropping, "pretending I don't exist in your little world. But here's the problem, piccola ribelle… your world is inside mine."
She shut the book sharply. "Then maybe I'll tear mine out of yours."
His head tilted, and for a long second, he just stared at her, unreadable. Then, without warning, he reached down, took her wrist, and pulled her to her feet.
"Enough."
Her breath caught, more in surprise than fear. "Let go—"
"No." His grip was firm, unrelenting, as he guided her, no, dragged her, toward the grand hallway. "You've had your little protest. You've given me your silent treatment. But I've been patient enough."
"I didn't ask for your patience," she snapped, yanking at his hold.
"You didn't have to."
He brought her to a stop in front of the massive windows where the last light of the day painted the room in gold. His other hand came up to cup her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"You want to be angry? Be angry. You want to hate me? Hate me. But you will not ignore me. I will always be in your head, Jemma. Always."
Her chest rose and fell sharply, her eyes locked on his. "Why? Why do you care so much?"
The question seemed to cut something deep, because for a brief moment, his gaze faltered. Just a second, but it was there.
Then his voice came low, almost dangerous. "Because I decided you were mine. And once I decide…" he leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, "…I don't change my mind."
Dinner was tense again, but this time Xavier didn't let her disappear afterward. When she rose from the table, he caught her wrist before she could retreat to her room.
"Upstairs," he said simply.
Her brows furrowed. "I'm not in the mood for—"
"I didn't ask what mood you were in."
She tried to pull free, but his grip only tightened. He didn't drag her, not this time — instead, he guided her up the sweeping staircase with measured, deliberate steps, like a man bringing someone to an inevitable reckoning.
Inside his study, the door clicked shut and locked behind them.
Jemma crossed her arms. "What is this? You think locking me in here is going to make me talk to you?"
"No." He stepped closer, his height dwarfing her. "I think it's going to make you listen."
Her chin lifted defiantly. "What if I don't want to listen?"
"Then I'll keep you here until you do."
The stubborn glare she gave him might've worked on someone else, but Xavier didn't look away. He just stood there, watching her like a man willing to wait all night if he had to.
Finally, she broke the silence, her voice sharp. "You act like you own me, like I'm some piece of property you can drag around and tell what to do—"
"That's exactly what you are," he interrupted smoothly, though his eyes betrayed the tiniest flicker of something else. "The difference is, I take care of what's mine."
Her laugh was bitter. "You take care of me? You keep me locked in a gilded cage, spy on me through cameras, order me around like—"
"Like someone who nearly died in front of me," he cut in, his voice suddenly harsh. "Like someone who made me think, for one goddamn minute, that I was about to lose her."
That made her pause. She hadn't expected that much rawness in his tone. But she didn't soften.
"So what?" she shot back. "That's the only reason you care? Because you hate losing?"
His jaw flexed. "Because I can't."
The words hung between them, heavy, unspoken truths simmering just under the surface.
"Say you don't care, Xavier," she dared him, taking a step closer. "Look me in the eye and tell me it wouldn't matter if I wasn't here tomorrow."
He didn't move. Didn't answer.
"Exactly," she whispered, shaking her head. "You don't even know why you care. You just… do. And that scares you more than me running away ever could."
He stepped in, closing the small gap between them until her back brushed the edge of his desk. His voice was low but unyielding.
"I'm not scared of you, Jemma. I'm scared of what I'd do if I lost you."
For the first time since the silent war began, her heart skipped, but she masked it quickly with a scoff. "Then maybe you shouldn't keep me prisoner."
His lips curved, but there was no humour in it. "Maybe you should stop making me want to."