Jemma's hands clenched into fists. "I will not."
Another maid appeared, this time with a larger trunk. She glanced nervously at Xavier, sensing the tension, but he didn't speak to her. His focus never left Jemma.
"I said step aside," he repeated, softer now, but no less commanding. There was patience in his calm, but it was a dangerous patience, the kind that implied the alternative would be unpleasant.
Jemma didn't move. She planted herself firmly, her eyes blazing. "I'm not moving. Do whatever you want. You can drag me if you think you're so clever."
A flicker of something crossed Xavier's face, was it amusement? No. Possession. Desire. A recognition that her stubbornness wasn't a challenge to be broken with force; it was a test, one he didn't want to fail.
He leaned in closer, the air between them tightening. "You think this is clever? You think defiance protects you? You have no idea what keeping you means to me. Every time you defy me, every time you think you can ignore me, I feel it. Like I'm standing at the edge of something I can't stop falling into. You're mine, Jemma, in ways you don't understand. And tonight, you're going to see that."
Her breath hitched, not with fear, but with raw frustration. "I will not be your… your possession."
"Possession is a word for people who think they have a choice," he said evenly. "You don't. Not in this house. Not now."
The maids began moving smaller items into the hall, careful to avoid getting between the pair, sensing the tension crackling like lightning. Xavier's eyes never left hers. He didn't raise a hand. He didn't need to. The quiet authority of his stance, the cold certainty in his voice, was enough to make even her pulse quicken.
"You can fight it all you want," he said softly, "but your things are moving, and so are you. Resistance won't change that. It will only make tonight more… interesting."
Her chest heaved, frustration and fury rolling off her in waves. "You think scaring me into compliance makes me care? It doesn't. Not for you. Not for this."
He tilted his head slightly, a small, controlled smirk flickering before it vanished. "We'll see, Jemma. You think this anger protects you, that your defiance shields you, but I've seen the cracks. And tonight, I'm closing them."
As the last of her belongings were brought into the hallway, Xavier finally stepped aside, gesturing for the maids to finish the job. His eyes never left her, his presence a quiet, unyielding wall. She could move if she wanted to, but she didn't. She waited, still furious, still defiant, still unwilling to grant him the satisfaction of obedience.
Finally, he spoke, voice low and calm. "Come."
She shook her head.
"Jemma." The single word was sharp, commanding, impossible to ignore.
Her chin lifted higher. "No."
His eyes darkened, but his tone remained controlled, cold. "Then I will have to carry you. And I promise you, that will be far less comfortable than walking."
For the first time, the tiniest flicker of uncertainty passed over her face. Not fear, curiosity, maybe irritation. She straightened, finally, and moved a few steps, but she made it clear she was doing so on her terms, testing every second.
Xavier didn't smile. He didn't touch her. He walked beside her, shoulders tense, keeping pace like a shadow she couldn't shake. Every instinct screamed that he wanted to reach out, to pull her closer, to show her she couldn't leave, but he didn't. Not yet. Not until she saw the room she would now share with him, until she realized that even in her defiance, he had the control he craved.
She entered the room and flopped onto the bed with a sigh of defiance, arms crossed. "There," she said flatly. "Happy?"
Xavier closed the door behind him, standing at the threshold. He watched her for a long moment, noting every tense muscle, every glare aimed at him. "This is where you'll be tonight," he said simply. "Everything is here. Nothing leaves. Not without me knowing."
Her jaw tightened. "And you think this changes anything?"
He tilted his head slightly, not answering immediately. When he finally spoke, it was almost a whisper, but it carried across the small space with undeniable weight. "It changes everything, Jemma. Because you're here. And I'm here. And neither of us is leaving the other's side. Not tonight. Not ever, if I can help it."
She let out a frustrated huff, but the corner of her mouth twitched, almost a smirk. "We'll see about that."
Xavier's gaze softened ever so slightly. Not tenderness, he was still the calculated, dangerous man she knew, but an acknowledgment. Of her fire. Of her defiance. Of the fact that she mattered, and that terrified him more than any fight he could ever wage.
He finally turned, leaving her alone to fume, to plot, to stew, but he didn't close his eyes. Even at a distance, he was watching. And Jemma, furious and unbroken, didn't even try to pretend she didn't notice.
The night stretched long and tense, both aware that nothing about this arrangement was simple, but both unwilling to concede fully. The room became a silent battlefield of wills, with Xavier's possessive calm and relentless defiance clashing in ways neither would admit.
The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, cutting across the polished floor of Xavier's room. Jemma was already awake, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, arms folded tightly across her chest. She had slept fitfully, tossing and turning, fighting the strange, unfamiliar sense of being so close to him. Despite her irritation, a small part of her mind couldn't deny the faint sense of security, an idea she immediately squashed. She was still angry. She was still defiant.
Xavier, as usual, was already awake. He had risen before her, dressing in his precise, deliberate way, moving around the room with the same quiet command that always seemed to follow him. He didn't speak, didn't make a sound, just observed. The weight of his gaze pressed against her back as she sat there, ignoring him, pretending he didn't exist.
She was trying to assert control in the only way left to her: silent resistance. She knew that if she acknowledged him too early, if she gave him even a hint of compliance, she would be conceding more than she wanted.
"You're staring," she said finally, breaking the silence with a pointed glance over her shoulder. Her tone was sharp, challenging.
"I'm observing," he replied, voice even, calm, but carrying that unmistakable undercurrent of ownership. "You should understand the difference."
Her lips pressed into a line. "I understand perfectly. Observing doesn't scare me."
He didn't respond, only shifted slightly, the faintest tightening of his jaw betraying his inner frustration. The fact that she could say that and not flinch, not falter, it both enraged and fascinated him. He had expected her to crack under this kind of proximity by now. She hadn't.