The dining hall looked huge, almost endless—dark mahogany floors shining under her feet, ceilings so high the crystal chandeliers seemed to float, and everywhere on the walls, portraits of Valterra ancestors, their eyes tracking her every move. It was the kind of place that could swallow you whole and leave nothing behind but a shadow.
Elara stepped inside, careful, her heels making a soft echo on the stone. Every nerve in her body buzzed with warning. Even though Alessio wasn't right next to her, his presence filled the room. The way the guards shifted, how the candles flickered, even the faint tension humming in the air—it all pointed to him. Through it, she felt the cage of her new life tightening around her.
He sat at the head of the table, spine straight as a blade, completely at home. The long table stretched into darkness, empty chairs lined up on either side except for the guards closest to him, silent and watchful. His dark eyes glanced at her as she approached, just enough to remind her she wasn't a guest here. She was something else—something he owned.
Her stomach twisted. She'd barely eaten at breakfast, and now, food felt like a trap. If she ate, it was like agreeing to their rules, letting them win. She kept her eyes forward, refusing to look at him, trying to slow her breathing.
He motioned to the seat across from him. "Sit."
Her hands shook a little as she lowered herself into the chair, feeling every stare in the room. She was the outsider—no cousins, no friends, no one familiar. Just her, the daughter of an enemy family, sitting across from the man who had bought her future.
The silence pressed in.
Not that harmless, polite pause before dinner. This silence was thick, almost suffocating—full of things nobody would say out loud. Elara could hear her own heartbeat, every tap of her fingers against the table sounding way too loud.
Alessio took a slow sip of wine, every movement deliberate. He didn't say a word.
She tried to focus on the plate in front of her—some roasted vegetables, a bit of meat, arranged too carefully. She still couldn't eat. His stare, though she couldn't see it, weighed on her. She felt it in her bones, in the way her shoulders tensed.
Minutes dragged by.
Then, finally, Alessio's voice cut through the quiet. Low, cold, almost a whisper, but sharp enough to slice through the air. "You do not belong here."
Elara froze, hands still in her lap. She met his eyes. "No. I don't."
He raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk—more wolf than amused. "Yet here you are. Eating my food. Breathing my air. Surrounded by my people."
She didn't look away. She wouldn't let him see how scared she was. "I sit here because I have no choice. But don't mistake that for surrender."
Silence again, heavier this time. Alessio leaned back, studying her like she was some dangerous animal—caged, but clever enough to bite if given the chance. His eyes narrowed.
"You are bold," he said. "Too bold for a girl your age. Too bold for a Moretti sold to me."
Her heart beat faster, but not from fear. Something else—something sharp and burning—ran through her veins. "Maybe," she said, voice soft but clear. "But you'll learn soon enough I'm not someone to underestimate."
He didn't answer right away. He just swirled his wine, watching the light catch in the glass, then fixed her with a look that felt like a blade against her skin.
"Then take this as a warning," he said at last. "I don't forgive mistakes. And I never forget them."
Her stomach knotted at the threat. This wasn't just about punishment. It was about power. Alessio Valterra ruled his world with blood and obedience. And yet, the way he watched her—steady, calculating, not quite striking—sent a shiver through her. Fear, yes, but something else, too. Something darker.
The meal dragged on in silence, broken only by the occasional sound of cutlery on porcelain. Every bite she forced down felt like defiance. Every time she glanced up at him, it felt like a risk. Alessio never looked away; he didn't say another word, but his eyes said plenty.
Time lost all shape—minutes, hours, she couldn't tell. The shadows from the chandelier stretched longer, the sound of her knife on the plate grew louder. Elara realized, with a chill running up her spine, that Alessio's silence wasn't empty. It was a weapon, testing her, prodding her, measuring her. To him, she was prey. She was an enemy. And she was interesting.
At last, Alessio stood, his chair scraping across the floor. "Finish your meal," he said, voice flat and cold. "You'll find your place here soon enough. Don't overstep it."
Elara swallowed her last bite, her heart still pounding.
He turned and headed for the door, each step slow and sure. Just before leaving, he looked back at her. For a split second, his face changed—not exactly friendly, not gentle, but curious.
"Rest up, Tomorrow, Elara. Your real life starts now," he said. Then he was gone, and all that was left was the feeling he'd been there.
She was alone, but freedom was still out of reach.
She set her fork down, careful not to make a sound. Her thoughts raced. Every word, every pause, every look tonight had been intentional. She'd walked straight into the lion's den. And Alessio Valterra—the lion—was still holding back.
Elara leaned back, trying to breathe the tension out of her muscles. It worked, a little, but not enough.
She knew one thing, sharp and certain:
This wasn't the last time she'd have to face him.
Tonight was just the start.
And even now, the lines were drawn—him staking his claim, and her refusing to let anyone own her.