"I will always find you."
The words wrapped around my throat tighter than his fingers ever could.
Marcel released my chin and stepped back, giving me space that felt more suffocating than his touch. The mansion seemed to breathe around us—walls humming softly, lights dimming as if responding to his presence.
"Go back to bed, Elena," he said calmly. "It's late."
I stared at him, my chest tightening. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my legs felt like stone. My heart pounded so loudly I feared it would betray me, giving away the fear I was desperately trying to hide. I wanted to scream, to tell him I wasn't his, that I didn't belong here, but the words stuck in my throat.
Marcel's eyes didn't leave mine. Dark, unyielding, commanding—like he was reading not just my face but my very thoughts. It was terrifying and magnetic all at once. He stepped closer again, slow, deliberate, and I instinctively stepped back, though the room offered little refuge.
"You think you can hide," he said softly, almost like a warning. "But this house… this city… I will find you wherever you go."
The coldness in his voice was dangerous, and yet there was an intensity that made my pulse stutter. I wanted to tell him to leave, to stop looking at me that way, but I knew it wouldn't make a difference. He didn't ask. He commanded. And even though part of me despised that, another part—an infuriating, helpless part—couldn't look away.
The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, until a distant sound pulled me back to reality—a clock chiming somewhere in the hall. It was late, far later than I thought, and yet sleep was impossible. Not with him there. Not with the lingering heat of his touch still clinging to my skin, still burning through my nerves.
"I…" I started, my voice trembling. "I should go…"
He didn't move, didn't respond, letting the weight of his presence fill the space. I swallowed hard, trying to force courage into my limbs. I wanted to push past him, to escape, but it was like moving through water. Each step forward felt heavier than the last, as though the mansion itself conspired to keep me there.
Finally, I turned. My heels clicked against the polished floor, each sound painfully loud. Every shadow seemed to stretch, to twist toward me like it wanted to claim me. I reached the doorway of my room and paused, glancing over my shoulder. Marcel was still there, still watching, still calm, yet impossibly commanding.
"Sleep well, Elena," he said finally, his voice carrying a promise I didn't want to hear.
I nodded, silent. My throat felt dry, my body trembling. Once inside my room, I closed the door and leaned against it, letting my knees buckle. My heart wouldn't stop racing, and my mind replayed the encounter over and over, twisting every word, every glance, every half-smile into a thousand unanswerable questions.
Why did he have to find me? Why did he have to look at me like that?
I hated that I was afraid. I hated that a part of me wanted him to stay, even as every rational thought screamed danger. This wasn't love. It wasn't even protection. It was control. Pure, suffocating, inescapable control.
The night dragged on, filled with every possible sound amplified—the wind tapping against the windows, the rustling of leaves outside, the faint hum of the old mansion settling. Every shadow became a threat, every creak a potential sign of him returning. I wanted to convince myself it was just my imagination, that the house was empty, that I was alone, but deep down I knew better.
He was always watching. Always waiting. Always knowing.
Hours passed—or maybe minutes; time had lost all meaning—and sleep finally claimed me, though it was shallow, fitful, broken by dreams that carried his voice, his presence, even when he wasn't there. I woke to the feeling of being watched, heart leaping before my eyes even opened. But it was morning, and the sunlight streamed in through the heavy curtains, gilding the room in false warmth.
Even so, the unease didn't lift. Marcel was still there, in my mind if not in the room. Every step I took, every movement I made, I imagined him observing, calculating, anticipating. And though I hated him, feared him, a strange, dangerous curiosity kept tugging at me—a part of me that wanted to see him, to confront him, to defy him.
By midday, the routine of the house resumed—the servants moving quietly, the distant echo of voices in rooms I couldn't see, the polished floors reflecting the afternoon sun. I stayed in my room under the guise of rest, though every instinct screamed that I should leave, that I should escape.
And yet, when the door creaked open, it wasn't a servant bringing food or a message. It was him.
"Still hiding?" Marcel's voice cut through the air, casual, as if he had every right to be there.
I froze, my back stiff against the wall. "I… I was resting," I said, trying to sound ordinary, calm.
He stepped inside, slow, deliberate. The door didn't shut behind him; it stayed open, letting the light and the shadows mix, framing him in a way that made my chest ache and my skin burn.
"You don't get to rest," he said simply, his eyes scanning me, reading me like a book I didn't want him to have. "Not when you're still mine to find."
The words hit harder than anything he'd ever said. Not just a warning this time. Not just control. Possession. And yet, intertwined with that, a strange, unspoken acknowledgment of something else—something I couldn't name, couldn't understand, and didn't want to.
I wanted to run. I wanted to fight. I wanted to scream. And yet I stayed, trapped between fear and curiosity, hatred and something darker, something that clung to me like shadows at sunset.
He came closer, each step measured, like a predator circling. "You can try to hide," he said softly, almost teasingly, "but a cage isn't only made of bars. Sometimes… it's made of golden chains. And you, Elena, are already inside."
The words wrapped around my mind as tightly as they had around my throat the night before. Golden chains. A cage. I wanted to deny it, to say I wasn't trapped, but deep down, I knew the truth. I was trapped. Trapped by him, trapped by the mansion, trapped by something I couldn't yet define but couldn't escape.
And as he turned and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar, I realized something terrifying. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
I sank to the floor, heart pounding, hands trembling, mind racing. The cage existed. It had always existed. And now, for the first time, I could see the bars—shining, golden, unbreakable.
And I had no idea how to escape.