Chapter 4: Crossing the Line
1046 Words
I don’t follow rules.
Especially not ones I didn’t agree to.
So when Elara tells me to stay out of her way, what I hear is: Try harder.
I spend the day roaming the estate like I own it—which, technically, I could if I wanted to. The place is old, sprawling, grand in a way that feels more forgotten than luxurious. The library is the size of my entire Manhattan penthouse and filled with books no one’s touched in years. Dust lingers in the air like memory.
The backyard is worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it. Overgrown gardens, stone benches cracked with time, a fountain with more moss than water. There’s beauty here, somewhere beneath the neglect. Like the house is holding its breath, waiting to come alive again.
But it doesn’t.
It just sits there.
Lonely.
Kind of like her.
Elara’s a ghost in this place—always present, never seen. I hear her, though. Her footsteps down the hall. The creak of doors. Once, I catch the faintest sound of her humming—low and sweet, like a secret she didn’t mean to share.
She’s avoiding me.
Cute.
Shame I don’t do avoidance.
By the time the sun starts to dip behind the trees, I find myself back in the kitchen. No reason. I’m not hungry. Not really. Just… restless. And bored. And Elara?
She’s the most interesting thing under this roof.
She’s standing at the counter, barefoot, stirring something in a pot. Another oversized sweater, this one slipping off her shoulder and revealing skin that shouldn’t be that distracting.
But it is.
I lean against the doorway, arms folded, smirking. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type.”
She jumps. The spoon almost goes flying. She whips around, eyes flashing like I set her on fire just by existing.
“Do you always sneak up on people?” she snaps.
“Only when they’re worth sneaking up on.”
She glares, then turns back to the stove. “I’m cooking. You got a problem with that?”
“Not at all.” I walk in like I belong there. “I’m just curious if this is dinner or your latest assassination attempt.”
“I’ve lived here for years,” she says, tight, defensive. “I think I know how to feed myself.”
I peer over her shoulder, watching her stir. “Smells good.”
She goes still for half a second. Barely noticeable, but I catch it.
“I didn’t make enough for two,” she mutters.
“I’m not worried.” I lower my voice, close enough to feel her body tense. “We can share.”
She groans. “You have food, Damien.”
“Sure. But yours looks better.”
Her hand tightens around the spoon. I notice everything—the shift in her breathing, the blush rising at the base of her neck. She hates this. And she doesn’t.
She likes it.
Even if she’d rather walk barefoot across broken glass than admit it.
“I swear, if you don’t move—”
Before she finishes, I reach around her and take the spoon from her grip, brushing against her hand.
Bold? Yeah. But she didn’t stop me.
I taste the sauce. Rich, creamy, not bad. I lick a bit off the corner of my mouth and hand her back the spoon. “Could use more salt.”
She turns to me like I just insulted her bloodline. “You did not just critique my cooking.”
“I did.”
She narrows her eyes—then, without warning, dips the spoon back in and shoves it toward my mouth.
“Here. Try it again.”
No time to react. Just sauce and defiance and the sharp glint of victory in her eyes.
I let her feed me.
The moment stretches. Her fingers are close to my face. Her expression unreadable. And my mouth?
Smiling.
I run my tongue along the corner of my lips again, slowly, on purpose. “Careful, sweetheart. Keep feeding me like that, I might start thinking you like me.”
She freezes.
Just for a second.
Then the mask drops back into place and she spins around. “Dinner’s canceled.”
I laugh. Loud and full. “Come on.”
“Out,” she says flatly.
I stay there a beat longer than I should. Could push her. Could press just a little harder.
But not tonight.
This is a long game.
I back away, still smiling. “Alright, chef. I’ll leave you to your mediocre pasta.”
She groans. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I wink as I disappear down the hallway, leaving her fuming.
Back in the east wing, I kick off my shoes and tug my shirt over my head, tossing it onto a chair. I should be satisfied. I got under her skin. I always do.
But something shifts.
The smirk slips from my face.
There’s a strange stillness in the room now, heavier than before. I run a hand through my hair, try to shake it off.
That’s when I hear it.
A voice.
Soft. Familiar. Whispering from somewhere deep inside me.
“You almost forgot me, didn’t you, mon chéri?”
I freeze.
My chest tightens, breath catching mid-step. I turn sharply, scanning the empty room like an i***t.
No one’s there.
Of course no one’s there.
Because she’s gone.
She’s been gone for years.
My mother.
Today’s her birthday.
And I almost forgot.
A cold wave creeps up my spine. I grip the edge of the dresser just to stay grounded, swallowing hard as the silence wraps around me.
“You always did need reminding,” the voice says again, barely a whisper this time.
Maybe it’s her.
Maybe it’s just memory. Guilt. Some f****d-up blend of both.
Doesn’t matter.
The ache it leaves behind feels real enough.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. Trying not to feel anything. Trying to shove the past back down where it belongs.
But no matter how hard I fight it, I know the truth.
Some ghosts never leave.
And some wounds?
They don’t bleed anymore—but they still burn.
- Writer
