Claimed by my Father's Friend

The Dinner

Xavier’s POV

The house was too quiet without her voice echoing through the halls — even if all she ever gave me were shaky whispers or fear-laced breaths. Still, tonight was going to be different. Tonight, she'd come to me on my terms.

I sat at the head of the long dining table, fingers interlaced, eyes fixed on the double doors across the room. Candlelight danced off polished silverware and delicate crystal. Everything was just as it should be. Almost.

The only thing missing was her.

I heard the soft click of heels and straightened, tension winding tight in my chest.

Then she appeared.

Athena stepped into the light, the white dress clinging to her curves like it had been made just for this moment. She paused at the threshold, chin high, though I didn’t miss the shimmer of caution in her eyes.

God, she was stunning.

“You look lovely,” I murmured, my voice low and velvet-smooth.

Her gaze swept across my face — guarded, calculating — but she said nothing as she walked over and took her seat across from me. No resistance. No trembling. That was new.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her tone calm. Too calm.

I studied her as a servant poured wine between us. I watched every motion, every subtle flicker of breath, every shift of her fingers. There was a stillness in her that hadn’t been there before — unnerving, controlled.

Athena had been wild, unyielding. Just last night, she'd smeared her fury across my mirror in blood.

But tonight?

She was composed. Measured. Like something inside her had shifted.

“You’re remarkably calm,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I thought you'd still be seething over the glass.”

Her fingers curled around the stem of her wineglass with a grace that shouldn’t have belonged to someone locked in a cage.

“You can only keep someone in the dark so long before they stop fearing it,” she said, soft but steady.

A flicker of intrigue sparked inside me.

So that was it.

Not submission.

Adaptation.

Not broken.

Sharpened.

“You surprise me,” I said honestly, watching the faintest curve touch her lips.

“You surprise me too,” she replied. “For someone so careful, you do like testing limits.” Her voice was casual, almost playful — as though we were nothing more than strangers making conversation at a dinner party.

Not captor and captive.

Fascinating.

I raised my glass and took a slow sip, eyes never leaving hers. And I thought of my father — of the boy in that old photograph I knew she had found. A boy carved into something darker, shaped by pain and legacy.

Maybe she thought that made me vulnerable.

She would be wrong.

“You wear white well,” I said after a beat.

Her fingers twitched around the glass — barely, but I caught it.

A reminder.

This was my stage. My scene. She was here because I allowed it.

She nodded, lips drawn tight.

But there it was again — a flicker beneath the surface. Her mind was spinning. Quiet. Calculating.

Plotting.

A dark surge rose in me, possessive and electric. That fire of hers — it hadn’t been extinguished at all. And part of me relished that.

“Tomorrow,” I said, voice dipping lower as I leaned forward, my eyes tracing the lines of her face like I wanted to etch them into memory, “you’ll wear something else. Something darker. Red, perhaps. There’s more ahead. More than just dinner.”

I reached across the table, brushing my knuckles along her cheek. Her breath caught — subtle, but I felt it.

“Play your part,” I said, voice a soft, silken threat, “and I might make things easier for you.”

Her gaze met mine, steady and unreadable.

She didn’t answer.

But I didn’t need words to feel the iron resolve coiled inside her.

That strength — that stubborn, furious spark — it was what drew me to her in the first place.

And what would make breaking her all the more intoxicating.

I let my hand fall away and stood.

“Enjoy the rest of the meal,” I said smoothly.

Then I turned and left the dining hall, already playing out the next move in my head.

Let her plot. Let her pretend.

She thought she was clever — clever enough to outmaneuver me.

That was fine.

Let her try.

Because by the time I was through, she would understand something very clearly:

Her strength, her fury, her rebellion — they all belonged to me.

And soon, there’d be nowhere left for her to hide.