I made myself quite at home the rest of the evening, unpacking my things and transforming my new prison into something vaguely tolerable. A new linen set, some cozy throw pillows, a few scented candles—because if I was going to be forced to live with the devil himself, I might as well make my space smell like vanilla and peace.
By the time I was in the kitchen making a light snack, Leonidas finally emerged from whatever destruction he had unleashed in his own room. He looked eerily calm—too calm. The kind of calm that makes your survival instincts tingle in warning. That’s when I knew he was plotting something.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just opened the fridge with all the grace of a man who wasn’t internally plotting my demise. Then, as if we were in the middle of some casual dinn
