Dangerously Mine

Chapter 10

My eyes snapped open.

I didn't wake up slowly. I didn't drift from a dream into the light. One second I was submerged in the heavy, suffocating black of a dreamless sleep, and the next, I was wide awake, my pupils blowing wide as they searched the darkness of the master suite.

The air in the room felt different. It was charged, heavy with a sudden, sharp pressure that made the hair on my arms stand up. I lay perfectly still, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs, making it hard to hear anything over the rush of blood in my ears.

Thud.

There it was. A heavy, dull sound that vibrated through the floorboards and up into the frame of the bed. It wasn't the house settling. It wasn't the wind. It was the unmistakable sound of a weight hitting the floor—the kind of weight that didn't get back up.

I stayed frozen, my fingers digging into the silk sheets. The silence that followed was even worse than the noise. It was a pressurized, expectant silence. My mind flashed back to the library just hours ago—the hidden tunnel, the damp smell of earth, and the maid’s cold warning to get back to my room. I had felt then that the house was keeping a secret, but I hadn't realized the secret was a war.

Thud. Drag. Thud.

It was closer now. The sound was wet, a rhythmic friction against the marble of the hallway that made my stomach turn. I stared at the bedroom door, the charcoal wood looking like a monolith in the shadows. I wanted to believe it was Jacob, but Jacob moved like a predator—silent and intentional. This sound was clumsy. It was desperate.

Then, the scream shattered everything.

It wasn't a long, cinematic wail. It was a sharp, jagged rip in the air—a sound of pure, unadulterated shock that was cut off so abruptly it left a physical ache in my chest. My blood turned to ice. I knew that voice. It was the maid. The woman who had caught me by the secret door, the one who had looked at me with such cool indifference, was screaming like her soul was being torn out.

I bolted out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold rug. The room felt ten times larger than it had during the day, the shadows stretching out like hands reaching for my ankles.

Run. Hide. Lock the door.

The survival instincts of a girl who had spent her life being the smallest person in the room took over. I scrambled toward the heavy suite door, my breath coming in short, panicked hitches. I could hear footsteps now—fast, heavy, and multiple. They were striking the marble with a military precision that sent a new wave of terror through me.

I reached for the silver handle, my fingers trembling so violently I could barely grip the metal. I needed to lock it. I needed to disappear.

But before my fingers could find the lock, the handle twisted.

I let out a strangled gasp, stumbling back and nearly falling. The door swung open with a violent force, hitting the interior wall with a crack that echoed like a gunshot.

I opened my eyes, expecting to see a monster or one of the men Jacob was hiding me from.

Instead, it was her.

The maid stood in the doorway, framed by the dim amber light of the hallway. Her charcoal-grey uniform, usually so crisp and perfect, was disheveled. The white apron was splashed with a dark, glistening crimson that looked black under the low lights. In her right hand, she clutched a long, professional kitchen knife, the blade stained with the same horrific red.

"You," I breathed, my voice barely a whisper. "What... what did you do?"

She didn't look at me with the cold nonchalance of the library. Her eyes were wide, scanning the room behind me, her chest heaving as she fought for air. She didn't look like a servant anymore; she looked like a soldier in the middle of a slaughter.

"Move," she rasped.

I didn't move. I couldn't. I stared at the knife, at the blood dripping from her sleeve onto the white rug. "There was a scream. I heard—"

"I said move!" She stepped into the room and gripped my arm. Her grip was like a vice, her fingers digging into my skin with bruising force. She slammed the door shut and turned the lock with a finality that made my heart drop into my stomach.

"Who is out there?" I asked, my voice rising in panic. "Is it the Santoses? Did they come back for me?"

The maid ignored me. She dragged me toward the walk-in wardrobe, the one where my things were so neatly organized. She threw the doors open, shoving aside the expensive silk dresses. Why did Ieven asks if the Santos came back for me, they do not want me they do not care about me, why am I expecting for them to act like a maniac just for me.

"Get in," she commanded.

"No! Tell me what's happening!" I fought back, trying to pry her bloody fingers off my arm. "Why are you doing this? Why are you holding a knife?"

She turned to me then, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something human in her gaze. It wasn't kindness—it was a grim, sacrificial duty.

"I am doing this because I was told to," she hissed, her face inches from mine. "I am doing this because the perimeter has been breached, and you are the target."

"Why me?" I cried out, the tears finally breaking through. "I just got here! No one knows about me!"

The maid shoved me into the back of the wardrobe, behind the long coats, and stood in front of me, her knife held low and ready. The blood on her uniform smeared against the dark wood.

"Jacob Mikaelson gave an order," she said, her voice dropping back into that chilling, nonchalant tone. "He said that if the house fell while he was away, I was to ensure you survived it. My life, and the lives of the others, are secondary to that command."

"He... he ordered you to protect me?"

"If you speak one more time, I will use this knife on you, you stupid brat!," she yelled making me froze on where I stand. "Now, be silent. If you speak, if you sob, if you breathe too loud, I will not be able to hear them coming. And if they get past me, you will wish you had died in that water years ago."

She went still. Utterly still.

I huddled in the darkness, the smell of cedar and her iron-scented blood filling my nose. Outside the wardrobe, I could hear the muffled sounds of the house being torn apart. Glass breaking. The heavy thump of bodies falling. The occasional, clinical pop of a suppressed firearm.

The maid stood like a shadow in the doorway of the closet, the blade of her knife catching the sliver of light. She wasn't just a maid. She was a weapon Jacob had left behind. And as the footsteps reached the bedroom door, I realized the most terrifying truth of all: I was the girl worth dying for, and I had no idea why.