NUISANCE BLOOD

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE RULES OF THE HOUSE

“Looking at me like I’m a painting you haven’t finished. It’s unsettling.” She leaned back, crossing her arms—not defensive, but evaluative. “And you still haven’t answered my question from before. So let me ask again, since you’re so busy cataloguing my lips and my throat—did you not notice all this while you were ruining my painting? Or were you too busy being a ‘conductor’ to see what was standing right in front of you?”

The question hit him square in the chest, and he knew she saw it land. His expression flickered—amusement, chagrin, and something deeper that he quickly smothered. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking, and regarded her with new eyes.

“That’s a dangerous question.”

“I’m a dangerous person. Ask your jaw. It met my pressure points earlier.”

A ghost of a smile. “Fair. You want the truth? No. I didn’t notice. On that rooftop, you were an obstacle. A variable. An artist who wouldn’t scream. I was focused on the message I’d just sent—the head, the Sheikh family, the war I’m waging. You were collateral. Beautiful things get overlooked when you’re holding a knife and counting enemies.”

“Beautiful.” She tilted her head, tasting the word. “That’s twice now you’ve called me that. Pervert and flatterer. You’re collecting labels too.”

.“I’m not flattering you. I’m admitting a mistake.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, the space between them suddenly smaller. “I should have looked at you longer. I should have seen—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “This. I didn’t. Now I can’t unsee it. So eat your chapati, Shraddha Sharma. And know that from this moment on, I’ll be watching everything. Every swallow. Every glance. Every quiver. I won’t overlook you again.”

The air in the room thickened, charged with something that was neither threat nor tenderness but a volatile mixture of both. Shraddha held his gaze, and inside, her mind was a cold, running script: ‘He’s not joking. That wasn’t a threat—it was a warning. He’s recalibrating. Treating me as something valuable. Valuable means I survive longer. But valuable also means he’ll watch closer. I need to be more careful. But I also need to use this. If he thinks I’m beautiful, he’ll drop his guard in places I can’t yet see. Beauty is a weapon. I learned that from my mother. She used it to survive my father. I’ll use it to survive him.’

She lifted her glass of water, the condensation dripping onto the tablecloth like small, clear wounds. She held it up, a silent toast. “To being seen. Finally. Took you long enough, conductor.”

He lifted his own glass—wine, untouched until now—and touched the rim to hers. The crystal chimed, a single clear note in the quiet room. “To not overlooking what’s right in front of me. A mistake I won’t make twice. Now finish your food. We have rules to discuss after dinner. And I suspect you’ll break every single one.”

She took a sip of water. The cold slid down her throat, chasing the warmth of the bread. She would finish the food. She would listen to the rules. And then she would begin the slow, meticulous work of finding every crack in his armor.

The plates were cleared by a servant who came and went like a ghost—silent, eyes downcast, hands that didn’t tremble. Manoj, the same stone-faced attendant from before, removed the silver domes and the soiled linens, leaving only a decanter of water, two glasses, and the flickering candles between them. The meal was over. The negotiation had begun.

Karan settled back, the air of casual command returning now that the intimacy of the feeding had passed. But there was a new tension in his shoulders—a vigilance that hadn’t been there before. She’d rattled him. Not enough to break him, but enough to make him pay attention. And he didn’t like that she’d managed it.

“Rules,” he said, the word a clean incision. “Simple ones. One, no leaving the manor grounds without my permission. Two, no contact with anyone outside without my presence." The room fell more silent than usual.

"Three, you answer my questions truthfully." His voice becomes a whisper that reaches only her

"Always. Even the uncomfortable ones.” he stares at her.

She arched an eyebrow. “Truthfully? You want me to tell you all my secrets over dessert? Bold.”

“I don’t expect all your secrets tonight. But when I ask, you’ll tell. That’s the rule.”

She leaned forward, mirroring his posture, the candlelight carving shadows under her cheekbones. “And what do I get in return? A pillow without a knife on it? A window that actually opens?”

“You get to live.” He said it without cruelty—just fact. “That’s not nothing.”

“Living is the bare minimum.” She held his gaze, unflinching. “I want more. I want a canvas. Paints. Something to do besides stare at these walls and your unnerving face.”

He considered this, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. The silence stretched, filled with the distant sound of the sea beyond the manor’s walls. “You want to paint? After what happened to your last canvas?”

“Especially because of what happened. You owe me a replacement. You admitted it yourself. A mistake you won’t overlook.” She threw his own words back at him with surgical precision. “So prove it. Give me art supplies. Let me paint. I’m less annoying when I’m creating.”

His eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of respect in the gesture—a blade acknowledging another blade’s sharpness. “Fine. Tomorrow, you’ll have a canvas. But everything you paint belongs to me. Every piece. Every stroke. Consider it rent.”

“Rent. For a cage I didn’t ask for. Generous.”

“I’m a generous man. To interesting people.” He stood, pushing his chair back with the same deliberate scrape he’d used earlier. The candles guttered in the draft. “Don’t make me regret it.”

He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. Over his shoulder, the dim light catching the serpent cufflink at his wrist, he added, “Arjun will escort you back to your room. Sleep well, Shraddha Sharma. Tomorrow you’ll paint. And tomorrow you’ll answer my questions. About the bracelet. About the Sheikhs. About why a girl who paints skyscrapers has the survival instincts of a soldier.”

The door opened. The corridor beyond was dark, lined with guards she couldn’t see but could feel—the prickle of watchful eyes, the soft shift of boots on stone. She rose slowly, the taste of chapati still on her tongue, the ghost of his thumb still warm on her lip.

“Goodnight, Knife-Man,” she said, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice. “Try not to kill anyone in your dreams. You need the material for your waking hours.”

He laughed, low and genuine, and then he was gone. Arjun appeared in the doorway, patient and immovable as a mountain.

Shraddha followed him through the twisting corridors, her bare feet silent on the cold stone, her mind already painting a canvas of its own—a map of the manor, a ledger of weaknesses, a timeline of the war that was creeping closer with every passing hour. Prithvi Sharma was moving in the shadows. Vikram was keeping secrets. Karan Singh was looking at her with eyes that saw too much and not enough.

The rules were set. And she intended to break every single one..