Dinner with a Stranger
1078 Words
Mrs. Tirtayasa’s words were like poison ivy. The more I tried not to think about them, the more they itched. No woman lasts in that house.
I spent the afternoon in my library sanctuary, but the words on the pages blurred into images of faceless women disappearing into the night. Were they guests? Or were they wives, just like me, who learned too much about the secrets scratching behind the old oak door?
I was sketching the menacing door from memory when a soft knock came from the connecting door to Kaelith’s suite. It was the first time he’d ever initiated contact between our spaces.
I opened it a crack. He stood there, looking impossibly composed in a dark shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He wasn't looking at me, but at a point just over my shoulder.
“Dinner will be served in thirty minutes,” he stated, his voice flat. “In the dining room.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a summons.
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “I wasn’t aware we were… dining.”
“We are.”
With that, he was gone, the door clicking shut, leaving me to stare at the wood. Dinner. A normal, husband-and-wife activity. Except nothing about us was normal. This felt less like a meal and more like a mandatory meeting with a CEO I happened to be legally bound to.
Thirty minutes later, I found him in the formal dining room. The table, long enough to land a small plane on, was set for two at one end. A pair of candles flickered between us, casting long, dancing shadows that made the cavernous room feel even more menacing. It was tragically romantic, like a dinner date in a very elegant tomb.
A housekeeper I’d never seen before, a silent woman with a nervous energy, served us. Perfectly cooked steak, asparagus, and roasted potatoes. It looked like a picture from a magazine. My stomach, however, was in a tight, anxious knot.
Kaelith unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap. He picked up his fork and knife. I mirrored his movements, the clink of my silverware against the plate sounding like a gunshot in the heavy silence.
We ate. Or rather, he ate. I mostly pushed a piece of asparagus around my plate. The silence was an entity in itself, a third guest at the table, oppressive and watchful. I could feel his gaze on me, even when he was looking at his food.
“Did you have a productive day?” he asked, the question so jarringly normal that I almost choked.
Oh, you know. The usual. Met a neighbor who strongly implied you’re a serial husband who disappears your wives. Discovered a potential monster locked in the west wing. The usual newlywed stuff.
“I went for a walk,” I said instead, my voice tight. “I met Mrs. Tirtayasa.”
His movements didn’t falter, but I saw a subtle tightening around his eyes. “Rina. She’s the neighborhood watchtower. I trust you took whatever she said with a mountain of salt.”
“She seemed… concerned,” I said, testing the waters. “About me. About a girl living alone in this big house.”
“You are not alone,” he stated, a simple fact that sounded anything but comforting.
“She mentioned you’ve had guests before,” I pushed, my heart hammering. “Long-term ones.”
He set his knife and fork down, the sound sharp and final. He looked directly at me, his twilight eyes unreadable, and for a moment, the handsome man was gone, replaced by something cold and ancient.
“My past is my own, Lyanna. Just as yours is your own. That was the foundation of our agreement.”
“Our agreement was for safety,” I countered, my voice barely a whisper. “How can I feel safe when my own husband is a stranger? When this house has more locked doors than a prison?”
I hadn't meant to say it, but the fear and frustration of the past few days bubbled over. I expected anger. A cold dismissal. Instead, his expression remained unnervingly calm.
He simply picked up his fork and nudged my plate with it, a surprisingly gentle gesture that was completely at odds with the tension between us. My steak sat there, untouched.
“Eat,” he said, his voice low and devoid of any emotion. “You’ll need your strength.”
The words hung in the air, chilling me to the bone. Strength for what? For living with him? For facing whatever was behind that door? Or for whatever fate awaited the women who didn't last in his house? It was a command, a warning, and a prophecy all in one.
Defeated, I picked up my knife and fork. My hands were trembling slightly as I tried to cut into the steak. The knife was dull, and I struggled to saw through the thick cut of meat.
Across the table, Kaelith cut his own steak. My eyes were drawn to the movement, and what I saw made the air freeze in my lungs.
He wasn’t using the serrated steak knife provided. He was using his regular dinner knife, the one with the smooth, dull-looking edge.
But the blade sank into the rare steak as if it were slicing through soft butter. There was no pressure. No sawing motion. Just a single, silent, fluid sweep that parted the flesh with terrifying ease.
He lifted a perfect piece to his mouth, his movements economical and precise. There was a grace to it, but it wasn't human. It was the lethal, effortless efficiency of a predator. The kind of sharpness that didn't belong to polished silver, but to fang and claw.
My own knife slipped from my nerveless fingers, clattering onto the plate with a loud, discordant sound.
Kaelith’s head snapped up. His eyes, dark and fathomless in the candlelight, locked onto mine. He hadn't just heard the noise; he had seen everything. He had seen my focus, seen the dawning horror on my face as I watched him.
And for the first time since I met him, the mask of cold indifference slipped. Just for a second. And underneath, I saw a flicker of something I recognized all too well.
It was the look of a man with a secret so dangerous, he’d do anything to keep it buried.
- Writer
