TO BELONG TO CEASER

CHAPTER 6:THE DEVIL'SHOUSE

—Agnes—

The mansion had its own heartbeat.

I felt it the moment I stepped out of my room that morning, a low, steady pulse beneath the marble floors and the cold stone walls, like something ancient breathing inside the bones of the building. Everything here was grand and suffocating in equal measure. Gold framed mirrors. Ceilings so high they swallowed sound. Hallways that stretched into shadows even in broad daylight.

I had been bought by a king, and this was his kingdom.

The maid, a small quiet woman named Dara who moved like she was afraid of her own footsteps, had slipped a note under my door before sunrise.

Your duties begin at seven. Kitchen first. Then his study.

I'd read it three times, as if the words might change.

They didn't.

The kitchen was vast and spotless, all gleaming surfaces and professional equipment that belonged in a restaurant, not a home. I stood at the entrance for a moment, suddenly aware of how small I was inside all of this. Then I rolled up my sleeves and began.

I wasn't helpless. My mother had taught me that much before the accident stole her from me. I cooked quietly, methodically, letting the familiar rhythm of it calm the storm in my chest. Eggs. Toast. Coffee, black, strong — Dara had whispered his preference with wide, nervous eyes as if even saying it too loudly might summon him.

I carried the tray to his study and knocked.

Silence.

I knocked again.

"Leave it at the door."

His voice came through the wood like a blade, flat and final. I set the tray down carefully, straightening up. Something in me wanted to say good morning, to puncture the coldness with something human. But I remembered his eyes from last night and swallowed the words whole.

I turned to leave.

"Agnes."

I froze.

A pause. Long enough to make my pulse stutter.

"The coffee. Is it the way I take it?"

I blinked at the closed door. "Black. No sugar."

Another silence. Then, so quiet I almost missed it: "Good."

I walked away before he could see the strange, traitorous warmth that crept up my neck.

The rest of the morning passed in careful routine. I cleaned what I was permitted to clean, avoided the doors I had been told not to touch, and tried to map the geography of the mansion in my mind. It was enormous, a labyrinth of rooms and corridors, some locked, some draped in darkness even at noon.

I was dusting the shelves in the east corridor when I heard footsteps behind me.

Slow. Deliberate. Not Caesar's — his footsteps carried authority, the kind that announced itself. These were different. Casual. Like someone who had all the time in the world.

I already knew who it was before I turned around.

Xavier leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, that easy dangerous smile sitting on his lips like it lived there permanently. Today he wore a white shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked relaxed. Unbothered. Like a wolf pretending to be a house pet.

"Hard at work," he said, tilting his head. "Suits you."

I turned back to the shelf, saying nothing.

"Ignoring me?" He clicked his tongue softly. "And here I thought we were getting acquainted."

"I have work to do." My voice came out steadier than I felt.

He pushed off the doorframe and took one step closer. Just one. But I felt it like a drop in temperature. "He told you to avoid me, didn't he." It wasn't a question.

I didn't answer.

Xavier chuckled, low and quiet. "He always does this. Claims things he doesn't know what to do with." A pause. "You're not a possession, Agnes. Whatever he told you, remember that."

Something about the way he said it made my skin prickle. Not because it was wrong exactly, but because it came wrapped in something that felt like a trap. Like the right words in the wrong mouth.

"Excuse me," I said quietly, picking up my cloth and moving past him.

His hand didn't reach for me this time. But his voice followed.

"He has secrets, you know. The kind that get people hurt. Be careful whose cage you decide to stay in."

I didn't look back.

But his words followed me all the way down the corridor, coiling in my chest long after I'd left him behind.

—Caesar—

I heard Xavier's voice from two corridors away.

My jaw tightened. I had specifically ensured their paths wouldn't cross today. I had restructured the entire morning's schedule around it. And still, like water finding cracks, he had found his way to her.

I stood at the end of the corridor, watching her walk away from him. Back straight. Steps quick. She hadn't lingered. Hadn't smiled. Whatever he'd said, she hadn't given him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Something settled in my chest. Reluctant. Unwilling.

Respect.

I turned before she could see me, moving back toward my study. This was becoming a problem. Not Xavier — I knew how to handle Xavier. The problem was the way I kept finding reasons to watch her. The way I had stood at my study door this morning, tray in hand, listening to the quiet efficiency of her moving through my kitchen. The way something in the beast had gone still, almost peaceful, at the sound of her moving through my space.

I sat behind my desk and pressed my fingers to my temples.

She was a girl I had bought on impulse. A girl who cooked my eggs and cleaned my shelves and looked at me like I was something to be survived.

She was not a weakness.

I would not allow her to become one.

My phone buzzed. Xavier's name flashed on the screen. I let it ring out, watching it until the screen went dark.

We would need to have a conversation soon, he and I. A real one. The kind that didn't end well for the person on the wrong side of it.

Outside my window, the sun was beginning its descent, the sky bruising purple at the edges. In a few hours the moon would rise. In a few hours the beast would stir, rattling its chains, hungry and restless.

I thought of Agnes sleeping down the hall. Of her red hair spread across white pillows. Of her quiet defiance and her trembling hands and the way she had looked at me last night like she was trying to solve a problem she didn't yet have the language for.

Don't, I told myself. Don't.

But for the first time in longer than I could remember, the command felt fragile.