Dangerously Yours

The morning after

Light slants through a slit in the curtains, thin and cold. For a second, I can't remember where I was. Then the night crawls back—Elijah's hand on my wrist, his voice so even it hurt to hear, the door locking behind him.

I sit up slowly. The sheets don't look like they've been slept in, only twisted by someone who couldn't find rest. My throat dry, the back of my neck tight. Downstairs, the house hums—distant movement, low conversation, the occasional clang of metal on porcelain.

I move to the wardrobe and drag open the door. Clothes hung there already: soft fabrics, neutral colors, all my size. That makes my stomach turn. Someone prepared for me to stay.

After a long shower, I tie my hair back and step into the hallway. No one stops me, but the air feels watched. Voices drift from below, the smell of coffee and something buttery. The staircase curves wide and elegant, overlooking a room that looks like something from a magazine—white marble, glass, a chandelier that probably costs more than my apartment.

A woman in her thirties looks up from polishing the sideboard. I recognized her from the night before— that one Elijah called Mira. Her dark hair is pinned neatly, her expression calm in a way that could mean she's either kind or unshakably loyal.

''You're awake.'' she says, her accent is faint, European maybe. ''I was coming to check on you.''

''I didn't know if I was allowed to leave the room.''

''You are as long as you stay inside the house. ''She hands me a cup of coffee. ''He's very particular about that.''

I take it carefully. ''Particular is one word for it.''

Her mouth twitches—almost a smile, almost sympathy—but she stays quiet.

I follow her toward a set of tall windows that open onto a courtyard. Sunlight cuts through the vines climbing the stone. Men linger near the fountain—five of them, all in black, all armed. They watch everything without seeming to look.

''His people?'' I ask.

Mira nods. ''The inner circle. The one leaning against the car is Luca, his right hand. Don't test him. The others take orders from him when Elijah's away.''

''Away Where?''

Mira glances at me. ''You'll see soon enough that he doesn't answer to anyone. Don't expect an explanation. Just routines.''

Cold settles in my stomach again. ''So what am I supposed to do? Pretend this is normal?''

''For now—yes.''

She leaves me with breakfast laid out on a long table: fruit, bread, eggs. The food feels wrong in this place, too human. I eat anyway because my hands won't stop shaking otherwise.

Across the hall, I hear a laugh—low, male. Two men from outside walk in, both dressed too sharply to be guards alone. The taller one gives me the look people give something unexpected.

''That the new girl?'' he asks.

Mira's tone cuts the air clearly. ''That's amara. She's off limits.''

The shorter one smirks. ''Didn't think Elijah had limits.''

A door shuts somewhere upstairs, and the sound alone is enough to end the conversation. The men straighten instinctively, and Mira lowers her voice. ''He's awake.''

Elijah appears at the landing, sleeves rolled, a phone in one hand. The room seems to shrink around him. The others step aside, the air instantly quieter. He's not doing anything—he doesn't need to.

His eyes sweep the room before finding me. He studies me for a long moment that makes everyone pretend to be busy. ''Mira.'' he says. ''Show her the boundaries today.''

''Yes, Sir.''

His gaze lingers a heartbeat longer. There's something unreadable there—not there exactly, but ownership disguised as concern. Then he turns and disappears down the hall, speaking into his phone in a calm voice that makes the world bend around him.

When he's gone, I exhale. ''Is he always like that?''

Mira pours another cup of coffee. ''No. Sometimes he's worse.''

We spend the morning walking around the house: polished corridors, heavy doors, a library that smells like cedar and leather, another room full of monitors and secure lines that Mira only calls the office. Every corner whispers power, wealth, something darker underneath.

In the kitchen, she shows me a discreet back stairway. ''Don't try to use the front gates,'' she says. 'They never open for anyone but him.''

''What happens if I try anyway?''

''You won't get far. And if you did...'' Her pause says enough.

By midday, I'd memorized half the faces that move through the house. Some flash polite smiles, others look straight past me. All of them carry that same tension, like they live inside a machine that never stops running.

When I finally return to my room, the coffee table has a small note on it in neat handwriting.

Dinner. Seven. Don't be late. - E

I stare at it for a long time, the paper trembling between my fingers. I should be terrified—and I am—but underneath it something else flickers, small and unwelcome. Curiosity.

And that's what scares me the most.