Chapter Three: The Man Who Smells Like Fire
1231 Words
I didn’t sleep.
Not really.
I lay still most of the night, eyes open, ears straining for footsteps, voices—anything. But the house was dead quiet. Like even the ghosts had given up.
And maybe that’s what I was now too—a ghost in someone else’s story. A woman traded like currency. One signature away from disappearing.
When the door finally clicked open in the morning, I sat up so fast my breath caught.
Demian didn’t knock. Of course, he didn’t.
He walked in like he owned the room.
He did.
“You didn’t take the other bed,” he said.
I blinked, confused. “What?”
“My room,” he clarified. “You stayed here.”
“You thought I’d come sleep next to a stranger who locks doors?”
His jaw twitched—just slightly.
“You think I want your warmth?” he said.
“No. I think you want control.”
That stopped him.
He stepped forward, slowly. Intentionally.
I stood up, even though my knees weren’t ready.
He looked me over, head to toe, in a way that didn’t feel s****l. It felt dangerous.
“I warned you what this would be,” he said. “I don’t offer safety. I don’t offer softness.”
“I don’t need softness,” I said quietly. “I need to be treated like a person.”
He stared at me.
Then—just for a second—his expression cracked.
Not much. Barely there.
But enough to see it: something flickering behind his eyes like a shadow moving too fast to name.
He walked toward me.
I didn’t move.
Not out of bravery.
I just couldn’t. My body was frozen in place, and some sick part of me wanted to know how close he’d get.
He stopped inches from me.
“I could’ve picked anyone,” he said. “Anyone young and desperate enough to say yes.”
“Then why me?” I asked, too softly.
He lifted his hand.
I flinched.
He didn’t touch me. Just let his knuckles hover near my cheek.
“You weren’t chosen,” he said. “You were given.”
My breath caught.
“You think you’re special?” he asked. “You’re not. You’re just the girl who signed.”
Then his voice dropped, almost gentle:
“But you are… interesting.”
The heat between us shifted.
Suddenly, the space between his mouth and mine felt too small. My skin buzzed with tension. My heartbeat tripped all over itself.
I hated it.
I hated that I noticed how good he smelled—clean, woodsy, sharp.
I hated that I was shaking and it wasn’t from fear.
His hand lowered, slowly, grazing my jaw—just barely. No pressure. Just intent.
I swallowed hard.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Reminding you what you agreed to.”
“I agreed to stay. Not to—”
“To belong,” he cut in. “Here, that means something.”
“I don’t belong to anyone.”
“You do now.”
His fingers brushed my throat.
And I should’ve pushed him.
Should’ve slapped him.
Should’ve said no.
But instead—
I did nothing.
Because I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t understand how someone could be so cold and yet light my nerves on fire like this.
He stepped back just as suddenly as he’d approached.
I stumbled a little from the tension breaking.
His eyes met mine.
“I’ll show you the grounds today,” he said like nothing had happened. “Don’t wear anything too delicate.”
Then he left.
And I stood there, shaking.
Not because I was scared.
Because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run… or go after him.
The castle’s back doors led to a garden, but not the kind you see in glossy magazines.
This one was overgrown. Wild. Rose bushes gone untamed. Vines climbing the stone walls like they were trying to take it all back.
Demian walked ahead of me, hands in his pockets.
He didn’t speak.
Just moved through the twisting paths like someone walking through old memories.
There were statues. Cracked. Weather-worn. Sad.
He stopped in front of one—a woman, a marble blindfold over her eyes.
I waited.
He didn’t say a word.
“You ever gonna tell me who she is?” I asked finally.
His eyes didn’t leave the statue. “She was the first wife.”
My chest pulled tight. “Was?”
“She’s dead.”
“Jesus.”
He didn’t flinch. “Don’t worry. I didn’t kill her.”
I didn’t laugh. It didn’t feel like a joke.
“She jumped,” he said. “Right off the north balcony.”
My heart dropped.
I looked at the house, now looming behind us.
“Why?”
His voice was flat. “Because she thought love would fix me. And I let her believe it too long.”
I took a step back without meaning to.
He turned to face me.
“You scared now?”
“Of you?” I said. “Always.”
He took a step forward.
I took another step back.
His smile was small. Not nice. “Then maybe you’re smarter than her.”
We stood there, between wild roses and broken stone, the wind rising around us like it had something to say.
I could feel it again.
That pull.
That terrible, irresistible thing between us.
I hated him.
I wanted to hate him.
But standing this close, with his voice soft and low and the sky threatening to rain—I didn’t.
I didn’t hate him at all.
And I hated myself for that.
Back inside, I tried to avoid him.
It didn’t work.
He found me in the library that evening, curled in a corner with a book I hadn’t read five pages of.
“You hide well,” he said.
“I wasn’t hiding.”
He walked straight toward me. No hesitation.
He sat on the armrest of the chair I was in. Close. Too close.
I closed the book. Tried not to look at his hands—resting on his knees, veined, controlled.
“Why don’t you ask me what I did?” he said suddenly.
I blinked. “What?”
“Why did I go to prison?”
“I figured you’d lie.”
“Maybe. But don’t you want to know anyway?”
I did.
But I said, “No.”
He leaned in until his mouth was near my ear.
“I choked a man,” he whispered. “In a boardroom. In front of six investors. I didn’t stop until he passed out.”
I froze.
My throat closed.
I didn’t know if I believed him. I didn’t know if it mattered.
All I knew was that my pulse was thundering, and my body was reacting in ways I didn’t understand.
He pulled back and looked at me.
No emotion in his eyes.
Just cold, patient calculation.
“I’m not safe, Lena,” he said.
I stood. Fast. The book fell from my lap.
“I know,” I said. “You don’t have to keep reminding me.”
He watched me walk to the door.
But before I left, I turned back once.
And God helped me I thought he had followed me.
- Writer
