Chapter 10 - Nico
958 Words
She doesn’t argue when I move. She’s thinking—watching, measuring, looking for the next opportunity to push, to test, to find a way around something she hasn’t accepted yet.
The hallway is quiet as I lead her down it, the tension between us stretching tighter with every step. The bond doesn’t settle the way it should.
It sharpens.
Every movement she makes pulls at it. Every shift in her breathing. Every glance she tries not to give me.
It’s constant.
And it’s getting harder to ignore.
I stop outside one of the doors near my room.
Not across the floor.
Not down another hall.
Close.
Deliberately close.
She notices immediately.
Of course she does.
Her gaze flicks from the door to mine, suspicion settling in before she even speaks.
“You’re not serious.”
I don’t answer.
I open the door instead.
The room is already prepared—clean, minimal, nothing unnecessary. A bed. A dresser. A window overlooking the back of the territory.
Controlled.
Contained.
Exactly how it should be.
And the second door—
The one she doesn’t notice right away.
Connected.
Directly to mine.
I step aside, giving her space to walk in.
She doesn’t move at first.
Her attention lingers on me instead, searching, questioning, trying to read something I’m not offering.
“You’re putting me here?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Her gaze sharpens immediately.
“This is your floor. Right next to you. Don’t do this, Nico.”
“I’m aware,” I say evenly. “You’ll adjust.”
Her eyes narrow, frustration building again.
“You think I’m just going to stay in here?”
I meet her gaze without hesitation.
“Yes.”
She lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath, but this time she moves—stepping into the room slowly, turning as she takes it in like she’s already searching for weaknesses, for something she can use.
There isn’t anything.
There won’t be.
Her attention catches on the second door.
The one that matters.
Her brows pull together slightly as she moves toward it, testing the handle.
It doesn’t open from her side.
Of course it doesn’t.
She turns back to me immediately.
“That leads to your room.”
It’s not a question.
“No,” I say calmly. “It leads to the bathroom.”
Her expression doesn’t change.
But I see it.
The realization.
The proximity.
The lack of distance I’ve left between us.
“That’s not better.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
Silence settles between us, heavier now, the bond pressing tighter in the quiet. I feel it—constant, unrelenting, reacting to her being this close in a way that doesn’t ease no matter how still I remain.
Her arms cross over her chest, defensive now, her posture tightening as she braces.
“For how long?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away.
Because the length of time doesn’t matter.
What matters is the outcome.
“As long as it takes.”
Her eyes flash.
“I hate you.”
The words are sharp, but they don’t land the way she wants them to.
“Stop lying to yourself, Isla.”
Her frustration spikes again, but this time there’s something else beneath it—something quieter, something she doesn’t want me to see.
Fear.
Not of me.
Of what this means.
She’s starting to understand this isn’t temporary.
That I’m not going to change my mind.
“You don’t get to do this,” she says, softer now, but heavier.
“I already am.”
The silence that follows settles deeper, stretching between us until it feels like it’s pressing into the walls.
And for a moment—
Something shifts.
Not in her.
In me.
Because standing this close to her, closer than I’ve allowed in years, it’s not just the bond I feel.
It’s memory.
Unwanted.
Uninvited.
But there anyway.
The way she used to look at me.
The way she used to stand this close without tension, without distance, without everything that sits between us now.
I shut it down immediately.
That version of her is gone.
That version of me is gone with it.
The bond doesn’t care.
It reacts anyway.
And for a brief moment—
My control tightens.
Not slipping.
Not breaking.
Just… tightening.
Her gaze sharpens, watching me more carefully now, like she senses something shifted even if she can’t name it.
“You can hate me all you want,” she says quietly, “but this doesn’t change anything.”
My eyes meet hers again.
Cold.
Steady.
“It changes everything,” I say. “And I never said I hated you. You said that.”
Her breath catches slightly.
Small.
Barely there.
But I see it.
I don’t look away.
“You’re staying here.”
Final.
No space left to argue.
I turn toward the door, stopping just long enough to make one last thing clear.
“If you need anything,” I say without looking back, “you ask.”
Not an offer.
A boundary.
Because she doesn’t leave this room unless I allow it.
My hand rests on the door for half a second before I pause—not long, just enough to feel it again.
The pull.
The awareness.
The fact that no matter what she did—
No matter what I lost—
She’s still tied to me now.
And I don’t let something that belongs to me walk away.
I leave without another word and close the door behind me.
But even with it shut—
The bond doesn’t weaken.
If anything—
It settles deeper.
Like it knows exactly where she is.
Like it expects her to stay.
And this time—She will.
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