Dangerously Mine

Chapter 7

The water was black. It wasn't just cold; it was heavy, like liquid lead pressing against my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. Above the surface, a dull, rhythmic thudding vibrated through the deep—the sound of a boat engine. Then, the light. A rhythmic, pulsing red that turned the bubbles in front of my face into droplets of blood. I reached out, my fingers clawing at the emptiness, trying to find a hand that had just let go. A name was screaming in my mind, but I had no mouth to speak it.

I bolted upright with a strangled gasp, my hands flying to my throat as if to check if the salt water was still there.

The silence that met me was absolute. It was so thick it felt like a physical weight, pressing against the eardrums. I wasn't drowning. I wasn't in the water. I was breathing—shallow, frantic gulps of air that tasted of expensive linen and cold stone.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time, my heart slowly finding its rhythm again. It wasn't the water-stained plaster of the Santos attic. It was a vast expanse of matte charcoal, smooth and perfect. I pushed myself up, my head spinning with a dull ache. My last memory was the weight of Jacob Mikaelson’s shadow and the floor coming up to meet me as the darkness took over. My hands had been empty then, reaching for a support that wasn't there.

I looked around the room, and a wave of surprise washed over me.

I was lying on a bed so large it felt like an island, covered in black silk sheets that felt like cool water against my skin. But it was the rest of the room that left me reeling. My few belongings—the meager pieces of my life I’d managed to pack—were here.

In the corner, my battered suitcase sat empty. My things had been organized with a terrifying, surgical precision. My fraying teddy bear sat perfectly centered on a velvet-lined shelf, and my three books were lined up on a marble console by height. Even my spare clothes had been hung in a wardrobe that smelled of cedar and expensive wood.

I wasn't worried, strangely enough. I was just... stunned. How long had I been out for someone to do all of this? How long did it take to turn a stranger's junk into an organized display? It felt like I had stepped into a different dimension where my life was finally being treated with a sense of order I never possessed.

I slid out of bed, my bare feet sinking into a rug so thick it felt like walking on moss. I felt steady, but hollow. The flashes from the dream were still there, flickering at the edges of my vision, but I pushed them back. I didn't want to think about the red light or the engine. Not now.

I walked to the door and gripped the silver handle. It turned with a silent, expensive click.

I stepped out into the hallway.

The mansion was a labyrinth of glass and obsidian. I wandered past rows of closed doors, my footsteps making no sound on the polished floors. I kept waiting for a maid to hiss a command at me or for someone to tell me where the cleaning supplies were kept, but the silence remained unbroken. I reached a grand staircase that spiraled down into a foyer the size of a cathedral. I made my way down, my hand trailing on the cold metal railing.

"Hello?" I called out. My voice bounced off the marble walls and came back to me, thin and lonely.

Nothing. No one.

I felt like the last person on earth. I wandered through a dining hall with a table that looked like it was made from a single slab of dark wood, through a library that smelled of old paper and leather, and into a kitchen that was a desert of stainless steel. Everything was spotless. Everything was empty.

I finally found a set of glass doors that led to a wide, stone terrace. I pushed them open, and the desert wind hit me, carrying the sharp scent of heat and dust. From here, the world looked different. I leaned against the stone railing, looking down at the sheer drop of the cliff.

"Do you like the view?"

The voice was low, devoid of any unnecessary emotion. I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.

Jacob Mikaelson was standing at the far end of the terrace, leaning against a pillar. He had traded his suit jacket for a simple black t-shirt that hugged his frame, his powerful arms crossed over his chest. He wasn't doing anything—not looking at a phone, not drinking—he was just there. Watching. He was the definition of nonchalant, his posture relaxed but his presence still heavy enough to anchor the entire terrace.

"How long was I out?" I asked, my voice trembling with the sheer confusion of it all. "My things... everything is already done. Who did that?"

Jacob didn't answer immediately. He took a slow, measured step toward me, his flint-grey eyes fixed on the horizon before they drifted to mine. He didn't seem interested in small talk.

"Twelve hours," he said. His voice was flat, clinical.

"You went through my things," I said, looking back toward the mansion. "You touched my stuff."

Jacob stopped a few feet away. He didn't flinch or apologize. He didn't even look bothered by the accusation.

"I do not touch what is not worth touching," he said, his tone as cold as the marble inside. "My people fix what needs to be fixed. Your presence in this house was a mess; they organized it."

"Your house?" I whispered, looking at the sprawling luxury around us.

"Our house," he corrected. The words were short, blunt, and carried a weight that made my breath hitch. He wasn't being romantic. He was stating a fact, like he was reading a line from a contract.

He stepped closer, pinning me between his body and the stone railing, though he didn't touch me. He just occupied the space around me, forcing me to feel the heat radiating from him. He looked out at the city, his jaw set in a hard, quiet line. He was a man of few words, and every one of them felt like it was stripped of anything soft.

"I sent the staff away for the day," he murmured, his gaze finally dropping to mine. "You needed the quiet."

"Why?" I breathed. "I'm used to noise. I'm used to being told what to do."

Jacob didn't move. He didn't smile. He just stared at me with an intensity that felt like it was reading the fine print of my soul.

"In this house, you aren't a maid. You are my wife." he said that shocked me to the core. That word wife keeps repeating in my head. "You don't take orders from anyone but me. And I don't give orders unless they're necessary."

He turned back to the view, his silhouette sharp against the fading sun. He was so quiet, so still, that for a moment I wondered if he was even breathing. He didn't ask me how I felt. He didn't ask me about my faint. He just stood there, letting the silence do the talking for him.

"This is it, Jhannara," he said, finally breaking the quiet after several long minutes. "The life you had is gone. Don't go looking for it in the shadows."

He started to walk away, his footsteps heavy and deliberate on the stone. He didn't look back. He didn't check to see if I was following. He just left me there, standing on the edge of a cliff in a house that was now supposedly mine, staring at a man who was as silent and dangerous as the desert itself.