Dangerously Mine

Chapter 8

The transition from afternoon to evening in the Mikaelson mansion was seamless and cold. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the house didn't glow with warmth; it turned into a tomb of shadows, lit only by the sharp, blue-white streaks of recessed lighting along the floors.

My stomach let out a faint, hollow growl. I hadn't eaten since the previous night—since the raw chicken and the screaming. I made my way back through the labyrinthine halls, my bare feet clicking softly against the marble. I expected the kitchen to be empty, just as Jacob had said. He told me he’d sent the staff away. He told me we were alone.

But when I pushed open the heavy swing doors of the dining hall, a woman was there.

She was dressed in a stiff, charcoal-grey uniform, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it seemed to pull the corners of her eyes upward. She was placing a single gold-rimmed plate at the head of the long, dark wood table.

I froze, my hand still gripping the doorframe. "I... I thought everyone was gone," I whispered, the sound of my own voice startling me.

The maid didn't look up. She didn't even flinch. She placed a heavy silver fork to the left of the plate with a sharp clink. "Mr. Mikaelson’s orders changed. I am here to ensure you are fed."

I stepped further into the room, the space feeling even more cavernous than it had during the day. I felt small, out of place in my faded dress. "Where is he? Where is Jacob?"

"At work," she replied. Her voice was flat, clipped, and entirely devoid of the warmth I used to share with the other girls back at the Santos house.

"Work? At this hour?" I frowned, looking at the grand clock on the wall. It was nearly eight. "What exactly is his work?"

The maid moved to the sideboard, lifting a silver dome from a tray. The scent of roasted lamb and rosemary filled the air—a scent that should have been comforting, but here, it just felt heavy. She didn't answer. She simply began to carve the meat with a steady, practiced hand.

"I asked what his work is," I repeated, a small spark of my own frustration flaring up. I was tired of being the only one who didn't know what was going on.

Still silence. The only sound was the rhythmic shick-shick of the knife.

I moved closer to the table, my shadow stretching long across the dark wood. "What time will he be back?"

"It depends," she snapped. She set the carving knife down and finally looked at me. Her eyes were hard, like marbles. "Sit. Eat."

I sat at the edge of the chair, feeling like an intruder in my own life—or whatever life this was supposed to be. I watched her pour water into a crystal glass. "Where is everybody else? He said the staff was gone, but you're here. Are there others hiding in the rooms? Is he watching me?"

The maid stopped. She leaned over the table, her hands flat against the wood, her face inches from mine. The professional mask didn't just slip; it shattered.

"Shut up," she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "You are here because you were bought. You are a guest of the house, not a member of the board."

I recoiled, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Do not ask questions regarding the life of Jacob Mikaelson," she continued, her gaze pinning me to the seat. "Do not ask where he goes, who he sees, or what he does to keep this roof over your head. In this house, curiosity isn't a trait—it’s a liability. Do you understand?"

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a jagged stone. I gave a small, jerky nod.

"Good," she said, straightening her uniform and regaining her icy composure as if the outburst had never happened. "Eat your dinner. When you are finished, leave the plate. I will return to clear it."

She turned on her heel and vanished through the service door, leaving me alone in the vast, echoing dining room.

I looked down at the plate of perfectly prepared food. The lamb was tender, the vegetables vibrant, but as I took a small bite, it tasted like ash. I looked at the empty chair at the head of the table—Jacob’s chair.

Theodore had been a loud monster; his cruelty was a storm you could hear coming. But Jacob... Jacob was the silence after the storm. He was the mystery that everyone was too afraid to even name.

I pushed the plate away, the appetite I thought I had disappearing instantly. I sat there in the dark, the city lights flickering through the windows, realizing that being "owned" by Jacob Mikaelson meant living in a world where the truth was a forbidden language, and even the walls were told to keep their mouths shut.