3 : Rest

Evelyn

When his gaze — sharp and predatory as a hawk’s — impaled mine, I knew he saw everything. He didn’t just notice my fear; he inhaled it, savoring it like a connoisseur of rare wine. Terror seized my lungs before air could reach them, and my heart battered my ribs like a trapped bird.

Then his thumb — calloused yet startlingly gentle — stroked the skin beneath my ear. The contrast jolted me: a rough hand offering a tender touch, danger wrapped in false comfort.

“You thought I’d hit you?” he murmured, voice low and silken, a rasp that trembled through my bones. It wasn’t loud, but it carried the unspoken authority of someone who never needed to shout.

I shook my head — a feeble, unconvincing denial. He saw through it instantly; I could feel it in the amused stillness that followed. Raphael’s cheek twitched, a fleeting ripple beneath flawless skin, a restrained violence barely contained.

He leaned closer. The air crackled between us. My breath hitched. His proximity was a living current, his touch a spark that raced through me — fear laced with something darker, something magnetic. That was what terrified me most.

He stopped mere centimeters away, his breath ghosting over my lips — coffee and peppermint, an intimate scent that both comforted and unsettled me. I should have screamed, shoved him away. Instead, I was entranced — a moth hypnotized by flame.

His eyes — dark, fathomless — held me in thrall. They didn’t just look; they saw, dissecting every flicker of emotion, claiming me in silence.

“If you’re so sure about what’s happening here,” he said, voice dipping to a dangerous purr, “why not try to run away?”

The faint curve of his lips wasn’t a smile; it was a challenge. A promise of a game I could never win.

I swallowed hard, words tumbling from the chaos in my mind. Images flashed — blood, shadows, the attack. And still, his hand moved, slow and deliberate, tracing my cheekbone before sliding down my neck. His touch left a burning trail, marking me like a signature.

His gaze followed, possessive. The heat that flooded my body was confusing — terror intertwined with something I refused to name.

This was not a rescue. This was captivity draped in velvet.

“I… I don’t know,” I whispered. My voice trembled, afraid to disturb the fragile silence. In some fractured part of me, I already thought of him as Master. The word was bitter, shameful, and disturbingly accurate.

Raphael smiled then, all sharp perfection. “You were in pain,” he said softly. “Your mind can’t yet grasp what happened. You only know that you were attacked, and I—” his voice deepened, “—rescued you. It’s simpler than you think.”

His casual rewriting of reality twisted like a knife. He wanted me to doubt myself.

“I know what I saw,” I shot back, a fragile thread of defiance creeping into my voice. “And this—whatever this is—is suspicious.”

For a heartbeat, something flared in his eyes — not anger, but intrigue. Then he leaned closer again, his lips brushing my ear.

“Then tell me,” he whispered, voice like velvet smoke, “are you not afraid of me?”

A shiver coursed through me. His breath was hot, his tone almost tender — a taunt wrapped in seduction. He knew I was afraid. He was feeding on it.

I squeezed my eyes shut, desperate to reclaim control. “Give me a reason to be,” I breathed, “apart from kidnapping me… and changing me.”

The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Something had changed since I’d woken here — I felt it pulsing beneath my skin, a strange, alien rhythm I didn’t recognize.

Raphael’s smile widened, unbearably calm. “But you’re safe. You’re well,” he said, voice sliding into that dangerous softness again. “Isn’t that what matters?”

He straightened, towering above me. The sudden loss of his warmth left me cold, hollow, absurdly bereft.

“Tell me why I’m here,” I pleaded. The words escaped before I could stop them. “Please… just tell me.”

For a moment, silence reigned. Then his hand tilted my chin upward again, compelling my gaze. Sparks leapt across my skin where he touched, an energy that felt alive — real.

He studied me for a long, unreadable beat before saying quietly, “That conversation can wait. For now, you are safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

It sounded like a promise. It felt like possession. And still — against reason, against instinct — part of me wanted to believe him.

“Why me?” I asked, barely above a whisper. “Why did you come?”

His smile softened, wistful, a fleeting echo of humanity. “Later,” he said simply. His thumb brushed my jaw again, eliciting another involuntary tremor. “Right now, you need to rest. I’ll bring you food. Then sleep. You need to recover.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but his eyes flared, molten and commanding. The intensity pinned me where I stood.

“Rest,” he said, his voice dropping to a quiet command. “Did I make myself clear?”

My body moved before my mind did — I nodded. The obedience horrified me. What’s wrong with me?

His lips curved in satisfaction, that slow, sinfully confident smile returning. “Good girl.”

Two words. Soft. Deadly. They sank into me like hooks.

A tremor of dread rippled through me, chased by something far more dangerous — desire.

He’s going to kill me, I thought.

And yet, as his footsteps retreated and the door closed, the cold emptiness that followed was worse.

We’d only known each other for a single, terrifying day.

And already, he was under my skin.