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Last night, we took things ‘easy’. That is if fucking me with four fingers and bending me in the most impossible position can be considered ‘easy’—and he promised that today, he would show me other heights of pleasure and it’s the first thought that comes to my mind as my eyes flutter open.

I stretch lazily, letting my fingers graze the empty space beside me, only to feel the coolness of the sheets. My heart skips a bit, a flicker of worry crossing my mind as I realize the space next to me is empty.

Sitting up slowly, I rub the sleep from my eyes, a sense of confusion settling in. Since the ambush with the Caldarones, Nicolas has never left the bed before me, especially after nights like those. He always stays, pulling me close, his kisses warming my skin, reminding me that he’s there, beside me, always.

But now, he’s gone.

I push the blankets aside and slip out of bed. The floor is cool against my bare feet as I grab Nicolas’ shirt from the night before and pull it over my head. It’s oversized, the fabric brushing against my thighs, carrying his scent—a lingering comfort in his absence.

I check the bathroom. Empty.

The balcony. No sign of him.

A quiet unease settles in me as I make my way downstairs. The house is unusually still. It’s never loud, but there’s always a presence, a rhythm to the space. Now, I only spot two maids hurriedly moving toward the door, whispering in hushed tones. My chest tightens as I glance around again, but Nicolas is nowhere in sight.

And then, for some reason, my feet carry me towardthatroom. The one I haven’t dared to enter since that night.

I know I shouldn’t. I should turn back. But curiosity tugs at me, a force I can’t resist.

I stop just before reaching the door and exhale sharply, shaking my head.No. I need to stop this. No more snooping. No more-

A muffled sound cuts through the silence, freezing me in place. A sound just like that night.

A chill races down my spine. My stomach knots. I know what’s at the end of that hallway.The room. The one where I saw him kill someone before.

Turn around.The voice in my head screams at me one last time.

But my feet keep moving.

I reach the door, my fingers grazing the cool handle. I don’t have to turn it—I already know it’s slightly ajar.

Why the fuck is this door never locked?

It’s almost as if Nicolas is daring anyone in this house to witness what happens inside. And somehow, I feel like I’m the only one reckless enough to take that dare.

Through the narrow gap, I see him.

Nicolas stands in the center of the room, sleeves rolled up, exposing the sharp lines of his forearms. His expression is calm.

The man in front of him isn’t nearly as composed.

He’s slumped in a chair, arms bound behind his back, head hanging low. His face is a ruin of bruises, blood smeared across his mouth, his torn shirt clinging to him in stained patches. His body trembles—whether from pain, fear, or exhaustion, I can’t tell.

Nicolas lifts a hand, pressing two fingers against the man’s throat, checking for something. A pulse, maybe. He nods to himself, then turns toward the table beside him.

My stomach twists.

A knife. A blowtorch. Pliers.

The sharp tang of blood lingers in the air, mixed with something else. Something burnt. What’s burning? Wires? Fabric? Flesh?

I should turn away. I should run.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

I watch as Nicolas picks up the knife, turning it between his fingers with quiet precision. He trails the blade lightly along the man’s arm—not deep enough to wound, just enough to make him flinch. The prisoner grits his teeth, a strangled groan escaping him.