You wouldn’t survive the lesson.

Liana's POV

That night, a restless energy coursed through me, a nervous tremor that made sleep impossible. The silence of my new room, luxurious though it was, felt vast and unsettling, the expensive bedding unable to lull me into any sense of comfort. I slipped out of bed, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps, and wandered through the unfamiliar halls alone, a solitary figure in the sprawling labyrinth of the mansion. I tried to memorize the floorplan, each turn a new discovery, each shadow a potential secret. The house felt haunted—haunted by the weight of unimaginable money, by the hushed whispers of generations of Ashfords, by secrets that felt ancient and unknowable. And perhaps, now, haunted by me, an uninvited ghost in their perfectly ordered world.

I found a quiet window seat tucked away in a dimly lit alcove near what appeared to be an immense library. Moonlight, filtered through the tall, narrow panes, cast long, silvery streaks across the polished wood floor. It was a brief reprieve, a small pocket of peace in the otherwise overwhelming grandeur. I curled up, drawing my knees to my chest, and opened my sketchbook. The familiar feel of the rough paper and the smooth graphite pencil in my hand offered a fleeting sense of normalcy, a connection to the world I had left behind. I began to draw, the image in my mind so vivid it felt as though it were projected directly onto the page. I drew the face I couldn’t stop seeing, the one that had haunted me since the driveway, the one that had so cruelly dismissed me at dinner. Cold eyes. A crooked, mocking mouth. A boy—no, a man—carved from obsidian, sharp and unforgiving.

I shaded in the deep shadows beneath his strong jawline, the angles of his cheekbones, the hollows beneath his eyes. Angry lines. Sharp edges. Each stroke of the pencil felt like an attempt to capture his essence, to understand the darkness that seemed to emanate from him. I lost myself in the rhythm of it, the world outside the page fading away.

A soft creak echoed through the quiet hall, pulling me abruptly from my focused concentration.

I looked up, my heart leaping into my throat.

Dante stood in the hallway, perhaps ten feet away, illuminated by the faint moonlight that spilled from a nearby window. He was shirtless now, his broad shoulders and muscular chest a stark silhouette against the dimness. His hair was damp, clinging to his forehead, and a towel was slung low on his hips, resting precariously on his V-line, revealing the taut expanse of his abdomen. He looked like he had just come from a shower, caught off guard, perhaps not expecting anyone else to be awake and wandering the vast, silent house at this hour. But there was no surprise on his face, no hint of embarrassment. If anything, his expression was even more impenetrable, a mask of cool indifference. He wasn’t covering himself, wasn’t moving to hide his state of undress. It was as if he knew his presence alone was enough to command the space, regardless of his attire.

My pulse kicked, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. My breath hitched. I felt a sudden, intense heat flush through me, a dizzying awareness of his lean, powerful body, of the sharp scent of soap and something else—something distinctly masculine and undeniably dangerous—that seemed to drift towards me.

He walked straight past me, his gaze fixed forward, his movements fluid and silent. He didn’t say a word, didn’t acknowledge my presence with even a flicker of his eyes. It was a deliberate, calculated non-acknowledgment, a power play designed to make me feel invisible, insignificant.

But I knew.

I knew he saw the sketchbook.

Knew he saw that I was drawing him. The knowledge was a hot, embarrassing wave that washed over me, a feeling of being utterly exposed. He hadn’t looked, but his aura, his presence, was so sharp, so attuned, that I was certain he registered every detail in that quiet space.

And just before he disappeared up the stairs, his silent retreat into the upper echelons of the mansion, he paused. He didn’t turn, his back still facing me, broad and unyielding. But his voice, low and rough, cut through the quiet like a shard of ice.

“You don’t belong here.”

The words were a direct hit, a confirmation of every fear, every insecurity that had been simmering beneath the surface since I first saw the mansion. They were delivered with an absolute certainty that left no room for debate, no space for argument.

I swallowed. Hard. My throat felt raw, constricted. The heat in my face had turned into a cold dread. But beneath the dread, a spark of defiance, small but persistent, began to flicker. I was tired of feeling like a charity case, like an intruder. This was my new home, whether he liked it or not.

Then, the words, surprising even myself, slipped out, barely a whisper, chasing his retreating form up the darkened staircase:

“Then teach me how to.”

There was a pause. His steps, which had been so silent and measured, slowed. He seemed to hesitate on the landing, his shadow long and distorted in the moonlight. My heart pounded, waiting, hoping, for some sign, some acknowledgement, some break in his cold facade. But he didn’t turn. He didn’t offer a hand, or a glance, or any sign of compassion.

Then came the soft sound of his laugh. It was dry. Cold. Dangerous. It held no mirth, only a chilling amusement that seemed to mock my earnestness, my naivety. It was the sound of a predator toying with its prey.

“You wouldn’t survive the lesson.”

His footsteps resumed, and then the faint click of a door closing echoed through the silent mansion, leaving me alone in the cold moonlight, a trembling, defiant figure with a sketchbook full of shadows, left to contemplate the terrifying, irresistible challenge he had just issued.

.