Night fell over the Salvatore Mansion like a heavy velvet shroud. The bustling energy of the afternoon faded into a haunting stillness, and the long marble corridors grew silent as the servants retreated to their quarters.
In the master suite, the air was thick with a different kind of quiet. The lamps beside the grand bed were dimmed, casting long, flickering shadows against the walls. Earlier, the maids had returned to help Elva change, their nimble fingers unlacing the sapphire gown and replacing it with a soft ivory nightdress that flowed to her ankles. They had brushed her hair with rhythmic, soothing strokes before wishing her a respectful goodnight.
Now, Elva stood alone near the edge of the bed. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She knew he was coming. The memory of his cold command from that morning echoed in her mind: You will be my wife in front of everyone.
Her fingers curled tightly, hiding a small, sharp fruit knife she had slipped from the dining hall. She didn't want to hurt him—the very thought made her sick—but the blade felt like the only sliver of agency she had left. If he tried to force her, if he tried to claim the "rights" the world thought he had, she would not go quietly.
The click of the door handle was like a gunshot in the silence.
Matthew walked in. He moved with a predatory grace, closing the door behind him with a soft, final thud. Even in the dim light, his presence seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. He didn't look tired; he looked like a man who had spent the evening sharpening his thoughts.
Elva's throat went bone-dry. As he walked toward her, his sharp blue eyes locked onto her face, reading her fear like a map. Instinctively, she took a sharp step back, her heel catching on the plush carpet. Her hand tightened around the cold metal hidden in her palm.
Matthew stopped just a few feet away. For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the jagged rhythm of Elva's breathing.
Then, his gaze dropped. He didn't miss the way she held her arm, or the faint, silver glint of steel reflecting the lamplight.
His eyes darkened, turning from ice to midnight. Before Elva could even draw a breath to speak, he moved.
He was a blur of motion. In one swift, overwhelming surge, he lunged forward. His hand clamped around her wrist like a shackle of heated iron, and his weight forced her backward. Elva let out a sharp gasp as she hit the mattress, the air leaving her lungs.
Before she could scramble away, he pinned both of her wrists against the silk sheets, looming over her. His strength was absolute, making her feel as fragile as a bird in a storm.
"L-let me go!" she cried, her voice splintering with terror.
Matthew leaned down, his face inches from hers. He wasn't shouting; his expression was terrifyingly calm, but his eyes burned with a lethal, focused energy. He looked at the blade still clutched in her shaking fingers, then back to her wide, tear-filled eyes.
"You brought a weapon into my bedroom," he said. His deep voice was a low, dangerous vibration that she felt in her very bones.
Elva's breath hitched. "I... I was only—"
"You were going to use it on me?" Matthew interrupted, a dark, mocking tilt to his eyebrow.
"No! I just—"
He leaned closer, his scent—sandalwood and cold rain—filling her senses. His grip on her wrists tightened just enough to remind her who held the power.
"If I wanted to hurt you, Elva," he whispered, using her real name like a secret brand, "you wouldn't even have the time to realize you were bleeding, let alone pick up a blade."
Her heart felt as if it would burst through her chest.
"You are in my house," Matthew continued, his voice dropping to a chilling silkiness. "Surrounded by my men. Subject to my rules. Do you truly think this toy would save you?"
He looked at the knife again, then back at her. "The fact that you even tried... it is almost amusing."
Tears spilled over Elva's lashes, hot and stinging. Matthew finally released one of her wrists and easily pried the blade from her frozen fingers. He held the small piece of steel between two fingers, inspecting it with disdain, before tossing it carelessly onto the bedside table.
The clatter of metal on wood rang out like a bell in the silent room.
Matthew looked down at her one last time, his expression unreadable. "You are brave," he said slowly, his voice devoid of warmth. "But you are also very, very foolish."
He released her other wrist and stood up, smoothing the front of his shirt as if nothing had happened. He turned his back on her, walking toward the sofa on the far side of the suite.
"If you try a stunt like this again," he said, his voice a quiet warning that echoed off the high ceiling, "next time, you won't just be scaring yourself. You'll be facing the consequences."
He sat on the sofa, opening a folder of documents and ignoring her completely. Elva lay on the bed, her wrists aching and her soul trembling. The terrifying truth settled deep in her heart: she wasn't just trapped in a mansion. She was trapped in the orbit of a man who saw through every defense she tried to build.