Page 50 of No One But Me
I almost laughed. The sound stuck in my throat.
He waited at the end of the corridor, one hand resting lightly against the wall. Not blocking. Not inviting. Just standing there like he already knew I’d follow because the house left me nowhere else to go.
The hallway hummed with quiet. My breath bounced back at me, faint and hollow.
He spoke again, level as before.
“You’ll settle in. It takes time.”
His eyes held mine for a moment.
Not unkind.
Not warm.
A steady, unreadable calculation.
I couldn’t tell if he studied me or the silence I carried.
The house felt too wide. Too bright. Too calm.
Every word he offered seemed to echo long after he finished speaking.
The last door waited at the end of the hall, wider than the others, set a little deeper into the wall. A small camera perched above it, tucked into the shadow like an eyelash. I pretended not to notice. Same as the one hidden near the staircase. Same as the one angled toward the kitchen. Little black eyes watching every step I took.
Gideon pressed his thumb to a panel beside the frame. The lock clicked too smoothly, too soft to be accidental. Every door in this house moved like it was grateful to obey him. My pulse climbed as he pushed it open.
I followed because stopping meant standing alone in the hallway with the cameras and the silence and the truth tightening around my throat.
We stepped inside.
The room stretched wide and clean, air colder than the rest of the house. A wall of glass looked out across the lake, black water swallowing the moon. The windows didn’t have handles. At least none I could see. I lifted a hand, curled my fingers around the invisible seam where the pane met the frame, and pushed. It held firm. I pushed harder. It didn’t budge.
My stomach sank.
I didn’t belong here.
Worse—
He knew it.
The bed dominated the center of the room. Not against a wall. Not tucked into a corner. Centered, like a display. Like an altar. Smooth charcoal sheets, thick frame, everything sharp-edged and intentional. A place designed for a purpose the contract spelled out in ink I could still taste.
I stopped walking.
My chest tightened, breath catching halfway up my throat. The carpet felt too soft under my boots, too quiet under my weight. This wasn’t some hypothetical future. This wasn’t paperwork on a counter or words spoken in a locked bookstore.
This was where the contract lived.
Gideon stepped past me, hands sliding into his pockets as if we were standing in a hotel suite instead of the room that stole the rest of my choices.
He looked at the bed once. Then at me. “This is ours.”
Not yours.
Not mine.
Ours.
