Food should not feel like a privilege.
Yet when the knock comes at my door, sharp and precise, my stomach tightens like I've been summoned for judgment—not a meal.
"Dress," the woman from yesterday says when I open it. Her voice is flat, practiced. "Then come downstairs."
That's it. No explanation. No kindness.
I change slowly, deliberately. A simple black dress waits on the bed, soft fabric, modest cut. Not mine. Nothing here is. The thought settles heavy in my chest as I pull it on.
By the time I reach the dining room, the house feels different. Quieter. Watchful.
The table is long enough to host a war council. One place setting is laid out at the far end. The other—at the head.
Dante is already there.
He's changed since this morning. A dark shirt replaces the white one, sleeves rolled, collar open. Still no jacket. Relaxed in the way predators are relaxed—because nothing in the room threatens them. His attention lifts the moment I step inside.
"Sit," he says.
I do.
The chair feels too big. Or maybe I feel too small. My hands fold in my lap because I don't know what to do with them.
Food is brought in silently. Plates placed. Wine poured—only for him.
The smell makes my mouth water, traitorous and desperate.
"You didn't eat last night," Dante says, cutting into his food without looking at me.
"No."
"That was intentional."
I swallow. "I figured."
"You break rules," he continues calmly, "you lose privileges."
I look at the plate in front of me. Perfectly arranged. Still untouched. "So this is… a test?"
His knife pauses mid-cut.
"This is dinner," he corrects. "A test would imply you have choices."
I stiffen, heat crawling up my spine. "Then why am I here?"
Now he looks at me. Fully. Dark eyes steady, unreadable.
"Because you listened today."
The words hit harder than I expect.
I pick up my fork, hands trembling just slightly. The first bite nearly ruins me. I have to fight the urge to eat too fast, to prove how hungry I am.
Dante watches. Not with hunger. With assessment.
"You're not allowed in the north wing," he says casually. "Ever."
I freeze.
"You're not allowed to touch weapons," he continues. "Even as a joke. Even if they're locked away."
My fork lowers.
"And you don't leave this house without me."
I meet his gaze. "Those are the rules?"
"No," he says. "Those are the ones I'm telling you today."
A chill runs through me.
I force myself to keep eating. "What happens if I break them?"
His mouth curves—not a smile. "You already know."
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I'm acutely aware of everything: the scrape of cutlery, the low hum of the house, the way his presence fills the space even when he's not moving.
"You're afraid of me," Dante says.
"Yes."
"Good," he replies. "But fear isn't what will keep you alive here."
"Then what will?"
His gaze lingers on me, slow and deliberate.
"Learning when not to ask questions."
I set my fork down. My appetite is gone, replaced by something tighter. Something sharper.
"And if I learn?" I ask quietly.
Dante leans back in his chair, studying me like I'm a problem he hasn't decided how to solve.
"Then," he says, "you might survive long enough to choose."
Choose what, he doesn't say.
Dinner ends shortly after. The plates are cleared. I stand when he does, unsure whether to thank him or stay silent.
As I turn to leave, his voice stops me.
"Nyla."
I look back.
"Eat when you're given food," he says. "Sleep when you're told. And don't confuse my restraint for mercy."
His eyes darken.
"I don't repeat rules."
I nod once and leave the room, my heart pounding—not from hunger this time, but from the dangerous realization settling deep in my chest.
Dinner wasn't a kindness.
It was a warning.