Dinner was served not by a fleet of staff, but by Marcus alone. He moved with silent efficiency, placing dishes before them with the solemnity of a ritual. The food was exquisite: a delicate saffron-infused soup, followed by a roast quail with tiny, jewel-like vegetables, each item a masterpiece of presentation. It was food as art, a testament to limitless resources.
Lionel barely touched his. He moved the items around on his plate, took a polite sip of soup, but his consumption was minimal and performative. His focus was not on the meal, but on her. His primary sustenance seemed to come from a crystal decanter at his elbow, from which he poured a viscous, dark red liquid into a large goblet. It was too deep to be wine, its opacity hinting at something richer. He drank from it slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving her face.
The silence was profound, broken only by the faint clink of silverware. Elena, her nerves stretched taut, found she had little appetite, but she forced herself to eat. It was fuel. She needed her strength.
"Tell me about nursing," he said abruptly, his voice cutting through the quiet. "Not the procedures. The… draw. Why subject yourself to the misery of others?"
It was less a question and more a demand for her essence. She set her fork down carefully. "It's not subjection. It's… connection. In someone's worst moment, you have the privilege of offering comfort, of fighting for them. It's the most human thing there is."
"Human," he repeated, the word rolling in his mouth like a curious stone. "A fascination with mortality, then. A need to touch it, to push against its boundary."
"It's a fascination with *life*," she countered, meeting his gaze. "With preserving it."
He took another sip from his goblet. "And your mother's music? The piano in the garage. Is that also a preservation? Of her?"
The invasion was so complete that it took her breath away. He knew about the piano. Of course he did. "It's a memory. A good one. In a house with very few."
"You play when you are distressed," he stated, watching her reaction. "It is your mechanism of control. A way to order chaos through sound."
She felt flayed open, analyzed under a microscope. "Why are you asking me this?"
"I am… informing myself about my investment," he said. "Your resilience interests me. Your capacity for compassion in a world that has shown you little. It is a rare alloy. Now, please tell me your thoughts on mortality. Not as a nurse, but as Elena Hart. What do you believe happens?"
The question was too large, too personal. She thought of her father's empty eyes. "I believe we live on in the people we help, the love we leave behind. That's all."
"A gentle fiction," he murmured, almost to himself. He swirled the dark liquid in his goblet. "No hunger for more? For… extension?"
A cold finger traced her spine. The conversation was veering into dangerous, metaphysical territory. She decided to steer it back to the concrete, to the terrifying mystery at the heart of all this. She put her own utensils down and leaned forward slightly, the candlelight flickering in her determined eyes.
"What really happened to you that night?" she asked, her voice low but clear. "The silver powder. Your… your healing. Your vitals were impossible. I saw your eyes." She left the description of the golden fire unspoken, but it hung in the air between them.
Lionel's expression didn't change, but the atmosphere in the room shifted, growing denser, colder. He set his goblet down with a soft, definitive *click*. A slow, predator's smile touched his lips—a smile that held no warmth, only a fathomless, ancient knowledge.
"Direct," he said, a note of approval in his chilling tone. "Good. You will need that quality. But curiosity, Elena, must be tempered with patience."
"I think I've earned an explanation," she insisted, clinging to her professional dignity. "I signed your contract. I'm wearing your dress. I'm sitting in your tower. What are you?"
The smile widened, a flash of white, even teeth. For a heart-stopping moment, she imagined the canines looked just a fraction too sharp. "I am your employer. And you are my consultant. The 'what' and the 'how' are part of the specialized knowledge you are contracted to acquire. But not tonight." His gaze held hers, immovable as granite. "First, you must learn the rules. The structure. The boundaries of your new reality. Understanding the nature of the ailment comes only after one has mastered the protocol for handling it. Do you understand?"
It was a dismissal. A graceful, infuriating refusal to answer the only question that mattered. He was treating her like a student, a novice who needed to learn her place before being entrusted with secrets.
Frustration boiled inside her, mixing with the fear. He had all the power, all the cards. He could ask her anything, probe her deepest thoughts, while his own nature remained shrouded.
Marcus appeared silently to clear the plates. Lionel rose from the table. "The first lesson begins tomorrow. Be ready at seven." He gave her one last, inscrutable look. "Sleep well, Elena. The view is best before dawn."
He left the dining room, taking the chill and the oppressive weight of his presence with him, leaving Elena alone at the vast table, surrounded by crystal and candlelight, more confused and terrified than when she had arrived. The dinner of questions was over. He had asked, and she had answered. She had asked, and he had deferred. The rules of this game, she was beginning to understand, were written entirely by him. And the first one was painfully clear: he would reveal himself only on his own terms.