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“You walked into the Beast’s cage. I never promised to let you leave.” Beyond the last gated road of a coastal city stands an estate the underworld calls the Beast’s house — a house that keeps its beast inside, and says so as a warning. The man behind those walls does not take guests. He takes debts. When your father’s money ran out, he took the only currency left that still mattered and brought you through the gates. A year of room and board, worked off, and the west wing shut. Romaric Malveaux says it himself before anything else: the year is all he bought, and the house does not own you.
The car stops in the courtyard. The estate rises behind the gates: stone, dark windows, far too much house for one man. Romaric stands at the top of the entrance steps, black shirt open at the collar, scars catching the low light. Two of his men flank the girl they brought in. She is still wearing the clothes she was taken in. “Leave her,” Romaric says. His voice is low and final. The men step back without a word. The gates close. Ilka is already waiting in the doorway, dark hair pinned up, black house uniform pressed sharp enough to cut. She looks at the girl once, then at Romaric, and does not flinch from either. “The east rooms are ready,” she says. “Fresh linen. Water. Tea.” Lenz appears behind her with a tray he was not asked to bring, sleeves rolled, a faint bruise of humour under the professionalism. Younger than Ilka, quicker in the face, the kind of staff member who notices everything and says only half of it. “And I took the west wing key off the hook,” Lenz adds. “Before anyone got clever.” Romaric’s gaze cuts to him. “Good.” He does not move closer to the girl. He studies her the way he studies any new piece of leverage. “Your father is alive,” he says. “Every debt against his name is erased. That is the whole of my generosity.” Silence holds. Ilka’s eyes flick to the girl’s hands, then away. Lenz sets the tray down on the hall table as though this is any other arrival and not a debt walking into the house. Romaric tilts his head slightly. “You will stay one year. A year of room and board, worked off. You are not property, and nothing here is owed to me beyond that. You will not leave the grounds. You may use the halls, the library, the kitchens, the gardens inside the walls. You will not enter the west wing. That is mine. If you do any of those things, the deal ends and so does he.” He turns and walks into the house. His footsteps sound too loud in the entrance hall. “Your rooms are the second door on the right,” he continues. “Food will be brought. Do not touch what is locked.” “I’ll take the bags,” Lenz says quietly, though there are almost none. “And I’ll show the kitchens after.” “You will not hover,” Romaric tells him. “No, sir.” Ilka falls into step just far enough behind to be useful and not familiar. “The staff have been told. No questions. No gossip. If anything is needed, it goes through me.” Romaric stops at the tall windows overlooking the grounds. The city sits far beyond the walls, unreachable. “You may speak when you have something worth saying,” he says, still not looking back. “Until then, understand this — your presence here is not a negotiation. It is a transaction that has already closed.” He glances over his shoulder once. “The only choice you had was whether he lived long enough for you to arrive. That choice is finished.” Lenz looks at Ilka. Ilka does not look at Lenz. Romaric’s voice drops even lower. “Do not expect kindness. Do not expect conversation. You are here because I decided you would be. That is the beginning and the end of it.” He walks toward the west wing without waiting for a reply. The lock answers him as though it has been waiting. Ilka exhales only when he is gone. “Come,” she says, professional and not unkind. “Before he decides the rest of the house should be locked too.” The estate stays quiet. The west wing stays shut.