The house had learned her patterns.
Mila realized this the moment she thought she might be able to slip through the back corridors unnoticed. Every step she took was measured, every breath monitored by walls that seemed to whisper. The estate did not sleep. It waited. And she was part of its waiting.
It started with small things. Doors that had always been unlocked were suddenly bolted. A guard appeared in the corridor she swore had been empty. Her tray of glasses trembled in her hands for no reason she could name, though the sound echoed like accusation. She had been watched, even when no one stood before her.
Alessandro DeLuca's presence was everywhere. Not just in the rooms he occupied, but in the silence he left behind, in the space where light bent slightly at his absence. It was impossible to step out of that shadow.
"You're restless," Sofia said one evening, appearing as if from the walls themselves. Her eyes were sharp, her voice colder than metal. "Restlessness is dangerous here."
"I… I just—" Mila tried to speak, but the words froze in her throat.
Sofia's hand pressed briefly on her shoulder—firm, possessive, as if she were reminding Mila that she, too, belonged to the house. "Do not test what you cannot survive."
Mila did not sleep well that night. Shadows crawled along the walls. Whispers curled in the corners of her mind. And when the final silence came, it was not a relief. It was a warning.
By the fourth night, desperation burned in her chest. She had traced corridors, memorized staircases, and timed the guards' patrols. She had listened to the faintest hints of freedom beyond the gates. She could escape. She had to.
The moment arrived when the house seemed empty. Mila's heart pounded as she crept down the east wing, past rooms that smelled of leather and smoke, past doors she had learned never to open. Every step made her feel like a phantom.
The gates were in sight. She could see the street lights beyond the estate walls. One last step. One last turn.
A sound stopped her.
Soft. Certain. Like silk sliding across stone.
"You think you can leave?"
Alessandro emerged from the shadows, impossibly silent. No alarm, no guards, just him. His coat hung loosely on his shoulders, his eyes dark pools that reflected her fear back at her.
Her legs froze. Her throat tightened. "I—I didn't mean—"
"Mean nothing," he said, stepping closer. The air between them tightened like a noose. "Leaving is not a mistake. Leaving is impossible."
"I—please, I just—" She reached for the gates, only to feel the space around her fold inward. She realized then: the house had anticipated this. The estate itself had betrayed her.
"You belong to me," Alessandro said softly, almost kindly, though there was no mercy in his voice. "Every step you take, every thought of freedom—it all passes through me first. You are not just my property. You are my proof."
Mila's chest heaved, panic clawing at her throat. She shoved past him, turned, tried to run.
But the halls twisted. Staircases led nowhere. Doors opened to walls. She heard footsteps behind her, not human, not mechanical, but deliberate—closing her in. The house itself seemed alive, reshaping to trap her.
She reached a window. Frantic. Desperate. Pulled at the latch. Locked. She shook it. Locked.
And then he was there. Calm. Inevitable.
"Do you understand now?" His hand brushed hers as he closed the window with a quiet click. "Escape is an illusion. You will never leave."
Tears streaked her face. Rage. Fear. Shame. Every emotion collided, and yet he did not flinch. He did not need to.
"Obedience is the only currency this house respects," he said again, voice low, soft, deadly certain. "You breathe because I allow it. You move because I permit it. You think, and I will remind you whose mind you occupy."
Mila sank to the floor. The realization hit her harder than chains could have: she was trapped not by bars, not by walls, but by something worse—by his awareness, by the house that bent to him, by the inevitability of belonging to a Devil who did not need to touch her to own her completely.
And as he stepped back into the shadows, letting her struggle against air and stone and despair, she understood: she was no longer a person. She was an extension of the estate, a living proof of his dominion.
She was his.
And the Devil of Ravello always got what he wanted.