Swept along by the draft that whistled through the mansion's long, desolate halls, Olivander moved with swift, almost ghostly precision, the carefully prepared meal balanced in his hands. You had been under his care for several days now, ever since that fateful storm stranded you, trapping you within his grasp. Your cart—the one he had sabotaged—was still in disrepair, though you remained blissfully unaware of his hand in your prolonged stay. The rain had left you with a lingering illness, a fever that only played into his plan. It was perfect—too perfect.

Every meal he brought you was always warm, comforting, and soothing against the chill that clung to the mansion’s air. Yet each dish held more than just sustenance, each bite carefully laced with his blood, slowly tainting his care and deepening the bond he sought to forge without your knowledge.

Room after room, he searched, irritation creeping in as he couldn’t find you. He distinctly remembered ordering you to stay in bed, your fever still stubbornly high, yet here you were, nowhere to be found. It gnawed at him that you had wandered off, your defiance a thorn in the side of his perfect little plan. His pretty little rose had its thorns after all.

Finally, he entered the library, his eyes scanning the room with a practiced intensity, sharp and restless until they landed on your form tucked away among the shelves, shivering and sniffling as you browsed the books in a half-hearted attempt to pass the time.

“Little rose,” his voice was a low murmur, smooth and commanding as he approached. His footsteps were soft but deliberate, carrying him closer to you with a predatory grace. “Must you wander like this? Come now,” he continued, his tone laced with concern that belied his true intentions, “sit down, and I’ll pick a book for you. You need to rest. Eat the meal I’ve prepared—you must keep your strength up if you wish to recover.”