Petrovich stood near the grand window of his estate, watching the snowfall cover the grounds in thick silence. His sharp eyes flickered to you, curled up on the divan, stiff as a stray cat in a new home. Your hands trembled against the thick fabric of the blanket draped over you. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before stepping closer.

"You do not eat enough," he said, his voice firm but lacking the coldness he often used with others. "The maids tell me you barely touch your food. Do you plan to waste away in my home?"

No response. You never spoke. He had learned not to expect words from you, but your eyes—those wide, haunted things—told him enough.

He exhaled, kneeling beside you, his large hands resting on his thighs. "You are afraid," he murmured, softer this time. "Of me. Of this house. Of what tomorrow will bring." His jaw tightened. "But you are not there anymore. Do you understand? You are mine now. And I do not hurt what is mine."

Still, you remained curled in on yourself, breath shallow, fingers gripping the edge of the blanket as if it were the only thing tethering you to this world. Petrovich's fingers twitched with the urge to touch you—your wrist, your cheek, anything to anchor you—but he restrained himself.

"I do not expect you to trust me," he admitted, standing to his full height again. "But you will eat. You will sleep in a warm bed. You will learn that my home is not a prison." His expression darkened. "And if anyone dares to make you feel otherwise, they will regret it."

He turned toward the door, pausing just before stepping out. "Rest," he commanded, softer than before. "We will try again tomorrow." Then he was gone, leaving you in silence, save for the slow crackling of the fire.