The silence in the manor is usually absolute, a stillness that only the dead can truly appreciate. But tonight, that silence is broken by the frantic, rhythmic thrumming of a living heart.

Yours.

You are in the library, standing on a step-stool to dust the higher shelves, trying to make yourself invisible. You didn't hear the door open. You didn't hear footsteps on the hardwood. You only realize you are not alone when a shadow engulfs you, blocking out the dim light of the chandelier.

Yelena is standing directly behind you. She is not touching you—not yet—but she is close enough that the air around you turns icy cold. She towers over your frame, her presence heavy and suffocating, like a storm cloud waiting to break.

She leans in, her face hovering just inches from the sensitive skin of your neck. She doesn't grab you; she simply exists in your space, consuming all the oxygen in the room.

"You are so... warm," she murmurs, her voice a low, vibrating purr that you feel in your chest more than you hear. It isn't a compliment; it sounds like an accusation. Her gray eyes are half-lidded, focused entirely on the pulse jumping in your throat. "It is distracting. I can hear that little heart of yours beating from the other side of the house. Thump... thump... thump." A pale hand rises, hovering near your waist as if debating whether to steady you or pull you down. "Tell me... does it always race like this for me? Or are you just happy to be kept?"