Chapter 23 The cage of care

Chapter 23 The cage of care
Elara’s POV

I wake up feeling better than I have felt in days. The kiss yesterday weren't much but it made me see that he feels the same way I do. That he wants me as much as I want him. 

The smell of coffee drifts through the air when I step into the dining room. The sunlight poured through the tall glass windows, catching the silverware arranged to perfection. There’s an odd stillness to everything, as though even the air is waiting for permission to move.

And then there's him. 

Damien is already there. Sitting at the head of the table, reading the morning paper like it’s a war he’s dismantling. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie perfectly knotted. There’s no trace of the man who lost his composure last night. No hint of the way he’d kissed me or of the storm that still simmers beneath his skin.

Except now, his eyes lift the second I walk in. And they don’t leave me.

“Good morning,” I say quietly.

“Sit.”

It’s not a request.

I hesitate only a moment before taking the seat across from him. The table between us feels too wide and too narrow at once.

The silence stretches until it becomes something else thick.

Finally, he folds the newspaper and sets it aside, his gaze still locked on me. “You didn’t sleep.”

It isn’t a question.

“I could say the same about you,” I reply.

He studies me for a long moment, eyes tracing every movement—my hands, the curve of my shoulders, the way I reach for the glass of water. His gaze is heavy enough to make my breath falter.

“You shouldn’t go near the east wing again,” he says finally.

The words are calm, but the meaning isn’t.

I set the glass down slowly. “You mean your office.”

“I mean every part of this house that I haven’t given you permission to enter.”

His tone is clipped, colder than usual. The warning is there, beneath the veneer of civility.

My pulse stumbles. “You’re watching me now?”

“I’ve always watched you,” he says simply, leaning back in his chair. “But now, I’m paying attention.”

Something in his eyes has changed. Last night, there was heat, frustration, and desire. Now, it’s something sharper—something that feels like fear disguised as command.

“You’re forgetting our deal, I will have unlimited access to your empire without supervision. 

He ignores my words and gestures toward the plate before me. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

I frown. There it is again, that voice. The one that could command boardrooms, break men twice his size, or make me forget how to think.

I pick up my fork, stabbing at the omelet that suddenly tastes like nothing.

He watches every bite. Every move I make and every breath.

It’s suffocating.

When I finally set the fork down, he rises from his seat slowly, like he would miss a thing if he lets his eyes off ms. “You’re pale,” he says. “You need air.”

“I’ll go for a walk then.”

“No,” he says immediately.

I blink. “No?”

“You’re not leaving the house.”

My voice sharpens. “I thought I was your wife, not your prisoner.”

His expression doesn’t change. “You’re both.”

The words hit like a slap I don’t see coming.

He steps closer until his shadow falls across the table, across me. “There are things moving behind the scenes, Elara. People watching Elara they're listening.”

“People?”

He nods once, slow and grim. “You’ve drawn attention. Whether you meant to or not and now you are a target ”

I try to laugh it off, but the sound dies in my throat. “So what, you’re saying someone’s spying on us now?”

“I’m saying,” he replies, voice low, “that the walls in this house aren’t as loyal as they used to be.”

The chill that runs through me has nothing to do with the air conditioning.

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small black device—a listening bug. He sets it down between us, its red light flickering faintly.

I freeze. “Where did you find that?”

“In the vent above the staircase,” he says. “Near the east wing.” His gaze sharpens, cutting right through me. “The same hallway you’ve been wandering lately.”

Guilt flickers in my chest before I can stop it. “You think I put that there?”

“I think you attract trouble,” he says, voice calm but razor-edged. “And trouble likes to follow.”

For a heartbeat, I can’t tell if he’s protecting me or warning me.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I whisper.

“Because,” he says, stepping closer, “I needed to see how you’d react.”

My breath hitches when he stops right beside my chair. His proximity sends a shiver racing down my spine. “You’re testing me again,” I say softly.

“Maybs.”

I tilt my head up to meet his gaze. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone,” he says, his tone flat. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t keep you safe.”

There’s something in the way he says safe that makes me forget how to be angry. It’s both a promise and a warning.

He takes the empty coffee cup from my hand, his fingers brushing mine, the contact sparking through me like static. “You’ll stay inside today,” he says, quieter now. “No wandering, no locked doors. No secrets.”

My lips part. “And if I disobey?”

He leans down, his breath grazing the shell of my ear. “Then I’ll remind you who this house belongs to.”

The shiver that races through me isn’t fear.

He knows it, too. I see it in the brief flicker of something dark and dangerous in his eyes before he turns away.

The rest of breakfast passes in tense silence. He takes a few calls, his voice low and authoritative, while I sit there, pretending to eat, pretending not to feel the weight of his attention pressing against me.

When he finally leaves the room, I exhale shakily, realizing I’ve been holding my breath for minutes.

But as I glance toward the small black bug still resting on the table, a chill crawls down my spine.

He said someone was listening and watching.

For the first time, I believe him.

I reach out, brushing my fingers against the bug’s smooth surface. The faint red light blinks again.

And then it stops.

The screen on the wall flickers once—just a flash, like static—but it’s enough to send my pulse racing.

Someone else is in this game. Someone who knows exactly where to look.

And I can’t tell if Damien’s overprotectiveness is the cage I should fear
Or the only thing keeping me alive.

As I leave the dining room, I notice something chilling—Damien’s office door is ajar, and through the crack, I catch sight of him on the phone. His tone is calm but lethal.

“She must be protected,” he says.

A pause.

Then—

“Handle it before she realizes who’s wants to hurt her”