Thornhill receded into the distance as Leonard guided the carriage northward. Inside, silence stretched between Joy and me, heavy as a physical presence. My shirt collar felt suddenly tight against my throat. I kept my gaze fixed on the passing landscape, my jaw clenched as I worked through the implications of Marcelo's unexpected appearance.

  Of all the complications I might have anticipated on this journey, encountering him ranked among the least welcome. The memory of his eyes on Joy, calculating, hungry, sent a cold ripple down my spine. Our eyes had met briefly in the inn's courtyard as we departed, his smirk confirming what I already suspected. This "chance" meeting had been deliberately engineered.

  The tavern itself had been a calculated risk. I'd chosen The Crown Mariner specifically because it catered to a wealthier clientele, merchants and minor nobility who wouldn't raise eyebrows at a demon companion. The private dining room should have provided sufficient discretion. For two years I'd managed to avoid direct encounters with Marcelo, our paths crossing only at larger social gatherings where maintaining distance was simple. Now he'd managed to corner me in perhaps the most vulnerable moment – when my guard had been lowered by wine and unexpectedly pleasant conversation.

  The sounds of hooves against muddy road filled the space between us, a rhythmic squelching that matched the uncomfortable pounding in my temples. Birds called to each other in the distant trees, oblivious to human tensions. Joy sat across from me, her posture rigid, gaze sharp as a blade as she studied my face. The ease we'd shared over wine and honest conversation had evaporated completely, leaving behind a residue of wariness that clung to us both.

  "Are you planning to stare out that window for the remainder of our journey?"

  I turned to face her, my neck stiff with tension. "Would you prefer I stare at you instead?"

  Her eyebrows rose slightly. A small muscle tightened at the corner of her mouth. "I'd prefer you explain what happened back there. One moment we were having a civil conversation, the next you're barely acknowledging my existence."

  "What happened was a reminder of the world we're entering. My world." The words tasted metallic, like blood.

  "A world where you let men like that dictate how you behave?" Joy leaned forward, close enough that I caught the faint scent of wine still on her breath.

  The accusation burned in my gut like acid. My fingers gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles whitening. "You understand nothing about my relationship with Marcelo."

  "Then explain it." She leaned closer still, silver eyes unblinking. "Because from where I sat, he walked in and you transformed into someone else entirely."

  I looked away, a fragment of memory surfacing unbidden.

  The academy where Marcelo and I were educated prided itself on producing men who would lead society through strength and decisiveness. Its cold stone buildings housed the sons of noble families and wealthy merchants. Competition was encouraged; weakness was not tolerated.

  I was eleven when I first understood what Marcelo was truly capable of. We stood in the academy courtyard during midday break. The autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves and distant sea. The stone benches beneath us retained the morning sun's warmth against the growing chill.

  Thomas Hale, the younger son of a prosperous shipping merchant, sat nearby, putting the finishing touches on a model ship he'd spent weeks crafting. It was exquisite – a perfect replica of one of his father's vessels, complete with miniature rigging and tiny painted details. His family couldn't boast nobility, but they had wealth, and Thomas had a particular talent for detail work that even our instructors acknowledged.

  The previous day, he'd accidentally bumped into Marcelo while carrying an inkwell back to his desk. The black liquid had splashed across Marcelo's new boots – an honest mistake, followed by profuse apologies and offers to pay for the cleaning. Marcelo had smiled, accepted the apology, and said nothing more about it.

  Until the moment he appeared before Thomas in the courtyard and, without warning, picked up the model ship.

  "Beautiful craftsmanship," Marcelo said, turning it over in his hands. "You've spent... what, three weeks on this?"

  Thomas nodded, pride and apprehension mingling in his expression. "Nearly four, actually."

  Marcelo's smile never faltered as he began to snap off the delicate masts, one by one. The sound of splintering wood seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence that fell over the courtyard. Thomas froze, his face draining of color as Marcelo methodically dismantled his creation.

  "What are you doing?" Thomas finally managed, voice barely above a whisper.

  "Teaching you about consequences. Yesterday, you ruined something of mine. Today, I'm returning the favor."

  I stood several yards away, witnessing the scene with growing discomfort. Around us, other boys watched in uncomfortable silence, none willing to intervene.

  "Stop it," I said finally, the words barely audible even to myself.

  Marcelo paused, wooden splinter in hand. "What was that, Jacobi?"

  "I said stop." Firmer that time, but still hesitant. "You've made your point."

  "Have I?" Marcelo's smile was chilling. "I don't think Thomas here properly understands the consequences of carelessness yet. Do you, Thomas?"

  The boy shook his head, tears now streaming down his face.

  "Exactly." Marcelo returned to his methodical destruction.

  I should have intervened physically. Should have stepped between them, pushed Marcelo away, ended it decisively. Instead, I'd tried reasoning, tried using words where action was required. By the time one of the instructors noticed and approached, the model ship was in pieces at Thomas's feet.

  The next day, Thomas was found beaten in the academy garden. His arm broken, face bruised beyond recognition. No one saw who did it. No one reported anything unusual. But Thomas's eyes found mine across the dining hall that evening, fear and betrayal evident in his gaze.

  He was removed from the academy the following week. His family couldn't afford the embarrassment of a son who "got into fights." I never saw him again.

  From that day forward, I learned to hide any compassion behind a mask of indifference. It was the first of many masks I would learn to wear, each serving its purpose in navigating a world where Marcelo Levanth existed.

  "Jacobi?" Joy's voice sliced through memory, sharp and present.

  I blinked, my throat dry as dust. "Marcelo doesn't confront opponents directly. He finds what they value and destroys it. Or takes it for himself."

  Understanding flickered across her features. She sat back slightly, her spine straightening. "So your sudden coldness is what, a performance to convince him I mean nothing to you?"

  "It's not a performance." I shifted in my seat, leaning slightly away from her. "It's a reminder of reality. You are a valuable investment, nothing more. The connection you perceived between us at the inn was a momentary aberration."

  She flinched, a barely perceptible tightening around her eyes, then masked it with a sardonic smile that never reached those silver irises. "How stupid of me to mistake basic decency for genuine regard."

  "Not stupid. Inexperienced in the particular cruelties of human society."

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  The trees thinned, revealing glimpses of churning gray sea beyond. Salt air gusted through the open windows, carrying the metallic taste of impending rain and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. The sound scraped against my already raw nerves.

  "We're approaching the coastal road. Velez Estate lies another two hours north."

  "And what should I expect there?" The light had gone from her eyes, replaced by that calculating wariness I'd seen when I first purchased her. "More of this? Or will we return to civilized conversation once safely away from your not-friend's influence?"

  My throat constricted, the words sticking like thorns. "At my estate, you will be treated as what you are, my property. My staff will address you accordingly. You will have quarters suitable to your status. You will train as required. You will fight when commanded." I paused, feeling each word like a stone I was stacking between us. "That is the reality of your position, regardless of any rapport we may have developed during this journey."

  "I see," Joy said quietly. Her finger traced a small pattern on the leather seat beside her. "Then let me be equally clear about my reality, Jacobi Velez. I am bound by a contract that prevents me from killing you or escaping your service. It does not obligate me to like you, respect you, or pretend that your sudden shift in behavior is anything but cowardice."

  The accusation hit like a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs. Heat flooded my face, a shameful confirmation I couldn't hide. "Call it what you will. In the end, it changes nothing."

  "It changes everything," she countered, leaning forward so I could not avoid her gaze. "You showed me a glimpse of a man worth respecting. Now you show me this." Her gesture encompassed my rigid posture, my cold expression. "Which should I believe?"

  I didn't answer immediately, watching as the coastline came fully into view. Waves crashed against jagged rocks below, sending spray high into the air before receding. The endless cycle of advance and retreat.

  "Believe what serves your survival," I said finally. "As I believe what serves mine."

  The carriage rounded a bend in the road, bringing the first view of Velez Estate into sight. Gray stone walls rose from the cliffs like an extension of the rock itself, weathered by centuries of sea spray and storm. Towers at each corner stood sentinel over the grounds, which stretched from the main house down toward the sea and inland to fields and forests beyond.

  The trees around the road gradually gave way to carefully tended grounds. Autumn storms had left their mark, several ancient oaks had lost branches, and groundskeepers worked to clear debris from the ornamental gardens. The recent rain had transformed the typically dusty road into a ribbon of mud that clung to the carriage wheels, slowing our progress.

  As we approached the main gates, I noted Joy's careful observation of her surroundings: the height of the stone walls, the positions of the guards, the layout of the outbuildings. Her fingers tapped a subtle rhythm against her thigh, counting paces, measuring distances, cataloging weaknesses. Always calculating, always preparing, even while maintaining an outward appearance of casual interest.

  "Remember your place here," I said quietly as the carriage slowed. The familiar knot of tension settled between my shoulder blades. "These people will be watching your every move, reporting back to me. Any attempt to undermine my authority will result in consequences."

  "I understand perfectly." A cold smile curved her lips. "Master."

  The honorific slid between us like a blade, sharp with mockery. My jaw clenched against a response that would only reveal how deeply it cut.

  Staff emerged from various doorways as Leonard guided the carriage through the main courtyard. The stone-paved circle centered around an ancient oak, its branches spreading protectively over the space where visiting carriages stopped. Despite the season, a few stubborn leaves clung to its limbs, golden against the gray sky.

  The carriage stopped beneath the oak. Cold air rushed in as Leonard opened the door, bringing with it the scents of wood smoke, wet stone, and the distant brine of the sea. I stepped down first, my boots clicking against damp cobblestones. I turned to survey my estate with a proprietary gaze that deliberately excluded Joy. Let her feel the shift between us. Let her understand that whatever moments of connection we'd shared on the journey were now firmly behind us.

  "Welcome home, Sir." My housekeeper stepped forward, the starch in her black dress crackling faintly as she bowed. "Your chambers are prepared as requested, and all arrangements made for your... guest."

  "Excellent, Mrs. Harlow." I gestured toward Joy without looking at her, keeping a careful distance between us. "This is Joy, recently acquired from Naerith. She will require quarters in the east wing."

  Mrs. Harlow was a practical woman in her fifties who had served my family since before my birth. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her dark dress bore not a single wrinkle despite the late hour and the sudden nature of our arrival. Sharp eyes missed nothing, including, I noted with discomfort, the tension between Joy and myself.

  "Of course, my lord." Mrs. Harlow's gaze swept over Joy, lingering briefly on her horns before settling on her face with professional assessment. "Cook has prepared a meal, should you wish to dine now."

  "Later. First, Joy should be shown to her quarters and made familiar with the basic layout of the estate." I finally turned to Joy, standing slightly above her on the stone steps, forcing her to look up. "Get settled. Familiarize yourself with your surroundings. I'll send for you when I've made arrangements for your training schedule."

  She met my gaze with a deliberately blank expression, her shoulders squared. "As you wish."

  I watched her follow Mrs. Harlow into the house, noting the straight line of her spine, the deliberate grace of her movements, the way she positioned herself slightly to Mrs. Harlow's left rather than trailing behind like a servant. Pride and defiance wrapped in the thinnest veneer of compliance. It would not be enough for what lay ahead.

  Inside, I made my way to my study, nodding to staff who flattened themselves against the walls as I passed. The stone corridors of the east wing gave way to the more richly appointed main hall, with its tapestries and family portraits lining the walls. Generations of Velez men stared down from gilded frames, their expressions varying from stern disapproval to benign indifference. The ancient carpet runner beneath my feet muffled my footsteps, its faded pattern still hinting at former glory.

  My study door closed behind me with a satisfying solidity, the sound echoing in my chest. Here, at least, I could breathe freely, away from watchful eyes. The familiar scents of leather-bound books, beeswax polish, and the faint hint of sea air that perpetually infiltrated the house enveloped me. Bookshelves lined the walls, the collected knowledge of generations. A large desk dominated the room, its surface arranged precisely as I'd left it days earlier, correspondence sorted into neat piles, ledgers aligned at perfect angles, pens and ink arranged for immediate use.

  Through the window, I could see the training grounds below. A rectangle of pale sand, now darkening in patches as the first drops of rain began to fall. Beyond lay the stables, the kitchen gardens, and the path leading down to the private cove below the cliffs. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon, promising rough weather by nightfall. The air in the room felt heavy with approaching thunder.

  Marcelo's words echoed in my mind. "Demons understand power, nothing more." The simplicity of the statement clashed with what I'd observed in Joy. Her insights during our journey, her understanding of human nature, her strategic thinking, all pointed to a complexity Marcelo's brutal approach would crush rather than harness.

  Yet his methods produced results. Unquestioning obedience. Perfect submission.

  I shook my head, turning away from the window. The mask I'd donned in Thornhill felt heavier by the moment, its edges digging into my skin. I reached for the decanter on my desk, pouring a measure of amber liquid into a crystal glass. The scent of aged brandy rose to meet me, wood and spice and memory.

  The distant rumble of thunder from the approaching storm echoed my unsettled thoughts. Autumn storms on this coast could be brutal – waves crashing against the cliffs with enough force to send spray onto the lowest terraces of the garden, winds strong enough to tear tiles from roofs and branches from trees. The estate had weathered countless such tempests over the centuries, its stone walls standing firm against nature's fury.

  I'd weathered my own storms – financial crises that threatened the family holdings, social machinations that could have destroyed our standing, and the constant, subtle warfare conducted in drawing rooms and at dinner parties across the region. Each had required a different version of myself, a different mask worn with such conviction that sometimes I wondered which, if any, was real.

  Which should I believe? Joy's question in the carriage haunted me. The real Jacobi Velez, was he the one who shared wine with her at the inn, or the cold, distant owner who had emerged after Marcelo's appearance? Perhaps the truth was that neither existed independently. Perhaps I was nothing but a collection of masks, each worn so long it had left permanent marks on whatever face lay beneath.

  Beyond the window, rain lashed the training grounds, turning sand to mire. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the courtyard below and the figure standing there, Joy, face turned upward to the storm, seemingly indifferent to the water soaking her clothes. Her silver eyes caught the light, reflecting it back like a creature born of the tempest itself.

  I watched her for a long moment, recognizing something in her defiant stance that resonated in my own chest, a resistance against forces that sought to confine, define, control. Then she turned, as if sensing my observation, her gaze finding mine across the distance. Neither of us moved. Neither acknowledged the other. Two predators assessing territory, measuring boundaries.

  I stepped back from the window, breaking the connection. At my desk, I pulled paper toward me and dipped a pen in ink. The nib scratched against the surface, echoing the rain against the glass. Perhaps Marcelo had been right about one thing, my approach lacked certain efficiencies.

  I'd acted impulsively in purchasing Joy without proper planning or infrastructure in place, a business mistake I rarely made. Emotions had clouded judgment. Now was the time for correction, for systems and expertise.

  A handler would bring structure where my knowledge fell short. They would establish proper training regimens, enforce consistent discipline, and ensure Joy performed at her peak capacity. My own inexperience with demon fighters was a liability I couldn't afford, especially with Marcelo watching so closely.