Tied In Silence

The room was silent, except for the faint sound of Lyra’s breathing. She had finally stopped crying, exhaustion pulling her into sleep. Victor stood near the window, a glass in his hand, watching the city lights beyond the rain-streaked glass. But his eyes kept drifting back to the bed—to her.

She looked fragile now, curled up beneath the blanket, her dark lashes damp against her pale skin. The fire that burned in her eyes earlier was gone, replaced by something softer, something that made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t like.

He took slow steps toward her, setting the glass down on the table beside the bed. His gaze traced over her face, the dried tear tracks on her cheeks, the way her lips parted slightly as she breathed. Why did it bother him?

He reached out, almost without thinking, and brushed a strand of wet hair away from her face. His fingers barely grazed her skin, but she stirred. A soft sigh escaped her lips. And then, barely above a whisper—his name.

"Victor..."

His entire body tensed.

For a second, something unfamiliar flickered inside him, something he couldn’t name. His jaw clenched. He pulled his hand back as if burned, shoving it into his pocket. This was nothing. She was nothing.

But then why... why did he still feel the ghost of her warmth on his fingers?

After hearing her whisper his name, Victor doesn’t leave. He should, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep. His fingers twitch, like he wants to touch her again but stops himself.

His thoughts are a mess. He’s always controlled, always unreadable—but right now, she’s making him feel things he doesn’t want to feel.

Then, Lyra stirs. She shifts slightly, and in her sleep, she reaches out—her fingers graze his sleeve.

Victor freezes.

And then she murmurs, still lost in her dreams:
"Don’t leave me..."

BOOM. That one sentence messes him up. He doesn’t know if she’s dreaming about him or someone else, but it doesn’t matter. The idea of her wanting someone—needing someone—when she should be hating him? It burns him inside.

So instead of leaving, he does something unexpected—he stays.

He leans back against the chair, arms crossed, watching her, guarding her.

And as he watches, one thought creeps into his mind. A thought he shouldn’t be having.

"You wanted to run, little dove. But I wonder… will you still want to, once you realize you belong to me?"

She looked... peaceful.

His little dove.

For two years, she had waited in this house, untouched. Unwanted. Unnoticed.

And now, she was finally where she belonged.

Victor stood up, his movements slow, deliberate. He stepped toward the bed, towering over her small, curled-up form. The blanket barely covered her, and the faint chill in the air made her shiver slightly. He reached forward, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face.

His fingers lingered for a second longer than they should have.

With a quiet breath, he straightened. Enough of this. He turned toward the switch and, with a flick, plunged the room into darkness.

The reaction was immediate.

A sharp breath. A rustling of sheets. And then—panic.

Lyra shot up, eyes darting wildly in the dark. Her breathing turned uneven, her hands clutched the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

Victor frowned.

“What are you doing?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.

She didn’t answer. Instead, her breathing quickened—shallow and erratic, like a trapped bird. The darkness swallowed her whole, and she sat frozen, too terrified to even move.

Victor's eyes narrowed.

Then it hit him.

This wasn’t discomfort. This was fear.

His jaw tightened. He took a step closer. “Lyra.”

No response.

She wasn’t even looking at him. She was staring straight ahead, her hands gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

Victor exhaled sharply and, without a word, turned the lights back on.

She blinked rapidly, gasping as if she had been drowning. Her head snapped toward him, confusion and relief battling in her wide, tear-glazed eyes.

He stared at her, unreadable. “You’re afraid of the dark.”

A single tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t deny it. Didn’t fight it.

She just sat there, completely vulnerable.

Victor clenched his fists. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like the way it made his chest tighten. Didn’t like the way it made her look so... small.

She had spent two years sleeping alone in this house. Alone with the shadows. Alone with whatever demons haunted her.

And he had just thrown her back into them.

Victor sighed and ran a hand down his face. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Wordlessly, he moved toward the bed. Lyra tensed as he pulled back the covers and sat down beside her.

“What—”

“Sleep.” His voice was sharp. Final.

She swallowed, watching him cautiously.

Victor didn’t touch her. Didn’t force her. He just sat there, his presence filling every inch of the space between them. A silent promise that he wouldn’t leave.

Lyra hesitated. Then, slowly—hesitantly—she lay back down.

Victor turned off the lights again.

This time, she didn’t wake up.