The door to her room wasn't locked.
Raven noticed it the second it clicked shut behind her. Soft. Controlled. No heavy deadbolt. No final snap that said "you're trapped." Just a boundary. A suggestion. The kind of quiet message that made her skin crawl more than any cage ever could.
She stood there for a long second, knife still gripped tight in her hand, pulse beating slow and heavy at the base of her throat. The room was simple. Too simple. A wide bed against the far wall. Clean sheets. A low table near the window. One chair. Nothing extra. Nothing that could be used as a weapon or a tool. The window didn't open all the way — just enough for light and air, not enough for a body to slip through.
It wasn't a prison cell. It was worse. A place designed to hold someone who hadn't decided she was a prisoner yet.
Her feet moved quiet across the cool floor. She crossed the room once, slow, eyes scanning every line. No obvious cameras. That didn't mean shit. She brushed her fingers along the edge of the table — solid wood, fixed in place. Nothing loose. Nothing useful.
The knife felt heavier than it should. Familiar weight in a space that felt anything but.
She turned back toward the door.
Still closed. Still not locked.
The silence in this mansion pressed in different than the casino. Out there it had been loud with absence. Here it felt alive. Intentional. Like the walls themselves were watching and waiting to see what she'd do.
Raven's pulse kicked up. Sweat slipped along her spine again, mixing with the dried blood still crusted on her black dress. She hated how exposed she felt. Barefoot. Bloodstained. Knife in hand but nowhere to use it.
She walked to the door anyway.
Her fingers closed around the handle. Turned it slow.
It opened without resistance. No alarm. No click. No guard stepping out to stop her.
The hallway stretched out in both directions. Dim lighting. Identical doors. No markings. No movement. Just long, quiet corridors that felt designed to make distance lie to you.
She chose left and started walking.
Her steps stayed measured, precise — the same way she moved through any job. But here the sound came back to her. Soft echoes bouncing off the walls, making it hard to judge how far she'd gone. The house didn't stop her. Didn't redirect her. It just… let her move.
That was worse than any lock.
She passed door after door. All closed. All silent. No guards visible. No cameras she could spot. The absence settled heavier with every step, pressing down on her chest until her breathing turned shallow.
Her grip on the knife tightened. Palm damp now. The dried blood on her dress itched against her thighs. Every turn in the corridor felt too smooth, too planned. The angles were wrong for escape. Too controlled.
She stopped.
Something shifted ahead.
Not a sound. Not a shadow. Just a change in the way the space held itself. Like the air got thicker.
One door at the end of the hall. Nothing special about it. But it felt different.
Raven walked toward it. Knife angled low and ready. Each breath came short through her nose. Heat crawled up her throat — rage, adrenaline, and that sick, unwanted twist low in her belly she'd been feeling since the casino.
She was close. Two steps. One.
The door opened before she could reach for it.
Vincent stood there.
Leaning casually against the frame, one shoulder resting like he'd been waiting the whole time. Not surprised. Not tense. Just… there. Dark eyes locking onto hers the second the door swung open. Steady. Knowing. Like he'd predicted every single step she'd taken.
"Second attempt already," he said, voice low and even. A faint curve touched his mouth. "You're getting impatient."
Raven stopped dead. The distance between them was small. Close enough she could lunge and bury the blade in his throat before he blinked.
But she didn't.
Her blood roared in her ears. Sweat slid down her temple. The knife felt slippery in her grip now. His unbothered posture made her teeth grind. The open door behind him showed a dimly lit room instead of guards or weapons. Her stomach flipped when his eyes dragged over her — bloodstained dress, bare feet, knife in hand — like none of it bothered him.
"You left the path open," she said, voice rough and quiet.
Vincent didn't move. Didn't straighten. Just kept leaning there, watching her.
"I didn't leave it open." His gaze stayed locked on hers. "I removed the need to close it."
The words hit her low. Heavy. She felt them settle in her chest like stones.
He hadn't heard her coming. He hadn't rushed out to stop her.
He had been waiting. Right here. Expecting her to walk straight to him.
The realization sent a cold rush down her spine, followed immediately by a wave of warmth that made her skin betray her. She wanted to drive the knife into him. She also couldn't stop noticing how close he was. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the dried blood on his throat from earlier. The way his shirt stretched across his shoulders. The steady confidence that made her feel both small and seen at the same time.
Her fingers tightened hard around the knife until the handle dug into her palm. Pain helped. Grounded her.
"You're still deciding," he said softly. No challenge. No mockery. Just quiet observation.
Raven didn't answer.
She stood there in the hallway of the enemy's mansion, knife ready, body tense and buzzing. The open door behind him felt like both an invitation and a trap. Step inside and she was deeper in his world. Stay out here and she was still playing his game.
The silence stretched. Thick. Heavy. Her breathing came uneven now. Short bursts through her nose. The sticky dress clung to her skin. Every inch of her felt raw — hate burning hot in her chest, confusion twisting her stomach, and that dangerous, unwanted pull low in her belly that made her want to both attack him and find out what would happen if she stepped closer.
Vincent didn't reach for the knife. Didn't call for his men. Didn't close the door.
He just stood there. Watching her. Waiting.
Like he already knew she wouldn't strike tonight.
Like he knew she was already cracking.
Raven's teeth ground together so hard her skull ached. She couldn't explain it — the way her body kept reacting to him even through the hate, even after everything. It made no sense. It made her want to break the nearest wall just to feel something clean.
The knife stayed steady in her hand.
But she didn't move forward.
She didn't step back either.
And in the quiet hallway, with the devil himself leaning in the doorway and the whole mansion holding its breath around them, Raven Caruso realized she wasn't sure which part of the distance between them still belonged to her.