The first week of marriage was a careful dance.
Ethan gave Amelia space. He slept in a different room. He didn't touch her unless necessary. He answered her questions with patience but never with completeness.
She learned small things about him:
He woke before dawn and ran three miles every morning.
He didn't own a television—not that he couldn't.
He read—not on a phone or tablet, but actual books with cracked spines and dog-eared pages.
He never raised his voice.
That last one unsettled her more than anything.
On the seventh day, Amelia found the drawer. It was in the bedroom she'd been given—the one Ethan had said she could use as her own. She'd been looking for a phone charger, rummaging through the dresser, when her fingers hit the back of a drawer that shouldn't have been there.
She pulled it open.
Empty.
Not just empty—cleared out. There were faint marks on the wood, outlines of something that had been removed recently.
She knelt down and ran her fingers over the marks.
A box? A book?
She didn't know.
But she felt it. The same prickle at the back of her neck. The same sense that she was being watched.
She turned.
Ethan stood in the doorway.
"Looking for something?" he asked.
Amelia stood up slowly. "What was in this drawer?"
He didn't answer immediately. He walked into the room, past her, and looked down at the empty drawer.
"Nothing you need to worry about."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one I'm giving."
She stepped closer. "You said you'd be honest with me."
"I said I'd keep you alive. I didn't say I'd tell you everything."
"Ethan—"
He turned to face her. His expression was calm, but something flickered in his eyes. Something that looked almost like pain.
"There are things in my past," he said quietly, "that would make you run. Not walk. Run. And I'm not ready for you to run yet."
Amelia's heart pounded. "Then when?"
"Soon... very soon"
He left the room
She stood there, staring at the empty drawer, and realized she was more afraid of what she didn't know than what she did.
The knock came at midnight.
Three quick raps. Then silence.
Amelia was already awake—she was always awake now, her body tuned to every sound in the house. She sat up in bed, heart hammering.
Ethan's door opened down the hall. She heard his footsteps, soft and quick, moving toward the stairs.
Then another knock. Harder this time.
A voice, low and unfamiliar: "We know she's in there."
Amelia's blood turned to ice.
She threw off the covers and ran to the hallway. Ethan was already at the top of the stairs, his body positioned between her and the front door.
"Don't," he said quietly. "Don't come down."
"Who is it?"
"Go back to your room, Amelia."
"Not until you tell me—"
The door exploded inward.
Not literally—but the sound of wood splintering, of the lock giving way, was loud enough to make her flinch.
Three men stepped inside.
They were large, dressed in dark clothes, their faces partially hidden by shadows. The one in front smiled when he saw Ethan.
"Hello, Hayes. Long time."
Ethan didn't move. "You're trespassing."
We're collecting." The man's gaze shifted to Amelia, and his smile widened. "She's prettier than the photos."
Amelia's legs threatened to give way.
Ethan's voice dropped—lower, colder, something she'd never heard before. "Take one more step, and you won't leave this house."
The man laughed. "There are three of us."
"I don't care."
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then the man's smile faded. He looked at Ethan—really looked—and something passed between them that Amelia couldn't read.
Fine," the man said. "But this isn't over. You can't hide her forever."
He turned and walked out. The other two followed.
The door hung open, the lock shattered, the night spilling in.
Ethan stood there for a full minute, his back still to Amelia, his hands clenched at his sides.
Then he turned and walked up the stairs.
He stopped in front of her. His face was pale, his jaw tight.Are you okay?" he asked.
"No," she whispered. "I'm not okay. Who were they?"
Ethan closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, something had shifted in his expression. Something softer. More vulnerable.
"I'll tell you," he said. "Tomorrow. Everything."
"Promise?"
He reached out and took her hand. His fingers were cold.
"Promise".