Chapter 2: Terms and Conditions

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of rain against the glass.

Soren sat on the edge of the bed, the contract freshly signed and left on the desk like a surrender note. Outside, the estate grounds were cloaked in moonlight and drizzle. It would’ve been beautiful, if not for the dull ache in his chest that never quite went away.

He didn't know what this place was yet—only that it wasn't the hell he came from.

But silence could be cruel in its own way.

Silence gave the past too much room to echo.

The door opened.

Lael stepped in, dressed in black slacks and a charcoal shirt with sleeves rolled halfway. He looked like the kind of man who never lost control because he never gave any away. His gaze scanned the room once, then settled on the contract.

“You didn’t hesitate,” he said.

“I never do.”

Lael picked up the page, folded it in half, then slid it into the inside pocket of his coat.

"I expect you to follow every word of what you signed.”

“I will.”

Lael studied him for a moment, eyes like steel behind shadowed lashes. “Good.”

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he walked over to a cabinet in the corner and opened it. Inside were neatly folded clothes—soft cotton shirts, sleepwear, fresh towels.

“You’ll wear what’s given to you. If you need anything else, you request it through my assistant. Not me.”

Soren nodded.

“You’ll eat at 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. You don’t leave this estate without my permission. You don’t open any locked doors.”

Still, Soren nodded.

He didn't flinch.

He didn't ask why.

Lael closed the cabinet, then paused as if considering something else.

“You’ve been passed around. Bought. Sold.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but not unkind. “You know how this works.”

“Yes.”

“But you’ve never been here before.” This time, his tone shifted—colder.

Soren’s jaw tensed slightly. “No.”

Lael stepped forward then, close enough that Soren could smell cedarwood and the faint sting of aftershave. His fingers reached toward Soren’s face—and Soren stilled.

Not because of the touch.

Because of the instinct to flinch.

Lael stopped a breath away.

“I don’t hit,” he said quietly. “Not unless I have to. But I won’t tolerate disobedience. If you want kindness, this is the wrong house.”

“I don’t want anything.”

A pause.

That answer hung in the air longer than intended. Lael’s eyes narrowed just slightly before he stepped back, the moment severed.

“You’ll rest tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’ll decide what use you’ll be put to.”

“Understood.”

Lael turned toward the door.

But Soren, against his better judgment, said something else.

“Why me?”

Lael paused, hand on the handle. His back was to him, the rain painting streaks across the window beside them.

There was a flicker in Lael’s shoulders. A barely-there tension.

“You’ll find out,” he said. “Eventually.”

And then he was gone.

Soren waited until the door clicked shut before he exhaled.

He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The sheets smelled clean. The lights were dim. No chains, no cuffs, no cameras. Still, his chest stayed tight. Safety wasn’t something he understood—not truly. He didn’t know how to live in a world that didn’t hurt first and ask questions later.

He glanced at the door again.

Even in comfort, fear found a way in.

The next morning, the house was quiet.

Soren awoke before the alarm clock on the nightstand could go off. His body was still trained to expect early commands—sharp knocks, shouted orders. Instead, there was silence. He dressed in the clothes laid out for him—soft black pants and a pale gray sweater.

Everything fit, almost like it had been measured.

Breakfast was laid out at the dining table: toast, eggs, fruit. One plate. No second chair.

He sat, ate quietly. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t expect anyone to speak to him.

But as he finished his last bite, a tablet on the far end of the table lit up. A message appeared:

“Training at 9. West Wing. Don’t be late.” – L

Soren stared at the screen for a moment, then stood and placed the dishes in the sink. No one told him to. It was just something that felt… right.

At 9 a.m., he arrived at the West Wing.

It was a training room—spacious, modern, with mats and mirrored walls. Lael was already there, arms crossed, dressed in sleek combat gear. There was a tension in his form that wasn’t about violence.

It was about control.

He threw a wooden staff across the floor.

“Pick it up,” he said.

Soren did.

“You ever fight back?”

Soren didn’t answer.

Lael raised an eyebrow. “Answer when I ask.”

“Yes.”

“Good. You’ll need it here.”

“Why?”

Lael didn’t explain. He simply stepped forward and attacked.

Soren blocked the strike instinctively, body moving before his brain could react. It wasn’t perfect—but it was fast. Efficient. He’d fought before. For survival. Not for training.

Strike. Block. Dodge. Breathe.

Lael was relentless—but never cruel. He tested Soren, pushed him, but didn’t break him. When they finally stopped, both were breathing hard. Lael stepped back, examining him like one would examine a weapon on display.

“You’ve been trained.”

“Poorly. Improvised,” Soren muttered.

“You're alive. That’s enough proof.”

Silence fell again. Soren’s grip loosened around the staff.

“Why are you training me?” he asked, quietly this time.

Lael didn't look at him.

“I don’t keep things I can’t use,” he said.

And for the second time since entering this house, Soren felt something in him tighten and go quiet.

Because deep down, he already knew:

This man didn’t buy him for cruelty.

 He bought him because he saw something he wanted to shape.

And maybe that was more dangerous than anything else.