Bound by His Vicious Devotion

Sometimes, living in her own house felt like squatting in someone else’s life. Unwelcome. Unwanted.

That morning, Rosalia packed in silence. She was determined to leave before anyone stirred and started their usual lecture about how she’d stained their perfect, noble family.

“You look fucked as shit, Rosalia,” she mocked the girl with green eyes and faint bruises staring back through a full-length mirror. The strap dug into her collarbone as she slung her backpack over one shoulder, then she opened the door a crack, leaned out to scan the hallway for anyone watching. Clear.

She tiptoes through the cold, empty hallway, “Miss Rosalia, where are you going?” A familiar voice pinned her in her place.

Rosalia spun around and clapped her palm over Mary’s mouth. “Shhh! Don’t shout!” She whispered, quickly glancing toward the family’s wing, and took a breath of relief.

‘It’s too early,’ Mary breathed. “And you can’t leave the house alone.”

Rosalia dropped her hand and rubbed her palm on her jeans. Her lips curved into a sharp, bitter smile. “Just out. It’s my birthday. I need one day of real air, Mary. I’ll be back tonight.”

“No, you can’t.” Mary’s horror-filled gaze dropped to the floor. “Madam will kill me if she finds out.” Her eyes darted everywhere as she added, “She doesn’t want anyone to know where you came from.”

Rosalia nodded. Of course, stains are meant to be hidden, not shown. The thought tightens her chest, and her smile fades “I know, Mary. I won’t tell anyone.” She turned. “Have a good day.”

Mary’s defeated whisper echoed with the fading thuds behind her: “Happy birthday, Miss.” Rosalia didn’t stop; instead, increasing her pacing, she exited the golden hallway.

At the gate, Rosalia’s smirk deepened as her gaze fell on the guard, who slept with his mouth half open, snoring like a dying engine. Her finger hovered over the security panel ‘No, Rosalia, don’t do it. They will kill you for this.’

Holding her breath, she tilted her head to look back at the guard. ‘I am paying with my life anyway,’ the bitter voice whispered. ‘If they kill me, at least it’ll be for something I chose. I deserve at least twenty-four hours where I don’t feel like their mistake. Anyway, death can be easier than living here today.’

Her fingers danced across the security panel.

The gate clicked open. A single red light blinked above the panel. And then the alarm exploded into sirens. Her pulse jumped. The guard jerked awake. “Whhaa… what the hell…!” he started cursing. He tried to stop her, but she dodged the guard and bolted out.

She stopped halfway down the driveway and looked back just as the lights flicked on inside the mansion, voices breaking into confusion.

Then,

She took a sharp turn and slipped into a narrow alley. She tried hard to stay still, fighting against Adrenaline that was forcing her body to tremble, and waited until the sound of screeching tyres and the growl of engines faded into silence.

When she finally came out of the alley, a laugh bubbled out of her in half relief and half disbelief. ‘Good morning, freedom,’ she mumbled. The grin never left her face.

A rush of cold air pricked every cell on her body, passing through her hair. It was still amazing, though.

She stretched her arms to her sides, the scent of petrichor felt like heaven, and in that moment, she closed her eyes and wished she could breathe this air every second. But the next second, hot tears wetted her closed lashes, slipping on her cheeks. ‘Stop dreaming, stupid, a pet can never be free. They’ll never let it happen. They don’t want a daughter like you. All they want is a well-behaved, tamed girl.’ She sniffed as she rubbed her eyes.

‘Behave, really?’ The word almost made her laugh again.

How the hell do they demand that she behave, after they themselves threw her into an orphanage? After a lifetime of learning that softness only got you hurt? How could she ever pretend to be delicate again? Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. She wiped it with the back of her hands. “God, not this feeling again. Fuck it.”

She didn’t hate them, though; she only hated to be controlled, to be weak.

She pulled her hoodie lower and moved forward faster.

She boarded the bus, slipped into the last seat, and plugged in her earphones. Her gaze drifted to the couple beside her. They were laughing at their little daughter’s silly jokes; they kept kissing her cheeks between bursts of laughter...

Something cracked quietly inside Rosalia. Her eye stung with tears, but she did not blink. She watched as the mother brushed a crumb from the girl’s lip and the father fixed her ponytail. It was the kind of contact she had never felt.

A thought slammed into her: She was sixteen, almost done with being a child, but a part of her, that six-year-old idiot who still believed in fairy tales, was sitting right there, desperately reaching for that warmth. Rosalia watched the family until her chest felt hollowed out, the emptiness spreading like a cold anaesthetic.

She didn’t need to ask if her parents would ever change. Some things didn’t thaw. She was looking at the cold, permanent wall she’d spent her life hitting.

Pushing back the tears, she turned the volume on her phone up until the sound vibrated against her teeth, and fixed her eyes on the window.

The city passed in flickers.

Half an hour later, the bus stopped at the school gate.

Rosalia stepped off. Her fingers clenched on the strap of her bag, too tight at the sight of the school that loomed ahead, dark and silent. Too early. Anyway, she never feared ghosts or solitude. But being the first one here felt… off. Still, better this than another argument.

A bell rang somewhere in the distance, scattering her musings. The echo faded as she stepped into the quiet building. She exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping, and headed toward the library.

Her legs rooted as soon as the scent of old paper and varnished wood greeted her. ‘Damn. It is silent. Too fucking silent.' Why the hell did she have to choose this place in the whole fucking world? This could never be better than where she ran from. ’Go back, hide in your damn room like always, Rose, you can fight the world, but not this silence. You are not strong enough for this. The metallic test hit her tongue. And she finally took two steps. Backwards

A thud broke the silence.

Her eyes darted toward the sound. She wasn’t alone. “Thank God,” she whispered.

A boy sat at one of the tables, hunched over a math problem. His oversized glasses swallowed half his face, unruly hair spilling over his forehead. Beside him lay a thick book. ‘The Art of Problem Solving by Richard Rusczyk’. The title anchored her.

Rosalia paused. Something about his focus held her in place. The dim yellow light carved a crescent across his face, one half illuminated, the other lost in shadow. His silhouette stretched across the desk, still and deliberate.

She walked past him, in a slow and measured step, and settled into the farthest corner. Her fingers flexed on the spine of her book, knuckles pale, as if gripping it could keep her thudding heart from bursting out of her chest.

She opened the pages and pretended to read, but her eyes betrayed her. They kept drifting toward the boy. She didn’t know what drew her in, maybe the acne dotting his cheeks, the thick lenses, or the quiet intensity that clung to him like a second skin.

His features were sharp, unexpectedly handsome beneath the nerdy exterior. The kind of boy people ignored in the hallways. The kind teachers pitied, and the bullies targeted.

Something about him defied that script, though.

His posture was relaxed, but his presence wasn’t. It didn’t whisper awkward or harmless; it roared something else. Something sharper. His gaze held the weight of someone used to control. Not a victim. But more like a king in disguise. Or a predator who didn’t need claws.

A sharp sting bit into her finger. She glanced down; her nail had snapped, broken unconsciously from the tension.

He spun a pen between his fingers, fluid and rhythmic. Not showy. Just habitual.

But when she looked up again, he wasn’t focused on the math anymore. He was watching her. Not staring. Observing.

Their gazes collided midair. Neither moved. Neither blinked. As if her presence had shifted something in the room. And in that moment, the world paused around them. Even her breath seemed to echo too loud.

Rosalia’s fingers twitched against the edge of her book, a nervous tic she couldn’t suppress. She curled her hand into a fist.

His eyes flicked to her hand, then back to her face. He kept spinning the pen. Now, slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world.

She couldn’t hold the intensity of his gaze. Her eyelids fluttered down, then up again. She was the first to look away. She turned toward the window, pretending to watch birds darting through the sky. But she could still feel it, that gaze, heavy and unrelenting, burning into her skin.

As if he were studying her.

As if he could see through her.

Drawn like a magnet, she turned her head again.

He was still watching. Not with judgment. Not with curiosity. But with something deeper. Amusement maybe. Or understanding.

Heat bloomed across her cheeks. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. She dropped her eyes to the page, she chewed the inside of her cheek, the sharp sting grounding her, but the feeling didn’t fade. It crawled under her skin, slow and steady.

‘Don’t look at me like that. I’m not some moon to admire… I’m the worst part of the night.’ She begged in her heart. Then the feeling clawed at her, relentless. ‘Or maybe he was looking at the ugliest part.'

That familiar itch. The one that made her want to tear herself open and crawl out. People never looked at her. They looked through her, into the dark, twisted thing she carried inside.

Her eyes flicked to his again.

He shifted slightly in his seat, brows furrowed. Two silver-grey eyes locked onto hers. And in that gaze, she realised he wasn’t looking at her at all. He was looking at the broken part she tried so hard to bury.

Her throat tightened; the room felt a little colder. She dropped her eyes to the book, not reading, just staring. ‘He’s just some math nerd, Rosalia,’ she breathed. ‘He doesn’t know you… No one fucking does. That’s the point.’

Her feet started to tap the floor, unconsciously. She licked her dry lips again and again.

Before she could break down, she stuffed her book into her bag and bolted from the library. The rustle of fabric and the sharp echo of her footsteps filled the

room.

She stopped at the doorway and turned back.

He was still watching, eyes narrowed. His pen had stopped spinning.

Maybe she’d made a fool of herself. Maybe he’d laugh about it later. Who runs away just because someone looked at them?

Rosalia hated being watched. She wasn’t made for the spotlight. She preferred

Shadows, corners and silence. But now, being seen felt strange. Unsettling. Yet a tiny, traitorous part of her wished she’d stayed and let him look for one more second.

She marched through the hallways, footsteps ringing against the stone walls. She slowed near the corner, breath uneven. She kept her right hand on her left chest. Why the hell did it feel like she wasn’t running from him, but from her destiny, and that those silver-grey eyes already knew how her story would end?