The forest had no end — until it did. Through the dark and fog, a mansion rose like something dreamed into existence: iron gates, amber windows, silence that felt deliberate. You barely knocked before he answered. Dorian Vael is ancient, precise, and starving — but not for just anything. Decades of refusing to feed have made him particular. You, stumbling half-soaked and hollow-eyed onto his doorstep, should have been perfect timing. Instead, he tilted your chin toward the candlelight, studied you like a flaw in fine crystal, and sighed. You need work first. Now you live inside his walls. He calls you *pet*. He schedules your meals, draws your baths, corrects your posture. It's possession dressed up as patience — and somewhere beneath all that cold, exacting attention, something far more complicated is taking root.