House Of Wolves
The Croft estate had always felt cold. Not the kind of cold that crept through walls or seeped under doors, but a deeper, older chill — the kind that came from legacy, power, and the quiet expectation of obedience. Everything in the mansion was built to be imposing. The ceilings stretched impossibly high, as if the house wanted to look down on anyone who dared to enter. Rows of ancestral portraits lined the corridors, every Croft painted with the same stern posture and unyielding eyes, watching from the shadows like silent judges. The floors were so polished they didn't just shine — they reflected you back with brutal honesty, reminding you that in this place, weakness had nowhere to hide. It wasn't a home. It was a fortress dressed as a monument. And tonight, stepping inside felt like crossing into the court of a king preparing to decide who would be spared and who would be devoured.
Klaude didn't release my hand from the moment we left the car until we reached the top of the marble steps. His grip was unwavering, almost tight, not soft or reassuring — more like a lifeline he refused to let slip. It anchored me to him, but it also betrayed something raw beneath his carefully constructed exterior. Whether he held on for my sake or to steady himself, I couldn't tell, and I didn't ask. The Croft household had a way of turning even the strongest into something guarded.
The double doors swung open before we reached them.
Arthur Croft was waiting.
He stood near the fireplace, framed by the glow of flames that cast harsh highlights across the sharp planes of his face. Arthur didn't need to speak to take command of a room; his presence alone did the work. He held himself with the stiff, perfect posture of a man accustomed to being obeyed without question. His silence was heavy, deliberate, and it wrapped around the space like smoke.
Klaude's shoulders tensed. "Father."
Arthur's gaze moved to me, slow and assessing, as if filing away every detail for later use. "Anastasia."
"Arthur," I replied, not bowing, not softening. Just acknowledging him with cool composure.
His jaw tightened at the informality, but he stayed silent — which, for Arthur, was a response in itself.
We hadn't even stepped fully into the room when he spoke, his voice striking with the precision of a blade.
"You humiliated this family."
The accusation wasn't thrown at me. It was aimed squarely at his son.
Klaude's hand tightened around mine, just enough to betray the hit. "She was poisoned," he said, voice steady but burning with contained fury.
Arthur's eyes sharpened. "And the world saw the Croft heir screaming at the press, shoving aside photographers like some unhinged brute in the street."
"She almost died," Klaude snapped.
Arthur's voice rose, but did not crack. "She is not dead."
The silence that settled after that was almost physical, a suffocating pressure filling the vast room.
I watched them — father and son, two wolves circling, different in method but identical in dominance. One ruled by fear and legacy; the other fought with instinct and fire.
Arthur stepped closer to Klaude, lowering his voice in a way that made it even more dangerous. "You have let your emotions drive you into recklessness. If Anastasia dies—"
Klaude cut him off, his voice as cold as steel slicing through bone. "Don't finish that sentence."
A muscle feathered in Arthur's jaw. The two locked eyes, and for a moment I genuinely wondered if one of them would break the Croft family decorum and strike the other across the polished floor.
But Arthur was the first to turn — not away, but toward me.
"You," he said, tone flattening. "Tell me plainly. Do you believe this was an accident?"
The question wasn't surprising. He wasn't interested in comfort or sympathy. He wanted strategy. He wanted to evaluate whether I would crumble or calculate.
I lifted my chin and answered with a calm that felt like ice settling in my bones. "No. I don't."
Arthur nodded once, sharply. "Then you understand this cannot be ignored."
A faint smile touched my lips. "Oh, I understand very well."
For the briefest second, something flickered across Arthur's expression — not softness, not approval, but the cold respect one predator has when recognizing another.
"Your parents are making noise," he said. "Calling for blood."
I stepped forward, my voice smooth. "My parents don't make noise, Arthur. They make moves."
The corner of his mouth twitched — almost amusement, almost acknowledgment — before disappearing beneath his unshakable composure.
Klaude pushed both hands through his hair, pacing once, tension radiating off him in sharp waves. "Enough of this. What do you want me to do?"
Arthur's gaze cut to him instantly, sharp enough to leave a mark. "Contain this. Quietly. Or I will."
It wasn't a suggestion.
It was a threat.
And not for me. For Klaude.
The weight of it settled heavily between them.
Arthur turned, ready to leave, but Klaude stepped forward, voice dropping into something darker, more lethal. "She needs rest. This can wait."
Arthur paused at the door. His hand curled around the frame.
Klaude's next words were low, controlled, but filled with unshakable warning. "If you drag her into this again, you'll answer to me."
The air crackled like lightning.
Arthur didn't respond. He didn't need to. He simply walked out, leaving behind a silence so charged the flames in the fireplace suddenly seemed too loud.
Once the doors closed, Klaude let out a breath he had been holding for too long. He collapsed into one of the leather chairs, elbows on his knees, dragging his hands down his face as if trying to scrub the entire night from his skin. For a man who rarely faltered, it was a rare and honest break in his armor.
"You didn't have to defend me," I said softly, walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. I let my fingers brush the top of the chair as I passed behind him, letting the gesture settle between us like a whisper.
Klaude looked up, eyes still burning with the remnants of the fight he just had. "Yes," he said, voice rough. "I did."
"Because you're playing protector now?" I teased gently, allowing my tone to soften, letting it curl in the air like silk.
He looked away, jaw clenching. "Because you almost died."
There it was — blunt, unvarnished, unfiltered.
I let the quiet stretch between us, filling the room like smoke. Then I tilted my head. "You can't protect everyone, Klaude."
His eyes snapped back to mine, and the intensity in them was almost startling. "I don't care about everyone," he said. "I care about you."
The world seemed to still.
The fire crackled.
The shadows shifted.
The space between us tightened into something electric, something dangerous.
Not because his confession was unexpected.
But because it was the exact truth I had been waiting for — and the one he could no longer keep buried.