Knotted By The Devilish Alpha Brothers

Chapter 12: Chapter 12: a mistress, not a slave

She had slept till the next day.

Somewhere in that darkness, a sharp, rhythmic tapping reached her. Tock... tock... tock. Like a bird’s beak striking glass, persistent and insistent. She shifted slightly, burrowing deeper into the black—trying to sink back under, to find that nothingness again.

Then came the soft scuff of footsteps as the door opened.

Amelia’s eyes opened.

Two maids stood near the foot of the bed, hands clasped, waiting.

She pushed herself upright, throat still raw, voice rough from sleep. "I want to bathe myself."

They exchanged a brief glance, then nodded. She rose on unsteady legs and walked to the bathroom. The maids followed without a word, positioning themselves just inside the doorway. Watching.

Of course.

It was clear what they were there for—to make sure she didn’t try anything funny. After everything that had happened in little more than a month, being observed while she washed felt almost trivial. One of the least worst things she had endured.

That’s a low bar, she thought, stepping under the spray. But I’ll take it.

Warm water cascaded over her skin, rinsing away the last traces of fever and exhaustion. Steam curled around her and she closed her eyes and let it run over her face, pretending—just for a moment—that she was anywhere else. Anyone else.

When she stepped out, the maids dried her efficiently, their hands impersonal and practiced. They helped her into a simple knee-length red gown—soft fabric settling against her skin like a second layer of skin. One of them took a comb and worked it carefully through her damp hair, tugging gently at the tangles until it fell smooth down her back.

This is my life now. The thought surfaced, quiet and resigned. Being dressed like a doll. Watched like a prisoner. Sent for like a pet.

Amelia stood before the tall mirror.

Her reflection stared back—paler, thinner, eyes older than they had any right to be. She barely recognized the woman looking at her.

Then she noticed it.

White highlights threaded through her red hair. She lifted a hand and touched one, fingers tracing the unexpected change.

When did this happen?

Her body was keeping score in ways she hadn’t even realized.

A maid’s voice cut through her thoughts. "Master Enzo is demanding your presence."

Amelia’s hand dropped.

Of course he is.

She followed them out of the room. Each step felt heavier than the last as the reality settled deeper with every breath. She was their mistress—permanently. No one was coming to save her. Dylan had thrown her away. Jade had smiled while doing it. There was no rescue waiting beyond these walls.

There’s no one. There’s nothing. Just me, and them, and this place.

They reached the familiar spacious room. The moment she stepped inside, her hand rose instinctively to her neck—a nervous, protective gesture she couldn’t quite suppress.

Dean was sprawled across a long sofa to the side, one arm draped over the back, long silver-black hair falling loosely around his face. He looked lazy, comfortable, like a cat who had claimed the warmest spot in the house.

Their eyes met.

Amelia looked away immediately.

Enzo sat behind the main desk, posture straight, grey eyes cool and assessing.

"Walk further."

She took a few steps.

"Further."

She continued until only a few inches separated her from the edge of his desk.

"I hope you are fully yourself now."

Amelia nodded. What else could she do? What else could she say?

"Even though you may be telling the truth," Enzo continued, his voice flat and unyielding, "that does not clear you of suspicion."

She already knew that.

He glanced at his watch, then opened a drawer and withdrew a sleek new phone. He held it out.

Amelia hesitated. Confusion flickered across her face.

Why would he—

She carefully took it, the smooth surface cool against her palm.

"Although you missed a month of classes, you have been granted a pardon."

Her brows drew together. Enzo studied her expression.

"Were you not attending Crescent College?"

Amelia’s mouth opened. Then closed. Words tangled somewhere between her throat and her tongue.

"Speak up."

His voice was stern.

"I... I wasn’t aware I would be allowed outside the premises," she managed, the words coming out smaller than she intended.

"You are a mistress, not a slave."

There’s no difference.

The thought was bitter in her mind. Mistress. Slave. Doll. Toy. Different words, same cage.

Enzo’s gaze sharpened, as if he had heard the unspoken thought.

"If you had read the contract properly, you would have found that among the listed clauses, one states that you still retain a private life."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"Besides—" His tone cooled further, dropping into something almost disdainful. "What benefit do I have of you if you remain indoors all the time when we cannot stand looking at you?"

Amelia’s eyes dropped to the floor.

Of course. Don’t mistake this for kindness.

"Leave. Someone will attend to you outside the room."

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