Chapter 137: A Week of Secrets and Surveillance
Seven days had crawled by, each one steeped in silence and suspicion. Octavius remained a prisoner of his own wounds, confined to his quarters under unrelenting surveillance. Armed guards loomed outside his door, their presence a constant reminder of his vulnerability.
Leila visited once a day, her demeanor calm but unreadable. Their exchanges were brief and perfunctory, focused solely on his recovery. "How are you feeling today?" she would ask, and he would answer with a subdued "Better." Beyond that, their words scarcely bridged the gap between them. The physician had warned against any strain—physical or otherwise—and Octavius complied, albeit reluctantly.
The injuries near his chest and leg were severe, the gunshots leaving him teetering on the edge of permanent damage. His thoughts often wandered to the battle that had robbed him of his right arm. That loss had been devastating enough. The mere idea of losing even more filled him with a dread that clung to him like a shadow.
One morning, as the maid arrived with his meal, Leila followed close behind. Her movements were deliberate, her gaze sharp as she inspected everything—the food, the linens, even the faint scents lingering in the room. Her scrutiny spoke volumes; she suspected Draco's agents might attempt to end his life through more subtle means.
"How do you feel today, sir?" she asked, her voice even but distant.
"I'm improving," Octavius replied, his tone polite yet detached. "I believe I can move without much trouble." To emphasize his point, he raised his arm slightly, though the effort was more taxing than he let on. "I owe you my gratitude for all this care."
Leila's lips curled into the faintest semblance of a smile. "Don't be mistaken, sir. Gratitude means little in a world where everything has its price. Someday, you'll repay me."
Her words, though delivered softly, carried an edge that left him uneasy. There was no venom in her voice, yet her statement lingered, piercing through the silence. Octavius offered no response, instead returning his focus to the meal before him.
As he ate, he became acutely aware of her presence. Her stoic expression betrayed no emotion, her doll-like eyes unblinking and impassive. She was striking, undeniably so, but to Octavius, no beauty could eclipse Luciana's. The memory of her warmth, her laughter, stirred something bittersweet within him. Where was she now? Was she safe? The questions gnawed at him. The shame of his reliance on her—a pregnant woman—was a bitter pill to swallow.
Lost in thought, his grip faltered, and the spoon slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. Leila rose smoothly, her movements quick yet unhurried. A maid hurried forward to retrieve the fallen utensil, but Leila's raised hand stopped her.
"Fetch a clean spoon and fresh linens," she ordered, her voice firm but quiet.
As the maid left, Leila's gaze flicked briefly to the guards at the door before settling on Octavius. He had noticed a small stain on his tunic and was futilely trying to dab it away.
Without warning, Leila leaned in closer, her face mere inches from his as if to inspect the stain on his white tunic. Octavius froze, heat rushing to his cheeks. He felt a surge of discomfort—her nearness, her unwavering stare.
"There's a paper under your soup bowl," she whispered, her voice so faint it barely reached his ears. "It contains a map to a hidden passage leading to an underground bunker. Use it and meet me there tonight."
Before he could respond, she straightened and stepped back, her expression as neutral as ever. With a slight nod, she turned and left the room, leaving him stunned and uncertain. Slowly, his eyes drifted to the bowl before him, the hidden message beneath it suddenly imbued with a weight that was equal parts hope and peril.
Later that evening, Octavius slipped past Draco's ever-watchful guards, following the cryptic directions etched onto the map. The layout was rough, fragmented, and frustratingly vague. He cursed Leila's poor grasp of navigation under his breath, but his resolve pushed him forward.
The hearth wall before him groaned softly, splitting apart like sliding doors to reveal a shadowy corridor beyond. Hidden within the depths of the villa, the passage exuded an air of secrecy and foreboding. Grasping a lantern from the side table, Octavius lit its wick, its flickering glow casting restless shadows along the stone walls. In his other hand, he gripped an iron poker, a weapon of both necessity and comfort in the unknown.
The narrow tunnel stretched on, its silence broken only by the crunch of his boots against the dusty floor. Time felt suspended, the oppressive darkness pressing against his senses. Finally, the passage widened, revealing a dimly lit chamber. The room smelled of damp stone and old secrets, its sparse furnishings cloaked in shadow.
Octavius stilled, his senses sharp. The silence was fragile, pierced suddenly by the echo of deliberate footsteps—soft, measured, and approaching from his left. He turned sharply, his lantern swinging to illuminate the figure emerging from the darkness.
It was her.
Leila was cloaked in disguise, her face partially obscured by a hood. The flicker of the lantern light revealed the faint glint of determination in her eyes.
"You're early," she remarked, her tone laced with an odd mixture of surprise and approval.
Octavius, ever a man of rules and routines, found himself bristling at her comment. "I prefer to be punctual, not early," he retorted curtly. "What does the lady require of me this time?"
Leila's expression hardened, though there was an unmistakable tremor of vulnerability beneath her composed exterior. "Will you do what I ask?" she asked, her voice firm yet edged with desperation.
Octavius's brow furrowed, his grip on the iron poker tightening. "That depends entirely on your request. My aid has limits,my Lady."
Her gaze wavered, and for a moment, she looked almost uncertain. "I need your help," she began, hesitating as though the words cost her dearly. Her hand resting on her swollen belly. A clear proof if a new life inside of her.
"Help with what?" His tone was blunt, cutting through her apprehension.
She inhaled sharply, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if afraid the walls themselves might betray her. "I need you to help me escape this place."
The air between them grew heavy, charged with unspoken tensions and hidden stakes. Octavius met her eyes, searching for deceit but finding only fear—and something more elusive.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone