yandere villainess is obsessed with me

Stephanie Redwyne was ten and a half years old, and she had decided that the world was divided into two categories: things that belonged to her, and things that would belong to her. Aizen, of course, fell squarely into the first group.

This realization struck her one afternoon as she watched him polish the silverware in the estate's sunroom. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching the faint scar on his left eyebrow—a remnant of their ill-advised "dragon-slaying" adventure in the attic last winter. He hummed absently, a habit he'd picked up after Lysander's infuriating festival performance, and Stephanie felt a strange warmth bloom in her chest.

Mine, she thought, gripping the edge of her book until the pages crumpled. Only mine.

The Incident with the New Maid

The trouble began with a girl named Clara—a freckled, mousy-haired maid hired to assist in the east wing. She was thirteen, painfully shy, and utterly unaware of the danger she'd stumbled into.

"Aizen," Clara said timidly on her third day, clutching a stack of freshly laundered linens. "Could you… show me how to reset the wards on the guest rooms? I don't want to bother the head butler."

Stephanie, lurking around the corner like a particularly well-dressed shadow, froze.

Aizen set down his polishing cloth. "Sure. It's not too hard once you get the hang of it."

Clara's cheeks flushed. "Thank you! I've heard you're really good with magic."

Stephanie's wand ignited with a crackle.

"Master, I advise immediate evacuation," Vermis warned telepathically from Aizen's pocket.

Too late.

"Aizen!" Stephanie barked, storming into the room. "I need you. Now."

Clara squeaked and fled.

Aizen sighed. "What's the emergency?"

Stephanie grabbed his wrist, her nails digging into his skin. "You're my servant. You don't help anyone else."

"She just needed a quick tip—"

"I don't care!" Stephanie's voice rose, magic frosting the air. "From now on, you ignore everyone but me. Understand?"

Aizen met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "...Understood."

The Lockbox

That night, Stephanie presented Aizen with a small, ornate lockbox.

"Open it," she ordered.

Inside was a silver pendant shaped like a key, its chain threaded with strands of rose-gold—a perfect match for her hair.

"It's a bonding charm," she explained, avoiding his eyes. "Mother says they're used for… for family. So you can always find each other."

Aizen picked up the pendant. "Stephanie, this is—"

"You're my family," she blurted, her cheeks burning. "So wear it. Always."

He hesitated, then fastened the chain around his neck. The key glowed faintly, responding to Stephanie's matching lock pendant hidden beneath her dress.

Now he can't leave, she thought with grim satisfaction. Even if he tries.

The Storm

The true test came a week later, during a violent thunderstorm that rattled the estate's windows. Stephanie hated storms—hated the way the thunder drowned out her thoughts, hated the lightning that reminded her of Aizen's stupid calmness during chaos.

She found him in the library, reading by candlelight. Without a word, she climbed onto the sofa beside him and pressed her face into his shoulder.

"Can't sleep?" he asked.

"Shut up."

He draped his cloak over her—the one she'd gifted him—and kept reading. Slowly, the storm's fury faded into background noise, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing.

"Aizen," she mumbled into his sleeve.

"Hm?"

"If you ever leave, I'll burn the world to find you."

He turned a page. "I know."