Emma's scream echoed down the long marble hallway. She scrambled back on the bed until her shoulders slammed into the headboard.
"Who's there?!"
A figure stepped fully into the moonlight. It was Ellis, Adrian's chief of staff. Relief flooded her, leaving her dizzy and weak.
"Mrs. Blackwood, forgive me," he said gently. "I heard a noise. I came to check on you."
Her breath still hiccupped in her chest. "Someone was in my room—someone was holding—"
Ellis lifted his hands. "There's no one here now, ma'am. I'll have the security team sweep the grounds again. I promise, you're safe."
Emma tried to calm her racing heart. It didn't feel like safety. It felt like a cage with new threats every night.
The next morning, Adrian barely acknowledged her. He spoke to Ellis in clipped tones, reviewing security footage. When Emma asked, Adrian only brushed her off.
"If someone broke in, I'd know. You had a nightmare. Let it go."
Emma wanted to argue, but the deadness in his eyes stopped her cold. That was the terrifying truth—sometimes Adrian seemed more like a machine than a man.
Left alone for hours, Emma began exploring the cavernous estate to keep from losing her mind. The west wing was largely empty, lined with dark portraits and heavy antique furniture covered in drop cloths.
At the end of one corridor, she found a door unlike the others. Sturdy, old, with a heavy iron lock that gleamed new against the weathered wood.
She tried the knob. Locked, of course. Something about it made the hair on her arms lift. Why lock a door inside your own house?
Just then, a floorboard creaked behind her. She spun around. No one. But goosebumps danced across her skin.
That night at dinner, she tried to bring it up.
"There's a locked room at the end of the west hall. What's in there?"
Adrian didn't look up from his steak. "A storage room."
"Then why lock it?"
He set his knife down with a deliberate scrape. "Why are you wandering through parts of the house you were told to avoid?"
She swallowed. "I wasn't trying to break rules, I was just—"
"Curious." His eyes met hers, dark and bottomless. "That curiosity will be your ruin, Emma."
After dinner, she retreated to the library to avoid him. A storm was rolling in outside, wind moaning around the eaves. Every thunderclap set her nerves on edge.
She tried to lose herself in a novel, but after only a few pages, her eyes drifted shut.
A sound jolted her awake hours later—a muffled noise, like a door closing far away.
Emma checked the grandfather clock. Midnight.
Careful not to wake the sleeping staff, she padded into the hall. Her feet seemed to move on their own, carrying her back toward the west wing.
As she approached the locked door, she froze. It stood slightly ajar.
Heart hammering, she edged closer. Inside, faint light flickered. She pushed the door open just enough to peer in.
It wasn't a storage room.
It looked like an old study, with dark shelves lined in leather books, a massive desk cluttered with papers. On the far wall, something was covered by a heavy cloth—too tall to be furniture.
And standing in front of it, his back to her, was Adrian.
His crisp white shirt was splattered with red. Blood. His hands were braced on the desk, head bowed like he was struggling to breathe.
Emma's gasp was too loud. Adrian stiffened, then turned slowly. In the lamplight, she could see the blood on his cuff, the fresh smear across his palm.
"Emma." His voice was low, deadly calm. "What are you doing here?"
Her knees almost gave out. "Y-you're hurt—"
"It's not my blood."
That somehow made it worse. Much worse. She backed away, nearly tripping over the threshold.
Adrian advanced on her. "I warned you to stay out of this wing."
"What happened? Who's blood is that? Adrian, please—"
He reached her in two long strides, grabbing her wrist. His grip was iron. "Go back to your room. Now."
She tried to pull away, but he only tightened his hold. His eyes were darker than she'd ever seen, pupils blown wide like a predator's.
"Or what?" she whispered, voice cracking. "You'll hurt me too?"
His face twisted. For a terrifying moment, she thought he might. But then he let go so suddenly she stumbled.
"Go, Emma. Before I say something I can't take back."
She fled, heart thundering, not stopping until she was locked in her bedroom. She pressed her back against the door, sliding to the floor, hugging her knees.
Not his blood. Whose then?
And why was there a shape under that cloth—tall, human-sized, unmistakably out of place?
The next day, Adrian disappeared entirely. Ellis claimed he was in the city on urgent business. Emma paced the mansion like a restless ghost.
By afternoon, she couldn't stand it anymore. She crept back to the west hall. The door to the study was shut tight again, locked.
Her stomach twisted.
> What if someone was hurt because of her? What if he was covering up something terrible?
She tried the handle, pointless though she knew it would be. Then pressed her ear to the wood.
Nothing. Just the distant boom of thunder.
That night, sleep came in fitful snatches. Near dawn, a faint thump woke her. She sat up, listening. Silence. Then—another sound, closer this time. Like footsteps just outside her door.
She eased out of bed and tiptoed to the door, pressing her ear against it.
A soft voice, almost a whisper.
> "Emma…"
She jerked the door open. The hall was empty.
Her pulse raced. She turned to go back inside—
—and stopped dead.
On her bed lay a single long-stemmed black rose. Its petals glistened as if dipped in dark ink, and something small and wet clung to the thorns.
Blood.
Emma's scream ripped through the silent house.