The first thing I noticed wasn't the blood in the glass.
It was her.
Draped in crimson silk, barefoot, framed by shadows and the flicker of firelight. Her skin was deep and smooth, like polished mahogany dipped in dusk. Hair coiled into thick, elegant twists that spilled over one shoulder. Eyes dark, but not dull — like glass just before it breaks.
And she was smiling.
The kind of smile that belonged on someone dangerous. Someone used to being obeyed, or desired. Or both.
"You're not very good at breaking and entering," she said, her voice soft and smoky, threaded with a delicate accent I couldn't quite place—French, maybe, but silkier. Warmer. Like she'd learned English in poetry, not textbooks.
I froze.
Didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
She tilted her head slightly, that smile sharpening. "Did you think no one was home?"
"I didn't think anyone was still living here," I said carefully, adjusting my grip on the crowbar.
"You were wrong."
She stepped forward, slow and unhurried. "Very wrong."
And God, I was.
She didn't move like most people. No fidgeting. No wasted motion. Just... stillness, sharpened into grace.
The silk of her gown whispered as she walked, catching the light like blood caught on glass. And when she paused, just a few feet in front of me, it felt like something ancient and electric had shifted in the room.
"I was just looking around," I said, trying to sound casual.
"And stealing," she corrected, one brow lifting. "Let's not pretend."
She didn't sound angry. If anything, she sounded... entertained.
My eyes flicked to the fireplace, to the glass resting beside the chair. Dark liquid. Thick. Rich. Not wine. Something else.
Something worse.
I looked back at her.
She hadn't moved. But I felt her closer.
"What's your name?" she asked.
Her voice didn't demand. It invited. Wrapped around me like smoke curling through a window crack.
"Cassian."
She smiled like it pleased her. Like it confirmed something she already knew.
"Of course it is."
I should've been sweating. Should've been running.
Instead, I stood there, frozen between curiosity and danger.
She didn't look like a threat.
She looked like a promise. One I wasn't supposed to keep.
"I could call the police," she said lightly, as if she were discussing the weather.
"But you won't," I said.
She tilted her head. "Why not?"
"Because you haven't yet."
That grin again — slow and sharp. "You think I'm enjoying this?"
"A little," I said, surprised at my own voice. "You're smiling like someone who hasn't had company in a while."
Her lashes lowered. "Maybe I haven't had the right kind."
The silence stretched.
Thick. Slow.
I glanced around the room again. Velvet drapes half-pulled. Oil paintings watching us from darkened walls. Books, floor to ceiling, like no one had moved them in decades.
"This place..." I began, unsure why I was still talking, "it's different."
"It's old," she said.
"It's alive," I murmured before I could stop myself.
She didn't blink. Didn't correct me.
Just watched me like she was peeling me open with her eyes.
"You're not afraid," she said.
I wanted to laugh, but it got stuck in my throat.
"No," I said. "Not yet."
"But you should be?"
"Maybe."
She took one slow step back toward the fire. Sat delicately in the velvet chair like a queen returning to her throne.
"I don't get many visitors," she said. "And fewer still who walk in through the front door."
"I didn't know it would open."
"Things open for those who need them to," she said, running a finger along the rim of the untouched glass. "Tell me, Cassian. What is it you need?"
Her eyes fixed on mine, steady and unblinking.
I felt like she could see the lie before I said it.
"Something to sell," I said anyway. "Nothing personal."
Her smile didn't shift.
"But you came alone," she said. "You didn't tell anyone where you were going. And yet, your thoughts... they're not on the prize."
I stiffened. "Excuse me?"
She tilted her head again, and for a moment, I swore the air around her shimmered. Like heat. Like tension.
"Your thoughts," she murmured. "They smell like fear. And loyalty."
Her voice dropped.
"Someone's depending on you."
That stopped me cold.
I didn't answer.
Didn't move.
Her smile softened, as if she'd seen something tender inside the cracks of me.
"Not everything stolen has to be returned," she said. "Some things are meant to be taken."
"And what are you?" I asked, without thinking. "A collector?"
She laughed—low, breathy, dangerous.
"No, Cassian."
Then her eyes caught the firelight.
"And I never take what's not freely given."
I didn't know what that meant.
Not really.
But I knew I needed to leave.
Now.
Still, I didn't move.
Because something about her voice rooted me to the floor. Something about her stare made it impossible to walk away.
"May I ask you something?" she said.
Her tone changed. Slower. Heavier.
"Sure."
She leaned forward.
"Do you believe in monsters?"
I blinked.
My throat felt dry. "Depends. What kind?"
Her eyes darkened, like night pressing in.
"The kind that wear your face. That wait until you're desperate enough to come knocking."
I swallowed.
She smiled.
Then lifted the glass—still full, still untouched—and held it in her hands like a rosary.
I didn't wait for her to drink.
I took one step back.
Then another.
She didn't stop me.
Just watched, eyes glinting, smile lingering.
As if the game had only just begun.
----------------------------------------------------------
I didn't look back.
Not when I left the library.
Not when I heard the soft clink of glass behind me.
Not even when the fire cracked like it had something to say.
I told myself I was leaving. That I'd find the front door, slip out the same way I came in, and forget all about the woman in crimson silk with that voice like ruin and roses.
But the hallway didn't agree.
The route I remembered was gone.
Where there'd been a narrow corridor, now stretched a long gallery filled with statues—elegant, eyeless things carved from pale stone, their faces half-erased by time or mercy. The windows let in no moonlight. Just a faint, sourceless glow that bled across the floor like mist.
I turned around.
And the library door—gone.
No handle. No frame. Just smooth wall, as if it had never existed.
I stared.
My breath turned shallow.
The air in Villa Dahlia didn't feel stale or empty. It felt... aware. Watching. Listening. Rearranging itself just out of sight.
I tried to find the stairs.
Tried to remember every corner I'd passed earlier. But every time I turned, the rooms bled into one another, halls folding over halls like the house was rethinking its architecture with every step I took.
Paintings blinked.
Mirrors swallowed reflections.
Doors led to walls.
Windows opened onto more rooms.
And somewhere in the distance, piano keys played notes I hadn't touched.
By the time I stumbled into a grand hall—different from the last dozen—I'd lost all sense of direction. The walls here were marble. Polished. Ice-white veins running through green like petrified vines.
There were no doors. Just columns.
And at the end of the hall: her.
She wore something darker now—crimson silk that clung like shadows. Her feet were bare against the marble. Her hair was unbound, a cascade of dark coils tumbling down her back. She stood still, arms folded loosely, head tilted just slightly to the side.
"Trying to leave?" she asked softly.
I stopped in my tracks.
"I... yeah," I managed.
She smiled like she already knew.
"The house doesn't let people go when they still have something to find."
I forced a breath through my teeth. "And what exactly am I supposed to find?"
"That depends," she said. "What are you looking for?"
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't sure anymore.
What had started as a quick job, a grab-and-run, had unraveled into something else entirely. Something that made the hair at the back of my neck stand on end. That made my thoughts blur at the edges.
"None of this makes sense," I said.
"The Villa rarely does."
"This place is—" I paused. "—wrong."
She walked toward me slowly, deliberately, like someone circling prey that hadn't made up its mind about fighting or fleeing.
"Villa Dahlia is alive, Cassian," she murmured. "But not cruel. It simply has a memory. And a hunger for stories."
My throat tightened. "Stories?"
"People," she corrected. "Desperate ones. Beautiful ones. Dangerous ones. The house doesn't open for just anyone. It opens for those it wants."
"And you?" I asked, forcing myself not to back away. "Are you part of the house?"
She stopped inches from me. Close enough to smell her skin—violets, rain, old paper.
"No," she said.
I looked past her. No new door had appeared.
No escape.
Just velvet curtains and gold-framed oil paintings watching us like judges behind glass.
My hand found the crowbar in my coat.
Her eyes dropped to it, then lifted again, unbothered.
"You won't hurt me," she said.
"I don't even know what you are."
Her smile curved wider, darker.
"No," she said softly. "But I think you're starting to guess."
The room around us exhaled.
I felt it in my chest. My ribs. The floor beneath my boots.
The house was breathing.
Or maybe... I was.
Because for the first time since I entered Villa Dahlia, I wasn't sure if I'd brought my fear in with me, or if the house had sewn it into my skin when I crossed the threshold.
"I need to go," I said quietly.
Her expression didn't change.
"Then go," she said.
And a door opened behind me.
Just like that.
Wood. Iron hinges. Brass handle.
The front door.
The same one I'd entered through.
I stared at her.
At the door.
Back at her.
"It's not that simple," I said.
She nodded. "No. It never is."
I turned and walked to the door.
Hand out.
Fingers brushing the handle.
And then I stopped.
Because something inside me—something older than instinct—whispered that the house wasn't letting me leave.
It was testing me.
Seeing if I wanted to go badly enough.
Or if I'd turn around.
And I did.
I looked back at her. Dark and waiting.
Smiling like the house had just told her a secret I wasn't ready to hear.