The first step out of the study should've felt like progress.
It didn't.
The hallway seemed longer than I remembered. Shadows bled across the walls even though morning light seeped through the high, dust-smeared windows. The air had a weight to it—like Villa Dahlia didn't want me to leave.
Or maybe like it was waiting to see if I could.
I kept the box of valuables tucked deep in my coat pocket. It felt heavier than it should, like it held more than just gold. Like it held the price of something I hadn't agreed to pay.
My boots echoed on the marble floor, too sharp. Too loud. The kind of noise you only hear when everything else is holding its breath.
The door was still open.
Just a crack.
Just like last night.
But when I reached it and pushed, it didn't budge.
I pressed harder.
Still nothing.
The air shifted behind me. Cold and coiled, like the space had rewound itself.
I turned. The corridor stretched farther than it had a minute ago. The same mirror. The same staircase. But everything just a little... wrong.
I was walking in a loop.
No—
The house was looping me.
"Right," I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair. "Haunted bloody Barbie mansion. Should've known."
I turned on my heel and walked the other way.
Left.
Then left again.
Then past the study.
I saw a window.
I tried to open it.
Locked.
The glass wouldn't crack, even when I struck it with the heel of my palm.
Villa Dahlia didn't just want me here. It had claimed me.
"Alright," I growled, looking up at the cracked chandelier, at the walls, the ceiling, the air.
"You've had your fun."
I felt ridiculous talking to a house.
More ridiculous when the lights flickered in response.
A low hum rolled through the walls. Not electricity. Not wind.
Breath.
I stood there in the main hall, staring at the front doors that refused to open, at the corridors that bent too long, at the staircase that didn't lead anywhere.
And for one horrible second, I thought I was trapped for good.
Then—
Footsteps behind me.
Not fast. Not quiet.
Seraphine.
She moved like she knew the house bent for her.
One hand at her waist, robe swept open to reveal a dark gown that shimmered like oil when she walked. Her hair was coiled high, cheekbones sharp, lips soft but unsmiling.
"I should've warned you," she said lightly. "Villa Dahlia doesn't like goodbyes."
"Could've mentioned that before I got dressed."
She smiled, faintly. "You looked like you needed the illusion of choice."
I shook my head, jaw tight. "What, so I'm a guest until you say otherwise?"
She stepped closer. "No. You're free to go. But you have to ask her nicely."
Her?
She ran a hand along the nearest wall, the way someone might touch an old friend.
"The Villa. She's old. Proud. She doesn't like being used."
"I wasn't—"
She tilted her head. "You were desperate. Desperation is its own kind of using."
I opened my mouth to argue. Closed it again.
Because maybe she was right.
I looked at the front door again.
Then back at her.
"I need to get back," I said. "To my sister."
Something softened in her eyes.
She didn't ask why. She didn't have to.
Instead, she walked to the doors and laid a single hand on the wood.
Whispered something I didn't catch.
The lock clicked.
The wind stirred.
And the doors eased open just enough for me to squeeze through.
Outside, the mist still clung to the hedges. The iron gate stood ajar, same as before.
She looked at me one last time.
"I hope you come back," she said.
I hesitated.
Not because I didn't want to leave—
But because part of me didn't want to go.
I nodded, stepped out into the morning, and didn't look back.
Not even when the gate closed on its own behind me.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
He didn't look back.
I watched from the upper balcony as he passed through the mist—shoulders squared, hands tucked deep into that worn hoodie like he was holding himself together.
I didn't blame him.
He'd left pieces of himself between my sheets.
Slick with sweat. Breathless with disbelief.
Cassian Hale.
Twenty-three. All sharp instinct and broken-boy pride, wrapped up in golden hair and those clever, reckless eyes.
He thought he'd stolen something from me.
But oh, he was the one taken.
The Villa hummed beneath my bare feet.
Still hungry.
Still watching.
But satisfied, for now.
"Don't pout," I murmured, running my fingers along the cold railing. "He'll be back."
And if he wasn't?
I'd fetch him.
It had been decades since a man made me feel anything.
Not love.
Not lust.
Just... interest.
Real, prickling, spine-deep interest.
Most men were too fragile. Too obvious. They begged for eternity with the desperation of flies on glass. They wanted power. Or immortality. Or the illusion of control in a world that owed them nothing.
But Cassian?
Cassian wanted out.
Which only made him more fun to drag deeper in.
I turned and padded back through the west wing. The light caught in the floor-length mirror across the corridor.
Of course, I wasn't in it.
Just the hallway behind me.
And a faint smear of red where my lips had brushed his collarbone.
He'd be thinking about me already.
The feel of my thighs around his hips.
The sound of my voice when I came.
The way the room bent around us, silent and trembling, like even the house couldn't breathe.
He was pretending it didn't matter.
That it was just sex.
But that boy had a worshipper's mouth when he moaned. Like he didn't know if he wanted to fuck me or fall to his knees.
He'll be back.
The Villa agreed.
The doors had closed behind him like a promise kept. Or a secret sealed.
For now, I let him go.
Let him think he was free.
But I knew better.
He wasn't done with me.
And I certainly wasn't done with him.