The ring was still in my pocket.
I told myself I came back because of it. Because there might be more where it came from—more gold, more escape routes, more ways to keep the heat on and the fridge stocked.
Not because of her.
But the closer I got to Villa Dahlia, the more that lie unraveled.
The house loomed in the dark like it had never stopped watching me. Ivy strangled the front gates, and the air around it felt heavier than the street I'd just walked.
I hesitated at the threshold.
And then the gate creaked open.
No wind.
No movement.
Just invitation.
Because of course it did.
The courtyard was the same: moss, stone, silence. The kind of silence that presses against your skin and listens back.
I didn't knock.
Didn't have to.
The doors opened before I touched them.
The scent hit me instantly—like heat from a memory I'd tried not to have. Jasmine, warm skin, candlewax and blood. The perfume of a woman you shouldn't dream about and still do.
And there she was.
At the top of the grand staircase, backlit by flickering candlelight, wrapped in deep burgundy silk that slid off one shoulder like it couldn't quite keep itself together.
Her skin—God—glowed like burnished bronze kissed by moonlight. Barefoot. Curled hair spilling down her back like ink in water. And her body...
I tried not to look.
Tried.
But the silk clung in ways that should've been criminal. Sculpted. Effortless. The swell of her breasts visible in the low dip of the neckline, the dark line of her collarbones drawing the eye whether you wanted to look or not.
She saw me looking.
Of course she did.
Her smile curled slow—somewhere between indulgent and knowing.
"You've come back," she said.
Her voice wrapped around my spine like silk soaked in honey. Velvet and smoke. Almost amused.
"I didn't think you would."
"I didn't plan to," I said. "But plans don't pay bills."
She took one step down, then another—slow and measured, her hips moving just enough to make the silk shift over her thighs.
The house creaked softly around her, like it sighed when she moved.
"I can give you more," she said. "If you're willing."
"Yeah?" I muttered, trying to keep my eyes at eye level. "And what's the price this time?"
She reached the base of the stairs and stepped close enough that I could smell her skin.
Close enough that my pulse kicked against my throat.
"You're wondering if I'm wearing anything underneath this," she whispered.
I froze.
"I'm not."
My mouth went dry.
"I wasn't—"
She arched one brow. "You were. For exactly three seconds."
I clenched my jaw.
She didn't look smug—just... entertained. Like I was a particularly cute animal at a zoo. A lion pretending not to be caged.
"You didn't come for money," she said, gaze flicking to my mouth. "You came because you miss feeling wanted."
"I came because I'm broke."
"Same thing, isn't it?"
She turned and walked past me toward the hall.
Her hair brushed my sleeve. Her shoulder skimmed my chest. The silk, I swear to God, whispered.
"Come," she said without turning back. "Let's talk about what you're willing to trade."
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Desperation is such a beautiful scent.
It clings tighter than fear. Warmer. More intimate. It seeps into the blood, quickens the breath, tenses the jaw.
He walked through the gates with that scent woven through him like thread.
The house opened for him before he knocked.
Good. It remembers.
I watched from the landing above the entryway, standing in half-shadow. My hair was loose tonight, my robe cut low. I knew exactly what I looked like — temptation laced in silk, sin in warm bronze and red wine.
And his eyes?
They went where I expected them to.
Just for a moment.
He tried not to stare.
But he did.
He always would.
"You've come back," I said, voice soft as dusk.
He looked tired. Paler. Leaner. His coat hung too loose on those narrow shoulders, and his jaw was still sharp with defiance. But his eyes — gods, those eyes — were hungrier now.
I took my time descending the stairs.
Let him look.
Let him think he was winning some invisible war with himself just by not reaching for me again.
He wasn't.
He was already mine.
He thought about the night we shared — the heat, the hands, the teeth — the way I bit his lip and didn't draw blood just to see if he'd beg.
He didn't. But he thought about it now.
I felt it bloom in his thoughts as vividly as if he'd spoken aloud.
"You're wondering if I'm wearing anything underneath this," I said, reaching the bottom step.
I wasn't.
He froze.
Lied.
Tried not to look again.
Adorable.
His pride is such a fragile thing. Worn like armor over nothing but skin.
He doesn't understand what this place is yet. What I am.
He doesn't know that Villa Dahlia opens its doors only to the ones it wants to keep.
That the walls watch.
That the mirrors whisper.
That the shadows press in tighter each time he returns.
But he will.
Soon.
He still has the ring.
Didn't sell it.
Tells himself he couldn't get much for it, but it's not the truth. It's never the truth.
He kept it because it reminded him of me.
Of who he was here.
Wanted. Taken. Worshiped and broken in the same breath.
And I?
I haven't forgotten the way he moaned against my mouth like it was confession. How his golden hair fisted in my hands like it belonged there. How he swore he wasn't coming back — even as he begged to stay a little longer.
Now he walks behind me again.
The house hums as he passes.
The chandelier above flickers. The wallpaper curls just slightly as if leaning closer.
Everything in this place wants him.
And why wouldn't it?
He's young. Beautiful. Reckless. A boy who doesn't know how close he is to falling. Not off a cliff — but into me.
And when he does, I will catch him.
Sink my nails in.
And keep him.