I almost missed the gate.
It wasn't rusted anymore.
Not overgrown, not groaning on its hinges like some abandoned tomb. Now it stood tall, black iron vines twisted into roses that glistened faintly in the haze.
Tiff squinted up at it. "This is it?"
I hesitated. "Yeah. Just...not how I remember."
The gravel drive didn't look like something half-swallowed by weeds anymore. It crunched clean under our shoes, lamps flickering soft gold along the path, as if the house had decided to put on its finest clothes.
And the house—
No. The Villa.
Villa Dahlia rose from the earth like a dream someone had once tried to forget.
Not the kind of dream that rotted from the inside.
The other kind. The impossible kind. The one that makes your chest ache because you'll never belong to it.
Its stones glowed warm, almost inviting. Ivy curled up the walls like dark lace, catching the light from the windows—glass so clear it looked like it might vanish altogether. A fountain spilled bright water over smooth marble, the sound soft as a sigh.
Tiff let out a low whistle. "Okay...wow."
"I swear," I muttered, "it looked like something out of a horror film last time."
"Are you sure you didn't hallucinate the whole thing?"
I didn't answer. Because maybe I had.
But the air knew me.
It pulsed, slow and steady, wrapping around my lungs like warm hands. Not warning this time. Welcoming.
The front doors drifted open without a sound.
We both froze.
Warm air drifted out to meet us, spiced like old books and something darker—something I knew in my blood now.
Tiff stepped in first. "So...where's your mysterious girlfriend?"
I scanned the hall. It was brighter, cleaner. Alive. The chandelier glowed like captured moonlight. The portraits lining the walls had faces now—soft smiles that watched without judgment.
Tiff turned a slow circle. "This place is mad. Like...Bridgerton meets Dracula's summer house."
I tried not to flinch at the word.
"The bedroom's probably bigger than our entire flat," I mumbled.
"Wait—do we even have rooms?"
"I think so."
"You think so? You're just winging this?"
"Basically."
She shoved me. "You're the worst."
And then—
A voice floated down from the landing. Low, velvet, smooth as heat.
"Isn't he?"
We both looked up.
Seraphine stood at the top of the stairs.
Barefoot. Wrapped in deep green silk that clung to her curves like a lover. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, a dark cascade that made my throat go tight. She didn't smile the way mortals do—she let her mouth curve slowly, a promise in the shape of it.
Tiff stared. I didn't blame her.
Seraphine descended the stairs, and the air seemed to hush around her, the shadows drawing back as if they too belonged to her.
"This must be your sister," she said, voice low enough to slide across my skin.
"Uh—yeah. Tiffany."
Seraphine's gaze shifted to Tiff, and for a heartbeat, her eyes glimmered dark garnet—otherworldly. Hungry. But when she offered her hand, her touch was warm, deceptively gentle.
"Welcome to Villa Dahlia, Tiffany. I hope you'll find it...accommodating."
Tiff swallowed. "You're...very tall."
Seraphine's laugh was quiet, rich, wicked in its softness. Then her attention shifted back to me, pinning me in place with a single look.
"You brought her," she murmured, as though it proved something.
"I told you I would."
She stepped closer. Close enough I felt her heat against my chest, even though she hadn't touched me. My pulse skittered like it hadn't learned anything from last time.
Tiff cleared her throat. "Um...should I...go explore?"
"There's a room waiting for you at the end of the east wing," Seraphine said, eyes never leaving mine. "Second door on the right. The house will guide you."
Tiff shot me a look that said we'd be talking, then slipped down the hall, her bag bumping her hip.
And then it was just us.
The door swung shut behind her with a whisper.
"You changed everything," I said.
"No," Seraphine murmured, stepping in until our bodies almost touched. "I simply let you see it."
She didn't waste time.
Her fingers caught the front of my shirt, pulling me in, and her mouth found mine in a kiss that felt nothing like welcome and everything like a claim. Slow at first—testing—but when I didn't pull away, she deepened it.
Heat pooled in my gut, spiraling out in long, sweet shivers. I forgot the house, forgot my name, forgot my sister was a hundred feet away. All I could think about was how she tasted—like night air and dark wine and the hunger I still didn't have a word for.
When she finally drew back, her thumb traced the corner of my mouth, her eyes black with old wanting.
"You came back," she whispered.
"You knew I would."
Her smile was that same slow burn. The one that said she'd already imagined every way she'd undo me again.
Then she stepped back, straightened her robe as if she hadn't just lit me on fire.
"Come," she said softly. "You should know the bones of this place if you're going to live here."
I tried to find my voice. Failed. Just nodded.
And when I followed her down the hall, my pulse still crashing in my throat, I knew it didn't matter how many doors she opened or what she called this house.
"You're giving me a tour?"
"Would you rather get lost in the west wing and accidentally end up in a hallway that loops forever?"
I blinked. "...Right. Tour sounds perfect."
Tiff met us in the hallway, cradling a glass of sparkling juice with a lemon slice. A young man in a pressed uniform bowed beside her and stepped back with practiced ease.
"This guy just... handed me this," she said with a laugh, turning toward the butler. "I guess he's the magician."
The butler—white gloves, soft accent, sharp eyes—smiled. "Villa Dahlia prides itself on timing, Miss Tiffany."
Tiff beamed. She always liked being called Miss.
"The house likes her," Seraphine murmured beside me as we moved down the corridor.
"I'm guessing it didn't like me much the first time."
"Oh, it did," she said softly, her fingers grazing my wrist. "That's why it let you leave."
I didn't reply.
We started in the Library.
It was the kind of room that demanded silence. Two stories tall, the shelves went so high they vanished into shadows. A dark-wood ladder curved across the upper level. The fireplace crackled low, and three more butlers moved between tables, dusting, sorting, arranging tea.
Tiff gravitated to a velvet chair in the corner—soft blue, like it had been plucked from her dreams. The second she sat, a tray of biscuits and a thin novel appeared at her side. She blinked.
"Did I... order this?"
Seraphine smiled. "The house pays attention."
The butlers worked silently, but their presence made everything feel... normal. Human.
Next was the Dining Hall.
It was long and dramatic, all high ceilings and polished wood. A new set of butlers had set the table—gold cutlery, crystal glasses, fresh linen. Roasted vegetables and buttered rolls filled silver platters. Not a trace of dust in sight.
Tiff leaned in. "How do you afford this place again?"
Seraphine answered smoothly, "Old family money. Old house. Older help."
Tiff nodded slowly. "Lucky."
"Extremely," I muttered.
The tour continued.
In the Garden Courtyard, the once-wild vines had been trimmed and trained along latticework. Pale lilies glowed under moonlight, and the fountain at the center gurgled peacefully. Tiffany brushed the rim of the stone bowl, and the flowers around her swayed gently.
"It's like the air's listening."
"It is," Seraphine said under her breath, then louder, "The gardeners here take great pride."
Tiff wandered, delighted. I stayed close to Seraphine, who didn't seem the least bit interested in correcting her.
The kitchen was next—huge, sun-drenched even at night, with warm tile floors and a row of chefs prepping tomorrow's breakfast. Not vampires. Real people. At least, they looked like it. A young woman offered Tiffany a fresh-baked tart. Another winked at me and passed me a bottle of beer.
Seraphine leaned into my ear. "Happy?"
"She doesn't suspect a thing."
"She won't," she said simply.
The conservatory smelled like sunlight and wet moss, full of plants that leaned toward you ever so slightly. A butler pruned an orchid in the corner, humming softly.
The music room was last before the bedrooms.
The cello still played its slow, low notes, but now there was a pianist as well—young, curly-haired, glasses perched on his nose. Human? Maybe. Tiffany clapped when he played something jazzy.
Finally, Seraphine led us down the east wing.
Tiff's room was first—cool blues and silver accents, bay windows opening over the gardens. A set of pajamas was already folded on the bed, and a soft candle glowed on the dresser.
Tiff spun. "Are you sure this isn't a hotel?"
Seraphine only smiled. "Wouldn't charge you if it was."
She glanced at the room across the hall and tilted her chin. "Yours."
I reached for the doorknob but paused. "You sleep here?"
Her eyes glinted. "Not in that room."
"So where—?"
She stepped in close. "I told you. You're welcome to mine."
Then she kissed me.
Just a brush of lips. Not a full invitation.
But a promise, just the same.
And then she was gone, down the hallway, silk trailing behind her, butlers bowing as she passed.