The door shut behind me with a soft click.
My room was... too much.
Dark wood floors polished to a shine. A bed big enough to drown in, draped in sheets that probably cost more than everything I'd ever stolen. A bay window cracked open to let in the scent of night-blooming roses. Candlelight flickered along the walls like breath.
A note rested on the nightstand.
"Your wardrobe has been curated. Welcome home."
I opened the armoire and stared.
Crisp button-downs, perfectly fitted jeans, soft knits, and tailored jackets—all in my size. Some still had tags. Some felt broken in. A pair of boots waited on the floor, already worn to comfort. I hadn't said a word about my size.
I didn't need to.
The house knew.
The villa was alive—maybe not with blood and bone, but with memory. With breath. With attention.
It remembered.
Still, I checked the drawers. Nothing strange. No secret doors. No fangs in the closet.
Just... luxury.
And that was almost worse.
Because I didn't trust luxury. Not when it came without cost.
I left my room and padded down the hall, barefoot on smooth marble. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. A draft carried the soft scent of vanilla and something older, spicier—Seraphine. Like the air here couldn't forget her, even when she left a room.
Tiff's door was cracked.
I knocked anyway. "Tiff?"
She looked up from the bed, legs tucked under a ridiculous white duvet, a hardcover in her lap and a biscuit in her hand. Her face was flushed from warmth, not worry.
"You okay?" I asked.
She smiled. "More than okay. This place is crazy, Cass. It's like a dream. The closet is immaculate. The bathtub sings."
I frowned. "It what?"
"Well, hums. Kinda like a lullaby. I almost fell asleep in it."
I stepped inside. Looked around.
The room was bright, full of cushions and soft fabrics and a soft lavender glow from the chandelier. A butler stood silently near the wall—tall, polite, barely noticeable.
"I hope everything is to your liking, sir," he said when he noticed me.
"Uh... yeah. Thanks."
Tiff popped a bite of biscuit into her mouth. "They brought me mint tea and a heating pad when I sneezed. I didn't even say anything."
The butler inclined his head. "We monitor comfort closely."
I stared at him, but he didn't flinch.
"You like it here?" I asked Tiffany.
"Are you kidding? This is the best thing that's ever happened to us. That Seraphine lady? Total dream. And she's hot."
"Okay," I muttered, holding up a hand. "Too much information."
Tiff grinned. "I'm just saying. Good for you."
I didn't answer.
She leaned in, more serious now. "She's not going to hurt you, is she?"
The question hit me harder than I expected.
I thought about the kiss earlier. The fire in her eyes. The way she made the air bend when she walked.
"She could," I said honestly. "But I don't think she wants to."
Tiff nodded slowly. "Then I guess we'll be fine."
I reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "You'll tell me if anything feels off, yeah?"
"Cass," she said, giving me a look, "I've lived in hostels, cars, and moldy flats. This is the first time I've ever had a bed that doesn't smell like sadness. I'll be fine."
I smiled despite myself.
"Okay. Sleep, then. I'll see you in the morning."
She grinned. "Tell your girlfriend goodnight."
I flipped her off and closed the door behind me, heart still a little too tight in my chest.
Because everything looked perfect.
And perfect always came at a price.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The hallway was still. Too still.
I should've turned back. Let the silk sheets and jasmine-scented pillows cradle me into sleep. But the quiet wasn't comforting—it pressed against my skin like held breath.
So I walked.
Not aimlessly.
The villa guided me. I swear it did.
The shadows shifted just ahead. Candles flared to life seconds before I passed them. Doors I didn't remember passing before had disappeared. The marble under my feet felt warmer, like it remembered I was here.
And then... there she was.
Seraphine.
Framed by the arched window at the far end of the corridor, bathed in moonlight and shadow. She didn't move, didn't speak. Just stood there, her silhouette wrapped in dark silk, hair loose like she'd either just risen from sleep—or hadn't slept at all.
I stopped.
So did the villa.
Like it knew this moment needed silence.
"You're restless," she said, voice like smoke—low, velvet-soft, certain.
"I checked on Tiff. She's fine."
"And now?"
I swallowed. "Now I'm not sure if I want to be alone."
At that, she turned.
Eyes catching the candlelight—deep garnet, reflecting more than they should've. Her lips curved, slow. Knowing.
"Is it the silence that keeps you up?" she asked, stepping forward. "Or the heat you keep trying to ignore?"
My pulse kicked hard at her words.
"I don't know what it is," I admitted, voice low.
Her hands were at her sides, fingers loose, robe slipping slightly to reveal a curve of shoulder and the barest hint of collarbone. "Then don't name it. You'll ruin it."
I laughed under my breath, because she always made things sound so simple—like desire wasn't messy, like I hadn't already tangled myself up in her without realizing it.
She reached for my hand. Not forcefully—just enough. Cool fingers closing over mine.
I should've said goodnight. Turned around. Let the moment fade.
But instead, I whispered, "I haven't stopped thinking about you."
"Good," she said.
Then she walked. Down the hall, leading me. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just like she knew I'd follow.
And of course I did.
The room she brought me to was smaller, but warmer. Firelight danced across dark wood floors and thick velvet curtains. A chaise sat beneath the tall windows. The air smelled of rose and wine and something darker underneath.
She stopped in the center of the room and faced me.
"You still want to define it?" she asked, voice silk-smooth and dangerous. Like a knife hidden in velvet.
I didn't hesitate.
"No," I said, closing the space between us. "I just want you."
The words left my mouth before I could cage them. Raw. Honest. Too much.
But she heard them. All of them.
And understood.
Her robe slipped from her shoulders like it was made to obey her. No hesitation. No seduction theatrics. Just gravity and authority.
She stood there—bare, golden, carved from temptation and shadow.
The kind of woman men went to war for.
And I was already losing.
She didn't move.
Didn't speak.
She simply existed like an answer I'd been too terrified to ask for.
I reached her in two strides.
My hands slid to her waist like they belonged there.
Her skin was warm. Bare. Silk and fire.
And then our mouths collided.
It wasn't a kiss—it was possession.
I kissed her like a man starving. Because I was.
She tasted like blood and honey and something older than both. Like secrets that shouldn't be shared. Like power wearing perfume.
Her fingers tangled in my hair, yanked me closer, nails scraping across my scalp like she wanted to leave marks where no one could see.
"You always act like you're holding back," she breathed against my mouth, her voice wrecked and beautiful.
I pulled her flush against me. Let her feel how far past the edge I was.
"I'm done holding anything."
We didn't make it to the bed.
We didn't care.
The chaise caught us, but I didn't notice the velvet—I only noticed her.
Her legs wrapped around my hips and locked. The motion pulled a groan from deep in my throat. My shirt rode up. Her robe caught between us. My hands were everywhere—her back, her thighs, her breasts. Skin, heat, curve after curve like sin sculpted in gold.
She arched beneath me, bare breasts pressing into my chest, breath hot against my neck.
I dipped my head—tasted the swell of one breast, then the other. She gasped my name, my name, like a secret she didn't mean to say.
"Fuck—" I hissed.
Because this was going to wreck me.
And I wanted it to.
She rolled her hips and I felt her—wet, hot, ready.
Her mouth crashed into mine again. Desperate. Perfect. Our teeth knocked. Her nails scored lines down my back like she wanted to etch herself into my spine.
I didn't care if the chaise snapped in half beneath us. Didn't care if the whole damn house caught fire.
All I could feel was her.
And when I pushed inside—slow, deep, deliberate—her head tipped back and she moaned. Not pretty. Not polished.
Real.
I pressed my mouth to her throat. "You feel like—fuck—" I didn't finish. Couldn't.
Her thighs squeezed around me. "Don't stop," she whispered. "Don't you fucking stop."
I didn't.
I couldn't.
The world shrank to the rhythm of our bodies. To the sound of skin and breath and name after name on her tongue. Mine. Mine. Mine.
She rode the edge first, hips shaking, fingers gripping my shoulders so hard I'd bruise. Her cry was guttural, sacred, the sound of someone shattering and not apologizing for it.
And I followed—spilling into her with a growl that sounded like her name, like surrender, like ruin.
Because that's what this was.
A holy kind of destruction.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Breathless. Slick with sweat.
My head buried in the crook of her neck. Her hand tangled in my hair, not stroking—holding. Like she wasn't ready to let go.
And neither was I.
Because she hadn't just taken my body.
She'd taken whatever pieces were still left inside it.