Zaria woke in a cold sweat. The moonlight sliced through the thin curtains of her small servant's room, painting the cot in silver streaks. Her heart pounded so violently she feared it might break through her ribs. The mark on her neck throbbed with a pulse she could feel beneath her fingertips—a pulse that didn't belong to her.
She pressed her hand against it again, flinching as a shiver raced down her spine. It was warm… almost alive. Her fingers recoiled, but she couldn't tear herself away. Something inside her stirred, unfamiliar and insistent.
What did he do to me?
The words echoed in her mind, repeating like a mantra. Not a curse, she realized. Not exactly. Something… more.
Her chest tightened as she remembered Lucien's golden eyes, wild and furious. The smell of him—the heat, the animal instinct, the raw power—was still in her memory. A part of her wanted to vomit, to run, to hide. Another part… wanted more.
No. Stop it, she whispered to herself. He's your enemy.
⸻
By morning, exhaustion had given way to an uneasy alertness. Every creak of the mansion, every distant groan of wood settling, made her jump. Zaria dressed quickly, tugging the uniform over her still-damp hair, tying her curls into a bun as she forced herself to focus. The mark burned faintly beneath her collar, and she felt it pulsing against her skin, a constant reminder of Lucien Wolfe's intrusion.
Breakfast in the staff dining hall was silent. The other servants whispered behind her back, casting furtive glances. She noticed a tall man polishing the silverware with almost obsessive precision. Another young woman muttered prayers under her breath.
Zaria's stomach twisted. Do they know something?
Mrs. Flint entered like a storm, her heels tapping a rhythm of authority on the marble floor. "Blackwood. Come with me."
Zaria rose immediately, pulse quickening.
Mrs. Flint led her through a series of corridors she had never seen before. The walls were lined with portraits of stern ancestors, all eyes seeming to follow her. She shivered, hugging herself—not from the cold, but from the sudden, prickling sensation that she was being watched.
They stopped in front of a locked door at the end of a dim hallway.
"You've been curious," Mrs. Flint said, voice low, almost a growl. "Curiosity is dangerous in this house."
Zaria swallowed. "I… I haven't—"
"You've been near the East Wing." Mrs. Flint's eyes bored into her, unrelenting. "Do not go there again. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mrs. Flint," Zaria murmured, heart hammering.
The woman's eyes softened ever so slightly, just enough to make Zaria uneasy. "Good. But remember this: Some doors are locked for a reason. Not all secrets are meant to be uncovered."
Zaria nodded, but her mind was already spinning. The East Wing… what is he hiding?
⸻
Later that day, Zaria tried to keep herself busy. Cleaning, dusting, scrubbing—anything to keep her mind off the mark. But the moment she bent over a sculpture, she felt it again: the pulsing under her skin, like tiny heartbeats synchronized with her own.
It wasn't just heat. It was… a whisper.
A voice, faint, almost a memory.
Zaria…
Her head snapped up. The corridor was empty.
"Hello?" she called softly, forcing her voice to remain steady.
Nothing. Just the faint creak of floorboards settling, and the distant roar of the storm outside.
It's just your imagination, she told herself. It has to be.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. Every shadow in the room seemed deeper, darker. Every corner seemed to hold a secret.
By mid-afternoon, her exhaustion collided with fear. She had been walking the hallways repeatedly, pretending to check rooms or polish furniture, but all she was doing was circling the East Wing.
She stopped outside a heavy door she had never noticed before. The wood was black, ancient, and cracked slightly. A golden keyhole glimmered faintly in the dim light.
Her fingers hovered over it. Something whispered from inside.
Do it.
Don't.
Her hand trembled. Then, before her rational mind could protest, she slipped a hairpin from her bun and worked the lock.
Click.
The door opened with a groan.
Inside, the East Wing was a different world. The air was warmer, heavier, and smelled faintly of iron and earth. The furniture was draped in thick sheets. Cobwebs hung in the corners. But it wasn't abandoned—it was alive. Something moved in the shadows.
Zaria's breath caught.
A figure stepped from behind a velvet curtain. Eyes like molten gold, hair dark as midnight, presence undeniable.
"Lucien…" she whispered.
He stepped closer, muscles tense, eyes flicking to the mark on her neck. "You shouldn't be here," he said, voice low, rough.
"I—I needed answers," she stammered.
"You don't get answers by prying," he said, his gaze cutting into her. "You get danger."
The air thickened, and Zaria felt the pull of something magnetic, uncontrollable. The bond was real. She could feel it tethering her to him, pulling her closer against her will.
And then she saw it: a locked cabinet in the corner. Strange symbols etched into the wood, faintly glowing.
Her curiosity overrode caution. She reached for it.
Lucien's hand shot out, stopping hers. "No."
She stared at him, wide-eyed. "Why? What's in there?"
His jaw tightened. "Something that could destroy you. Something that should never be touched."
But Zaria's fingers tingled. The mark pulsed, almost guiding her hand. She shook her head, trying to fight it.
"I—I can't help it," she whispered.
He exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders palpable. "You shouldn't have come here. Now you've put yourself in my world. There's no going back."
⸻
That night, sleep refused her.
She dreamed of golden eyes in the darkness, of shadowy figures moving silently through corridors, whispering her name. Her own heartbeat was deafening, synchronized with the mark's pulse.
Something inside her had shifted.
Not just the mark. Not just the bond.
Something darker. Something hungry. Something awake.
By morning, Zaria knew one thing with absolute certainty: she could never leave Vane Estate.
And Lucien Wolfe wasn't just dangerous—he was unstoppable.