I didn't sleep before dinner.
Couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those golden eyes in the garden, burning through the darkness. Watching. Waiting.
At seven-thirty, a knock came at the door. Not Lucien. A girl, maybe sixteen, with dark curly hair and a maid's uniform. She didn't speak, just gestured for me to follow.
The dining room was worse than I expected. A table long enough to seat thirty people, set for two. Me at one end, an empty chair at the other. Candles floated in the air above the table, dripping wax that vanished before it hit the cloth.
I sat. Waited.
No one came.
Food appeared anyway. Roasted chicken, fresh bread still steaming, vegetables I didn't recognize. Wine so dark it looked black. My stomach growled, but I didn't touch anything.
"He's not coming," Lucien said from behind me.
I jumped, nearly knocking over the wine glass. He moved too quietly for someone solid.
"Then why set two places?"
"Hope, perhaps." He walked around the table, adjusting a fork that didn't need adjusting. "The master hasn't dined with anyone in seven years."
"Why?"
"That's not your concern." He gestured at my plate. "Eat. You'll offend the cook if you don't."
"There's a cook?"
"There's a full staff. You simply won't see most of them." He poured water into my glass, the pitcher moving on its own after he set it down. "They prefer to remain unseen."
I picked up my fork. The food was perfect, better than anything I'd ever tasted, but it stuck in my throat. Everything about this place felt wrong. Too quiet. Too empty. Too full of things I couldn't see.
"The West Wing," I said. "What's in it?"
Lucien's hand paused mid-reach for the wine bottle. "You ask dangerous questions, Miss Marchand."
"I'm trapped in a castle with a monster I haven't seen. Everything about this is dangerous."
"He's not a monster."
"Then what is he?"
Lucien looked at me, really looked, and something sad crossed his face. "Cursed."
"By who?"
"By someone who knew exactly how to hurt him." He finished pouring the wine. "The West Wing is forbidden. Don't go there. Don't even think about going there."
"Or what?"
"Or the contract breaks." His voice went cold. "And your father's farm burns."
I set down my fork. "You keep threatening my family."
"I'm trying to save your life." He moved toward the door. "Midnight, Miss Marchand. Be ready."
He left me alone with floating candles and food I couldn't taste.
***
I explored after dinner. Not the West Wing, but everywhere else felt fair game.
The castle was a maze. Hallways that seemed to loop back on themselves. Doors that opened to rooms bigger than they should be. A ballroom with a ceiling painted to look like a night sky, stars actually twinkling. A music room where a piano played itself, sad songs that made my chest ache.
I found a library on the second floor. Two stories of books, shelves reaching up into shadows the floating lights didn't quite touch. A fire burned in the hearth, and there was a reading chair positioned perfectly to catch its warmth.
This. This I could handle.
I ran my fingers along the spines, reading titles in languages I didn't know. Some books felt warm. Others cold enough to hurt. One hummed when I touched it, a low vibration that traveled up my arm.
I pulled out something that looked safe. "A History of the Southern Kingdoms." Boring. Perfect.
I'd barely settled into the chair when I felt it again. That pressure. That sense of being watched.
I looked up.
Nothing. Just shadows and books and that crackling fire.
But the feeling didn't go away. It got stronger, heavier, until the air itself seemed to thicken. I could feel eyes on me, tracking every movement. The back of my neck prickled.
"I know you're there," I said to the empty room.
The shadows in the far corner shifted.
Not much. Just enough to suggest something large moving through the darkness, staying just out of reach of the light.
My heart kicked into a gallop. I gripped the book tighter, like it could protect me.
"Show yourself."
A low sound came from the darkness. Not quite a growl. Not quite a laugh. It rumbled through the floorboards and settled between my thighs like a promise. Something in between that made every hair on my body stand up.
Then, nothing. The pressure lifted. The shadows stilled.
Whatever had been watching me was gone.
I sat there for ten minutes, barely breathing, before I trusted my legs enough to stand. The book tumbled to the floor. I didn't pick it up.
I ran back to my room and locked the door.
***
Eleven fifty-eight.
I sat on the edge of the bed, still dressed, chemise clinging to places the village boys had only dared stare at. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I pressed them between my knees to still them.
Lucien's instructions played on repeat in my head. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't leave the bed. Don't scream.
What kind of rules were those?
Midnight.
The castle's clock tower rang out, deep bronze notes that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Twelve bells. Each one louder than the last.
On the final chime, my door opened.
No creak. No knock. It simply swung inward, smooth and silent.
Nothing came through.
I stared at that open doorway, at the dark hallway beyond, and felt ice slide down my spine.
"Hello?" My voice came out barely a whisper.
A shape moved in the darkness. Huge. Bigger than any man. It didn't walk into the light. Just stood there, right at the threshold, a mass of shadow and something else. Something that reflected the dim glow from my fireplace in a way that wasn't quite right.
Fur. I was seeing fur.
"You're afraid." The voice was deep, rough, like gravel sliding over silk. Not quite human but not quite animal either.
I couldn't answer. My throat had closed up.
"Good." A pause. "You should be."
He moved, and I caught a glimpse. Just a glimpse. A massive hand, clawed, resting on the doorframe. Shoulders that barely fit through the opening. And those eyes. Golden, burning, fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin feel too tight.
"Every night," he said. "I will come to your room. You will not run. You will not hide. You will let me see you."
"See me?" I managed to choke out.
"I need to know you're real." Something shifted in his voice. Something almost vulnerable. "That you're here."
"Where else would I be?"
"Gone. They all leave eventually."
I didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if I should say anything at all.
He stood there for a long moment, just breathing. I could hear it, slow and measured, like he was holding himself back from something.
"The West Wing," he said finally. "Never go there."
"Why?"
"Because if you do, I can't protect you from what you'll find." Those golden eyes narrowed. "And because if you break that rule, the contract ends. Your father loses everything. Your sisters end up on the street."
Same threat. Same chain around my neck.
"I understand."
"Do you?" He leaned forward, just slightly, and the light caught more of him. Fur, dark as midnight. A face that was wrong in ways I couldn't quite process. Too long. Too sharp. Too much teeth. "You think you know what I am. What this place is. You don't."
"Then tell me."
"No." He stepped back into the hallway. "Sleep, Belle. Tomorrow we begin your real duties."
"Wait." The word came out before I could stop it. "What do I call you?"
Silence. Long enough that I thought he'd left.
Then, so quiet I almost missed it: "Léandre."
The door closed.
I sat there in the darkness, heart still racing, hands still shaking. Léandre. The name felt old, weighted with something I didn't understand.
I got up, walked to the door, pressed my ear against it.
Nothing. No footsteps. No breathing.
But I knew he was still out there. Standing in the hallway. Watching my door.
I climbed into bed fully clothed and pulled the covers up to my chin. The fire had burned down to embers, casting everything in a red glow. Shadows danced on the walls, and every one of them looked like reaching claws.
Sleep didn't come for hours.
When it finally did, I dreamed of golden eyes and a voice asking me to stay.
Begging me not to run.
***
Morning came cold and gray. I woke to find a breakfast tray on my bedside table. Fresh bread, cheese, fruit. A note in elegant script: "Lucien will collect you at nine. Wear something practical."
Something practical for what?
I ate, washed my face in the basin that had also mysteriously appeared, and changed into the simplest dress from my trunk. Someone had unpacked while I slept. My clothes hung in the wardrobe, my books stacked on the desk. Even my mother's hairbrush sat on the vanity.
The personal touch made it worse somehow. Like they were trying to make this feel like home.
This would never be home.
At nine exactly, Lucien knocked. "Ready, Miss Marchand?"
"For what?"
"Your orientation." He started walking, and I had to hurry to keep up. "The master has specific requirements for your service."
"What kind of requirements?"
"You'll see."
He led me down, down, deeper into the castle than I'd gone before. The air grew cooler. The light dimmer. We passed doorways covered in thorny roses, their petals black as oil.
Finally, we stopped at a pair of massive doors. Iron, carved with symbols I didn't recognize.
"Beyond this point," Lucien said, "is the West Wing."
My stomach dropped. "I thought I wasn't allowed there."
"You're not." He pointed to the left. "That hallway leads to the East Gallery. That's where we're going. But I wanted you to see these doors. To understand."
"Understand what?"
"That some rules exist for your protection." He looked at me, silver eyes serious. "The master was kind last night. Restrained. If you enter the West Wing, you'll see what he becomes when restraint breaks."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise." He turned away from the doors. "This way."
I followed, looking back once at those iron doors. Something scratched on the other side. Slow. Deliberate.
Like claws.