The mansion didn't welcome me. It devoured me. Cold stone climbed high on every side, dark and brooding, as someone designed it to devour secrets whole or keep girls like me from escaping.
Perfect. 10/10 ominous ambience.
I trailed behind Damian, not because I trusted him or because I owed him gratitude. His voice had pinned me like a butterfly behind glass, wings trapped. And now here I was, soaked to my bones, hair sticking, clothes clinging, humiliation chewing at my pride. One sneeze away from losing my sanity.
Inside, the foyer stretched on forever, its black marble polished so perfectly that it reflected my impending doom at me. Chandeliers dripped light like crystal tears, scattering prisms across the floor, and windows so tall they felt like they could judge me from birth to now. My boots squeaked like a badly timed comedy track, breaking the tense silence.
Two men in tailored black suits flanked the entrance, their arms bare and eyes cold, as if carved from stone, their expressions funeral-ready. A double luxury staircase swept up on either side, the black-and-white interior echoing the mansion's stark elegance, chandeliers dripping light above, casting shadows that danced like they had secrets of their own.
"I've made a mistake," I whispered to myself. "This is literally how Netflix documentaries start."
Damian handed his jacket to a guard like royalty, while I stood there a damp inconvenience.
"You'll be staying here until I decide what to do with you," he finally said.
Excuse me?
My jaw dropped to the marble floor.
"Sorry, until you what?"
He didn't repeat himself.
Before I can launch into a rant, a woman stepped in straight out of the shadows like the mansion itself breathed her into existence. She's tall, so tall I feel like I'm shrinking just standing near her. Her black dress was tailored so sharply that it could probably slice bread, throats, and egos.
Her hair pulled into a bun so tight it looks like it's holding several stolen souls hostage. When her gaze drags over me, it feels like an X‑ray peeling back skin and secrets, seeing every mistake I've ever made. My throat tightened, a hard lump forming and sliding down like a rock. I swallowed, loud enough to echo, nervous and exposed as her eyes sharpened, judging me without mercy.
"This is Luisa," Damian said. "She'll show you to your room."
Room?
ROOM?
That sounded suspiciously like prisoner accommodation with fancy sheets.
"You are not locking me in a dungeon," I snapped.
"That depends on how you behave," he replied coolly.
I barked a laugh sharper than my anxiety.
"You kidnapped me! What kind of behavior do you expect?"
"Obedience," he said, voice smooth as death. The smirk on his lips should've come with a warning label.
He stepped closer. I held my ground.
"You write about men like me, don't you?" he tilted his head, lips brushing my skin. "But ink is a lie, Lyra."
"I'm not scared of you," I lied boldly.
He whispered, "Then let me show you why you should be."
I felt a chill run down my back as he walked away like he owned gravity.
Luisa gestured, a 'don't try me' posture. I followed through the endless hallways, mahogany doors, ancient portraits watching, and chandeliers older than democracy.
At last, the double doors swung open with the kind of drama that made my chest seize. My jaw dropped. The room wasn't just big, it was massive, like someone had built it to swallow me whole. An electric fireplace was mounted on the wall, flames flickering and bathing the room in a warm, golden glow that made the cold outside feel impossibly far away.
White and black walls clashed in stark perfection, while wall-to-wall windows stretched endlessly, letting the night pour in like it owned the place. Long grey curtains hung heavy, draping shadows over the space, making the room feel alive. In the center, a bed draped in dark silk beckoned like a sin I wasn't supposed to touch.
"What is this?" I breathed. I meant for the words to stay locked in my head, but they escaped into the heavy silence of the room, far louder than I intended.
"Your room," Luisa said. "He wants you to feel comfortable."
She paused.
"There are no locks on the inside," she added. "And cameras line the halls. Do not test the perimeter."
Then she left.
Click.
That sound murdered my remaining freedom.
I shook. The cold outside, screaming inside. My eyes locked on the bed.
Nope, absolutely not.
The nightstand is one of those dramatic little islands, dark wood, one drawer with a brass knob that refuses to behave, a sad lamp that emits more mood than light, and a scattering of things that scream someone lived here once: a chipped mug, a Polaroid I can't make out, and a candle gone to wax-blob status.
On top of the island sits the book out of place and perfect. Thick as a brick, leather-worn, spine creased from being opened and angrily slammed shut more times than I care to know. Its cover has no cheerful title, just a faded gold script that might've once meant something serious. The edges of the pages are coffee-stained and dog-eared, like it's survived more catastrophes than I have. It smells like dust and forgotten Saturday afternoons.
I gripped the heavy book and hurled it at the glass with every ounce of my 'Final girl' energy. It didn't shatter. It didn't even chip. Instead, the book hit the window with a pathetic thwump and slid down like a sad pancake.
"Screw it," I muttered, gritting my teeth.
I drew back and slammed my entire weight into the frame, aiming for a cinematic breakout. There was no shattering glass. There was only the sound of my shoulder meeting industrial grade steel and a muffled yelp that I'll never admit came from me. I slid back into the room, my vision swimming with the little cartoon stars.
The window didn't have a single crack. I, on the other hand, was pretty sure I'd just relocated my collarbone to my ear.
My inner monologue sighed, a long weary sound. 'Great job. You've successfully annoyed the glass. Now what?'
I ignored the sass and dragged my throbbing shoulder toward the double doors. I was now going for a 'graceful escape,' but it probably looked more like a 'wounded crab.' I reached for the brass handles, heart hammering. This was the part where the music swells, and I vanish into the night.
I pulled the handles. Nothing. I pulled again. Still nothing.
Apparently, the music was on mute.
Locked.
Of course. Why would anything in this creepy mansion be easy?
I planted my hands on the doors and let out a scream that could've doubled as an audition for America's Next Top Horror Survivor.
Echoes bounced off the walls, mocking me. Great, just great. A captured princess? Check. Zero chance of rescue? Check. Imminent villain monologue incoming? Probably.
I hit the bed with a pathetic oomph, my body finally admitting that the window was the superior athlete. My chest heaved in the silence, my fingers curling into a fist. I wanted to punch Damian so hard his ancestors felt it, but moving my arm felt like someone was poking my joints with a soldering iron.
He hadn't appeared yet. I'll take that as a win. I am currently the undefeated champion of sitting alone in a room, I couldn't escape.
Then came the knock sounding suspiciously like my funeral march.
Great, speak of the devil, and he shows up to check the floorboards. I clutched my throbbing shoulder and tried to look less like a flailing fish and more like a woman who wasn't currently being defeated by a piece of furniture.
Or, well not a knock. The door didn't wait. Because why follow etiquette when you're a brooding dark prince? Damian stepped in like the air itself bent to let him through. Collar open, sleeves rolled up, arms like Greek gods decided to start a fan club.
"Ever heard of knocking?" I snapped, trying to pretend I wasn't impressed despite my lungs still doing interpretive dance.
"I own the door," he said.
Excuse me? Sir, this isn't your lair. Earth has laws.
He just leaned against the doorframe, eyes scanning the room, then me, doing a slow, excruciating lap of my frame. He took in the blood, the dirt and the frantic rise and fall of my chest. By the time his eyes reached my white knuckle grip on my shoulder, I knew he could see exactly what I'd tried to do.
"You didn't change."
I raised a brow. "Nope. Didn't feel like putting on your serial-killer-approved outfit. Fashion choice."
The corner of his mouth twitched-a flicker of dark amusement that felt more like a death sentence than a smile. Before I could even summon the energy to roll my eyes, the air in the room shifted. He didn't just walk he blurred. One second, he was a silhouette in the doorway, and the next, the scent of expensive danger slammed into me.
My back hit the wall before my brain could process his movement, his fingers locking around my throat with the cold, effortless precision of a trap snapping shut.
"Why," he murmured, voice silk-dark over a blade of intent, "do you insist on provoking me?"
I coughed out a laugh. "Hobby."
His grip tightened just enough to steal my air. My nails dug into his wrist. He didn't flinch.
"Don't pull away," he warned. "Or you'll find out just how dark this house gets."
I foughtback desperate, eyes watering.
The emotion drained his face until he was nothing but a mask of pale skin and empty sockets. His eyes flared wide, but there were dead, vacant windows into a soul that had already burned to ash.
He spoke through the corner of a mouth that barely seemed to belong to him, the words sliding out like oil. "You think your fire scares me?" His breath was humid with ruin. "It amuses me. I want to see what happens when the darkness finally swallows that little light of yours."
Terror flooded my gaze, making my vision pulse in time with the roar in my ears. I couldn't blink, couldn't look away from the hollow void in his eyes as my own became glassy with a primal, wide-eyed dread.
"Fear looks good on you," he purred.
I had to fight for every syllable, my vocal cords straining against the iron-clad pressure of his grip. "You're insane," I wheezed. The words didn't come out as a shout; they were broken.
"Incorrect. I'm in control here."
His hand loosened. Air tore back into my lungs like a slap.
I doubled over, coughing, gasping, the sound raw and ugly in the silence between us. My fingers trembled as I pressed them to my throat, feeling the ghost of his touch still burning there. Every breath scraped like sandpaper.
He didn't move. Just stood there, watching, like choking me out had been a casual Tuesday activity.
"You're not one of my girls," he said, voice low, the kind that slithered under skin.
I forced myself to look up, still wheezing. "Thank God," I spat.
That earned me a smile, the kind of smile villains give right before someone's soul gets repossessed.
"No, Lyra." His tone dipped, rough silk. "You're mine, and that means I will do whatever I want with you."
Heat flickered low in my stomach, furious like a live wire coiled beneath my skin, thrumming with a pulse I couldn't control. It twisted against my gut, as if my body were betraying my brain. Run. Run. Get out.
This is wrong, my thoughts screamed, panicked and rational, but every nerve betrayed me, sparking with an undeniable awareness that made my skin prickle and my chest tighten.
I clenched my fists, tried to ground myself, but the fire wouldn't leave. It licked at my restraint, mocking me with its persistence. My breath hitched unevenly.
"I hate you!" I shouted, my voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of my anger and frustration.
"That's adorable," he purred, stepping back.
My knees still wobbled, but my glare held steady.
"You'll sleep here tonight," he said, tone turning businesslike as if we hadn't just had a strangulation bonding moment.
"Fantastic," I croaked.
He ignored it, of course, he did. His hand found the doorknob, fingers wrapping around it with lazy ownership. He paused, then turned back slightly, enough for the light to catch the shadow of a smile that wasn't kind.
"Soon you'll beg me not leave," he said, voice velvet dipped in poison.
The click of the door echoed through the room like a gunshot, then silence followed.
I stood there, throat pulsing with every uneven breath.