I slap his hand away. “You’re fucking insane. This is some kind of sick joke. You’re fucking with me.”
“Think about it.”
But even as I say the words, I know they aren’t true. The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve felt—they weren’t hallucinations. They weren’t in my head.
They were real.
And so is the fucking thing that’s been watching me from the mirrors.
“I never agreed to this! I never agreed to any of this!”
Adrian’s expression softens, almost pitying. “You didn’t have to agree, Jasper. The moment you stepped foot into this house—the moment you gave in to your desires—you became his.”
My breath comes in ragged gasps. “No. No, this isn’t fucking happening.”
I drop my duffel bag and grab a chair from the kitchen table, then swing it at the glass. The wood splinters on impact but the window doesn’t shatter. It doesn’t even crack. I try again, harder this time, but it’s no use. The glass is impenetrable, like it’s made of fucking steel.
“You offered me as some kind of sacrifice. You and your . . . What? Cult? Is that who those people were last night?”
But he doesn’t answer, just continues staring at me, the way a mother tries to wait out her child who’s throwing a tantrum.
With a growl, I hurl the chair across the room. It crashes against the wall, the noise echoing through the house, but the silence that follows is louder.
Heavier.
As though the house is laughing at me. Like it’s enjoying this.
I turn back to Adrian. “What the fuck does this thing want from me?”
“One last performance. That’s all it wants. One last show.”
I laugh, the sound bitter and broken. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
But he only stares at me, unblinking. Waiting.
And then it hits me.
I’m just another victim. Another piece fed to whatever the fuck is haunting this house. All the things Adrian said to me, all the times he made me feel like I was something more—it was all a lie.
A trick.
Just like the others.
Just like the fucking tapes.
“You’ve done this before? You’ve done this to other people, the ones in the videos?”
He lets out a sigh, his shoulders tensing slightly, like he’s peeling back layers from some rotten thing inside him. “Yes.”
I swallow hard, my throat dry. “How many?”
He steps closer, his dark eyes boring into mine. “I’ve lost count. Over the centuries, there have been . . . many.”
“Centuries?” I stumble back, my head spinning. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m over four centuries old, Jasper. You think this body, this . . . facade of control, this strength . . . all of it is without a price?” His expression hardens. “I used to be just like you. Weak. Vulnerable. My family spat on me. Beat me. I was nothing. Then I inherited this place. And now, I’m more than they ever were.”
“Why me?” I ball my hands into fists at my sides. I want to smash them into his face, destroy that fucking mask he wears.
