Always knock.
Never run.
There are no explanations.Just rules and silence.
I sit at the small writing desk by the window, sipping from the chipped floral mug someone left with my breakfast tray. Oatmeal. Barely warm. But at least the tea is decent—black, strong, floral at the edges. Someone in this house knows how to make it. Maybe Mary. Maybe a staff I haven’t seen. The house is big enough to hide a dozen people, and I’d never know unless one of them sneezed.
After finishing, I set the mug down, stand, and stretch. My bones ache from the chill, and my limbs feel stiff from how still I’ve been trying to stay. I’ve never been one to sit around and wait, and I’m not about to start now. If I’m going to be working here—caring for a man whose medical needs remain suspiciously vague—I need to know what I’m walking into. And if Mary won’t tell me, then I’ll figure it out myself.
I grab my cardigan from the hook and wrap it around me, fingers lingering at the buttons, though I don’t fasten them. Habit. My foster mom used to say I fidgeted more when I was nervous, but I just like knowing I can shield myself if I need to. You learn to wrap yourself in layers when no one else is going to do it for you.
The hallway outside my room is dim, though morning light tries to filter in through heavy curtains that haven’t been opened in years, if the dust motes are anything to judge by. I pass a faded runner rug and a row of ancient sconces that must have once held candles before someone wired electricity through the walls. The mixture of old and modern gives the place a strange, museum-like feel—half-living, half-preserved.
I make a right down a corridor I haven’t explored yet. The wallpaper here is darker, the ceiling lower. A strange weight settles in my chest as I walk deeper, like the air is pressing down. My footsteps sound louder, sharper.
Halfway down the hall, I notice the doors. Three of them. All solid wood. All locked.
I pause in front of the first one, resting my hand on the brass knob, but it doesn’t budge. There’s no sound on the other side. No light under the frame. Just... stillness. I try the second. Same. The third has no knob at all—just a carved wolf’s head where the handle should be. The detail is breathtaking, and its eyes seem to follow me.
My fingers twitch toward it before I pull back.
I should probably turn around. I know that. The rules are clear. But I’m not one to follow rules blindly, especially when they don’t make sense. And this house doesn’t make sense. Nothing about this job feels normal. It feels curated. Orchestrated. Like I’m being watched, measured for how much I’ll tolerate before I crack.
But I don’t crack easily.
I take another step toward the door, then freeze.
There’s a sound—barely audible, but unmistakable.
Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Controlled. And they’re coming this way.
I glance behind me. Empty hallway. No exit. Nowhere to go without making it obvious I was somewhere I shouldn’t be. So I do the only thing I can think of—I step back into the alcove near the third door, press myself into the shadows, and hold my breath.
The footsteps grow louder. Closer. Then I see him.
Darius Crane.
In the flesh.
He doesn’t notice me at first; or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He moves like a man who owns every inch of the space he walks through, like nothing could possibly touch him unless he allowed it. Broad shoulders, long coat swaying around his legs, dark hair tucked back but slightly disheveled at the crown like he’s been pacing or pulling at it. His face is even more severe in person: chiseled features, eyes like polished stone, jaw tense enough to bite through iron.
And the moment he passes the alcove where I’m tucked, he stops dead.
My heart skitters into my throat.
He turns his head, just slightly. Enough for me to see the edge of his profile. His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak. Just... senses me.
And I know, without a doubt, that he knew I was there the whole time.
