POV: IVY
The sky cracks open.
It’s not just a sound; it’s a physical assault. A boom so loud it rattles the antique window panes in their frames and vibrates through the floorboards, shaking the bed frame.
I gasp, curling into a tight ball under the heavy duvet, pressing my hands over my ears.
I hate storms.
I’ve hated them since I was seven years old, huddled in a closet in Chicago while my father threw plates at the wall in a drunken rage, the sound of shattering china competing with the thunder outside. To me, storms aren't just weather. They are the soundtrack of violence. They are the noise the world makes when it’s falling apart.
Another flash of lightning illuminates the room, turning the familiar shadows of the armoire and the vanity into jagged, monstrous shapes. One second of blinding white light, followed by plunging darkness.
Then, the thunder rolls again. Long. Deep. Guttural.
I squeeze my eyes shut, counting.One. Two. Three.
The lights flicker.
They buzz angrily, dimming to a sickly yellow, then surging back to full brightness.
Please don't go out. Please.
I can handle the cage. I can handle the silence. But I can't handle the dark. Not here. Not in this gothic mausoleum of a house that groans and settles like a living thing.
Snap.
The room plunges into absolute blackness.
The hum of the HVAC system dies. The digital clock on the bedside table vanishes. The silence that follows is sudden and suffocating, broken only by the rain hammering against the glass like thousands of desperate fingers trying to get in.
"No," I whisper, my voice trembling in the void.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. I can’t stay here. I can’t stay in this bed, defenseless, blind, waiting for the monsters—real or imagined—to come out of the corners.
I need light. I need a human voice.
I needhim.
The thought creates a sickening lurch in my stomach. Silas Vane is the architect of my nightmare. He is the reason I am trapped in this house. He is the man who forced a gun into my hand this morning and dared me to kill him.
But he is also the man who stood between me and the cliff edge. He is the man who fed me when I refused to eat. He is the only other living soul in this wing of the estate.
And right now, the monster I know feels safer than the darkness I don't.
I throw the covers off. The air is already growing cold without the heating. I fumble in the dark, my hands outstretched, searching for the door. My shin hits the edge of the ottoman, pain shooting up my leg, but I keep moving.
I find the cool metal of the door handle. I yank it open.
The hallway is a tunnel of ink.
"Silas?" I call out. My voice sounds thin, swallowed by the vastness of the house.
Lightning flashes again, illuminating the long corridor for a split second. The portraits on the walls look like skulls in the strobe light.
I start to run.
I run on bare feet, my silk nightgown swishing around my legs. I don't know exactly where I’m going, but I follow the instinct that pulls me toward the center of the house. Toward the library. I saw him go there after dinner, carrying a bottle of amber liquid.
