PROTECTING FOOLISH FEARS
The closer we got to the entrance, the more I found myself scanning the balconies and shadowed archways as though expecting someone to detach from the stone itself. As if it somehow felt instinctive now, this bracing for confrontation.
The scarred face of that huge brute who first tried to prevent me from getting inside had imprinted itself into my memory. Then there had been that other guy, who wouldn’t have looked out of place answering the door at a haunted house. His unnerving stillness had left its own mark. But now, they were nowhere to be found. No silent sentinels materialized to remind me that I was trespassing in a world that did not belong to me.
The ornate gates stood open like they were welcoming its master home, and the sweep of gravel beneath our steps remained undisturbed. I looked back to find the car gone and, with it, any trace of how we got here… or more like,any chance of me leaving.
“Are you short-staffed tonight?” I asked lightly, though I hadn’t quite managed to strip the relief from my voice. My gazecontinued to shift around us as if, at any minute, I was expecting someone else to take over escorting me inside.
“Or have you decided to give the henchmen the evening off?” I added, trying to sound as light-hearted as possible, and unsure whether I had accomplished it. Especially when I felt his fingers tighten slightly where he still held onto my hand.
I glanced up and caught the way his eyes had narrowed slightly at my question. But it wasn’t in irritation, but more like in recognition. He had heard the exhale of breath beneath the joke.
“You were expecting, Torin?” he asked, his tone calm, almost curious.
“Torin? Was that the man who first answered the door to me and told me to fuck off?” I asked, not knowing his name and noticing the slight twitch of Oblivion’s fingers around my palm at the reminder.
But it wasn’t only his grip that changed. A small tick pulsed along his jaw, as though he had bitten back a response before allowing it to surface. The reaction was fleeting, but I felt it, the ripple of irritation contained beneath his otherwise unshaken composure.
“Torin is head of my security,” he offered evenly.
“Ah, and therefore deals with all those pesky mortal intruders,” I teased lightly, hoping to ease the tension I could feel gathering beneath his calm exterior.
The air between us tightened just enough to make me want to smooth it away. And thankfully, it worked, a faint smile touched his mouth. Not the knowing smirk he usually wore when provoking me, but something softer, something that eased the rigid set of his jaw.
“Indeed,” he replied with a wink before going on to say,
“Torin stays at the club, that is where his duties are. But Veneficus is more than just a club. It is also my home.”
Home.
The word settled differently than I had anticipated. I looked up at the manor, at its carved stone, and in the steady light, I understood with startling clarity that the warehouse had never been the truth. It had been the club’s armor. A way to keep people out. Which meant that the home behind it wasn’t something shown lightly, and the realization that Oblivion was sharing that truth with me tightened something in my chest.
When we reached the steps he slowed just slightly, enough that my shoulder brushed against him.
“You live here?” I asked, unable to hide my disbelief as my gaze travelled up the height of him, taking in the broad line of his shoulders beneath the fitted fabric of his jacket.
The fabric stretched just enough across his biceps to draw my attention before I could stop it. Every movement he made carried that effortless authority he never needed to assert aloud. The place suited him. Of course it did, what with its dark stone, deep shadows, and quiet dominance that mirrored him too perfectly to be accidental.
“Yes,” he answered simply, as though it required no further explanation, and well, I guess it didn’t, no matter how curious I was.
“At least I’m entering with the owner this time,” I said lightly, glancing around at the sweeping stone and shadowed archways.
A faint curve touched his mouth before he turned toward the entrance, reaching for the heavy wooden door that stood set into the stone like something far older than the manor itself. The wood was dark, aged oak by the look of it. It was carved with intricate patterns that traced vines and symbols along its surface, the grain worn smooth where hands had passed over it for years. Iron studs lined its edges, and a curved black handle gleamed faintly beneath the lantern light.
He pulled it open with unhurried ease and stepped aside, holding it for me in a gesture that felt almost old-fashioned.
“I can’t be accused of trespassing,” I added as I stepped through, almost tempted to hold my breath as I did. Especially when the door shut behind us with a weighty thud that reverberated faintly through the stone.
For half a breath, the corridor beyond was swallowed in complete darkness. The sudden absence of light stole the edges from everything, leaving only the echo of my own startled inhale. But it was the abrupt loss of his hand in mine as he released me to let me pass that I noticed most of all.
Which meant that instinct kicked in, and before I could stop myself, I reached for him. Quickly stepping directly into his side, my fingers curling tightly around the inside of his elbow. I pressed closer than I intended, my shoulder brushing his chest as though proximity alone could restore my rapid heartbeat. Like it had been done purely out of reflex, my body choosing undeniable strength and safety over an unknown darkness. This also meant he felt my flinch against him when I heard the quiet click echo, which suspiciously sounded like it came from his own fingers.
Light flared to life along the corridor walls, sconces igniting one by one in a warm, golden glow. The illumination spread without hurry, easing back the darkness as it crept along the floor and left shadows stretching in its wake. The carved stone around us emerged from obscurity into detail, the ceiling arching overhead in smooth lines that felt more ancient than decorative.
His eyes shifted briefly to where I still gripped onto him for dear life, and I could tell instantly that he liked what he saw as his eyes flashed silver. The weight of his gaze became too much to withstand for long, and I lowered my eyes, letting my hand slip from his arm as I stepped back. I had barely putspace between us before he reacted. The distance lasted less than half a breath before his hand came for mine without hesitation. Those long, thick fingers wrapping around it firmly, with an unmistakable certainty that suggested it was not a request. Reclaiming my hand as though the separation had been an error he intended to correct.
And only then did he speak once more.
