Torin’s expression shifted, the amusement dimming into something more measured.
“It is too late for that now, little mortal,” he said quietly, and the weight in his voice lingered longer than I expected. Until I felt the truth of it settle low in my stomach.
Too late to turn back. Too late to pretend I had not crossed a line the moment I stepped willingly into this house.
We turned down the familiar stretch of gallery, the portraits watching in their gilded frames as we passed. Torin didn’t rush me, nor did he attempt idle conversation to fill the silence. Hemoved with steady confidence, as though he had a job to do and I was it.
Torin slowed toward the end of the gallery, and I instinctively did the same. Before us hung a painting large enough to dominate an entire section of the wall. Its frame carved from blackened wood rather than gold. There were no rolling fields or tranquil shores here, only a vision that carried weight and something disturbingly real.
The throne was unmistakable.
In fact, it transported me right back to that moment when I’d had my vision of him in my mom’s shop.
The throne was fashioned from what appeared to be bleached bone. The jagged arches curving upward like the ribcage of something colossal and long dead. Upon it sat a figure I would have recognized even if the artist had obscured his face.
Oblivion.
Not in a suit. Not in mortal disguise. But him in his natural domain. His shoulders were draped in armor that seemed grown rather than forged, dark metal layered over black fabric that fell like shadow around his legs. At his feet knelt figures whose forms blurred between human and something far more demonic. The backdrop was not a city skyline or manor courtyard. It was firelight, molten stone, and a sky fractured by something crimson and burning.
My eyes widened at the sight, because it wasn’t symbolic. It was him, holding court in a realm that did not belong to this one. A sight that reminded me exactly who he was and why I shouldn’t trust the softness he had shown me.
My throat tightened slightly as I took in the details, the way the painter had captured the tilt of his chin, the faint lift of his mouth that suggested both amusement and absolute control. Power radiated from the canvas with unsettling clarity. It didn’t feel like artistic exaggeration.
It felt more…documented.
“Interesting taste in artwork,” I murmured lightly, though my voice did not quite hide the tension beneath it. Torin’s gaze rested on the painting for a moment longer before shifting back to me.
“It’s accurate,” he said, and the simplicity of that answer didn’t help.
“Accurate,”I repeated on a whisper, letting the word settle.
He stepped forward then, closing the remaining distance to the frame. For a second, I thought he meant only to admire it more closely, but instead his hand pressed against a subtle ridge carved into the lower corner. There was a soft, almost imperceptible click before the entire painting shifted.
I felt the movement before I fully processed what was happening. The wall itself released with a quiet mechanical sigh as the massive frame swung inward on hidden hinges. Behind it offered nothing but darkness.
“This is a quicker way into the club,” Torin said calmly, stepping aside and gesturing toward the opening.
I stared at the revealed passage for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Erm… it’s a little dark in there,” I said, arching a brow despite the tension curling beneath my ribs.
A faint flicker of amusement returned to his expression before he reached inside and flicked a switch, illuminating the space. The passage beyond the painting was narrower, though still high-ceilinged enough to avoid feeling cramped. The walls weren’t paneled like most of the walls in his home were. They were smooth stone, as though this part of the structure had not been built to impress but to endure.
The air felt cooler and far less lived in.
Torin stepped inside first, and I followed, the painting swinging shut behind us with a muted finality that echoed faintly down the passage.
The lighting here was different as well. Instead of warm sconces casting golden pools across polished floors, recessed fixtures were embedded low along the walls, their glow more subdued, more functional. Shadows clung closer. The emerald of my dress seemed darker in this space, less luminous, almost blending into the stone.
I resisted the urge to glance back at the now seamless wall behind us. There was something about stepping through a hidden doorway that certainly had you questioning your life choices, that was for sure.
Torin’s pace remained steady, unhurried but purposeful. I noticed the way the passage curved slightly, not straight but subtly angled, as though guiding us downward without the need for visible stairs. A faint vibration began to hum through the soles of my shoes, barely noticeable at first.
Music.
Which meant only one thing…the club, Veneficus.
The reality of where we were headed settled more firmly into my bones with each step. As now I knew what he meant by my joining him for the night. It wasn’t for dinner or something more private, but something far more open and public. I found myself fidgeting as my nerves doubled.
