And that’s when things go sideways.
It’s like my body decides to melt all at once. My knees wobble, my head feels too light, and the entire forest tilts slightly to the left. The mist seems closer now, swirling up over the edge of the pool like it’s alive, and I can’t tell if the trees are actually moving or if my brain’s just playing tricks on me.
I slap the joint out, grinding it against the stone railing. “Nope,” I say, stumbling backward. “That’s enough fun for one night.”
I shiver, suddenly aware of how cold it is now that the rain has stopped. The damp air clings to my skin, making me feel both exposed and claustrophobic. My boots squeak against the tiles as I turn and head back inside, gripping the doorframe like it’s my only anchor to reality.
The house feels warmer than before, though that might just be the weed. Or my brain trying to make sense of things. Either way, the silence inside is deafening, wrapping around me like a weighted blanket I didn’t ask for.
I drop onto one of the oversized sofas in the living room, sinking into the cushions as if they’re trying to engulf me.
“Elena,” I whisper, my voice slurred, “you owe me so many explanations when I survive this.”
The devil on my shoulder cackles. The angel facepalms. And I sit there, staring into the low light, wondering if the house is actually breathing—or if I’m just too high to know the difference.
The house feels warmer than before, though that might just be the weed. Or my brain trying to make sense of things. I sink deeper into the couch, my limbs feeling boneless and heavy, while my mind—my gloriously high, overactive mind—is suddenly buzzing with possibilities.
“Elena,” I mutter again, my voice low, “if I start talking to the furniture, I’m blaming you.”
My eyes dart to the grand staircase across the room, sweeping up in a perfect curve that screamsmoney.It’s the kind of staircase where a rich villain in a silk robe would casually sip brandy while plotting someone’s demise. But right now, it’s calling me like a siren.
“Stairs,” I say aloud, pushing myself upright. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
My legs feel like jelly as I stumble toward the staircase, gripping the ornate banister for balance. The wood is dark and polished to a gleam, and the spindles are intricately carved, like someone got paid way too much to make it lookfancy-but-not-too-fancy.
“Is this mahogany?” I ask the banister, squinting at the craftsmanship. “No, wait—rosewood? I don’t even know what rosewood is, but this feels expensive.”
The stairs creak softly under my weight, a sound that feels both comforting and sinister at the same time. By the time I reach the top, I’m out of breath, which is deeply concerning considering I’ve only climbed one flight.
“Note to self,” I mumble, “reevaluate fitness goals. Also, maybe lay off the snacks.”
At the top of the stairs, a long hallway stretches out before me, lined with doors. Each one is sleek, glossy, and slightly intimidating, as if they’re guarding secrets I’m not supposed to know. But one door stands out—a double door at the end of the hall, slightly ajar, with light spilling through the crack like it’s daring me to come closer.
“Oh, this is how people die in movies,” I murmur, my feet already moving toward the door. “But sure, Bella. Let’s just waltz right into the trap.”
I push the door open and stop dead in my tracks.
It’s not just a bedroom.
It’sthebedroom.
The kind of room that could single-handedly bankrupt a billionaire. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the endless expanse of the forest, and the curtains—soft, gauzy things that look insanely expensive—are pulled back to let the moonlight pour in. The bed is massive, a four-poster monstrosity with draped fabric so sheer it looks like a dream. The linens are crisp, pristine, and begging for someone to ruin them.
The furniture is a blend of modern luxury and old-world charm, all dark wood and subtle gold accents. There’s a chaise lounge near the window that practically whispers,“Come, drape yourself dramatically and contemplate life.”A faint scent of cedarwood lingers in the air, mingling with something floral and faintly intoxicating.
But none of that matters.
Because there, above the fireplace, ishim.
9
Bella
Holy.
Fucking.
Hell.
