“Think you’re better than us now, huh?”
The door flies open.
Daniel’s in the doorway, backlit by the flickering TV in the other room. The haunting laugh track echoes in my ears. Shirtless, eyes red-rimmed and wild. He moves fast, always faster than I think he should. The belt’s already in his hand.
I back away, hit the wall. My voice is gone. Legs locked. The dream never lets me scream.
He raises the belt. Crack. White-hot pain across my arm. Crack. The skin on my back burns.
The floor shifts beneath me. My knees buckle. I taste blood. I hear my own breath ragged and helpless.
He leans down, hatred burning in his eyes.
“Ain’t no one comin’ for you, little bitch.”
My heart is like a wild animal trapped in a cage. I’m drenched in sweat, lungs gasping for air. For a second, I don’t know where I am. The room’s too big, too quiet.
My senses start to return. Soft sheets. Heavy blankets. A silk pillow under my head.
A warm breeze from the window stirs the curtains.
And the door?—
Still locked.
I’mnot there.
I’mnotthere.
I’m notthere.
My breath stutters, tears rising too fast to stop. I throw off the covers and press my feet to the cold wood floor just to feel grounded, to make sure I really am here.
The dream clings like smoke. His voice still echoes.
I wrap my arms around myself, curling forward. My hair sticks to my face, damp. I reach out—fingers trembling—and switch on the small lamp beside the bed.
Light floods the space.
No cracked drywall. No duct tape over windows. No bloodstains on the carpet.
This is my room. Ashthorne Hall. Safe.
My throat aches. I wipe my face with the edge of the blanket. My phone sits on the nightstand like a lifeline. I almost reach for it.
But instead, I whisper to the empty room.
“I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.”
I don’t even try to go back to sleep.
By the timeI wander downstairs, sunlight is pouring through the tall windows like something out of a movie. Everything in Ashthorne Hall looks less haunted in the daylight.
The dining room is quieter than last night. Just the soft rattle of porcelain and the smell of coffee and something buttery drifting from behind swinging doors.
Lucian smiles as I enter. “Morning.”
He’s in a dark gray sweater and slacks, somehow looking both expensive and approachable. His hair’s still damp from a shower, pushed back from his face.
