Dom’s scent clings to the room. His shirt lies by the shower door, still damp with steam. I want to reach for it, take it, hold on to anything that feels like him. But that’s what they’re counting on, isn’t it? These chains forged from love and memory, binding me tighter than any contract.
For the first time, his phantom touch makes me want to scrub myself raw.
Kian’s voice from breakfast wraps around my neck, along with the unspoken promise of what he’d do to Dom if I ran. Would he really hurt his own son? The heir he’s spent years perfecting? But then I remember the daggers, the way they pinned Dom to the chair like an exhibit. The sound Kian made twisting the metal deeper, the blood choke from Dom’s throat.
Maybe the real question is: when has Kian ever hesitated to hurt his son?
The contract I signed in his office weighs on my mind. What happens to someone who breaks a Founding Family binding? Would they drag me through the courts? Or skip the pageantry and send assassins instead? And even if I ran, where would I go that Kian Blackwood couldn’t reach?
I can’t stay. Not like this. Dom won’t forgive me for leaving. But maybe that’s a mercy. Better his hate than watching his father hollow him out piece by piece, using me as the knife.
Dom’s room offers no answers, just ghosts.
That narrows it to two options: give up, or go deeper. And surrender means accepting whatever fate Kian’s already written for me. I step into the corridor, abandoning the false sanctuary. Each silent footfall against the dark marble leaves me more unmoored.
My heart slams against my ribs as if I’ve swallowed a vial of pure Pulse. But this time, my adversary isn’t flesh and blood; it’s this labyrinthine fortress of opulence and secrets. And perhaps the fracturing pieces of my own mind.
The halls stretch ahead, a gauntlet of curated magnificence. Crystal fixtures scatter light in disorienting bursts, each glint striking sharp behind my eyes. Ancient tapestries ripple with embedded enchantments, their threads seeming to reweave themselves when glimpsed from the corner of my eye. I have to bite back nausea as the images twist into grotesque shapes that shouldn’t exist.
Gilded mirrors line the walls at precise intervals, their surfaces occasionally shimmering with something far more sinister than mere reflections. I catch fragments of movement that shouldn’t be there, shadows that don’t match their owners. My magic tightens, wound taut in warning, as if it expects the glass to split open and strike.
Each piece exudes an aura of dark history, as though the very air remembers the tragedies played out before these silent witnesses. Breathing here is like inhaling a century of bloodstained etiquette.
This place isn’t just decorated; it’s armed. Every beautiful object a weapon. Each enchanted surface an eye watching, waiting for me to break.
I catalog each room I dare to breach, ranking them on an internal scale of “suspicious” to “definitely concealing atrocities.” A vaulted library hums with tomes, whose titles reconfigure when I blink, written in scripts that don’t belong to any human tongue. One salon’s curtains ripple in the still air, whispering phrases meant for no living ear. The music room houses a grand piano that plays itself with unnatural grace, the melody wrong enough to raise my skin.
The staff vanish the moment they notice me, unwilling to be caught in proximity. I don’t blame them. Not after this morning’s performance of Kian’s casual sadism.
Some doors open at my touch, meant for showcasing wealth. Others pulse with wardlines that snap to life the moment I draw near. One burns crimson, magic licking across my skin in a pattern that mimics frostbite. Another door growls. Not figuratively. It emits a guttural, distinctlyalivewarning that makes me reconsider my mortality. I add it to the list of things I’ll investigate later, when I’m not two steps from either a breakdown or a very stupid act of bravery.
Kian’s portrait glares down at me from a hallway intersection, his eyes locked on mine no matter how I move. The painted expression shifts just enough to unsettle. Even rendered in oil, he radiates the kind of authority that makes you check for blades behind your ribs.
I stop where the hall splits in three, all routes equally suffocating in their extravagance. The mansion pulses with a quiet sentience, as if some vast, slumbering beast is simply waiting for its master’s signal to strike.
“Planning a heist?”
Margaux’s voice cuts through the silence, making me whirl. She’s leaning against an ornate doorframe, looking oddly casual in tailored black pants and a crimson silk blouse. A stark departure from her usual parade of designer dresses. Her hair falls in glossy, sculpted waves that curl just beneath her chin. Even dressed down, she emanates that particular Blackwood brand of dangerous grace—elegant, composed, and always watching.
“Sweet magic, what tragic circumstance led to . . .” Her manicured hand waves dismissively at my entire existence. “Whatever this ensemble is supposed to be? I realize that boulder on your finger means Dom’s thoroughly trapped, but darling—” She clicks her tongue, her disapproval more theatrical than cruel. “That doesn’t mean you should start dressing like you raided a Lower Ring donation bin.”
“There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing,” I snap, smoothing my tangled hair on instinct. I glance down at my worn jeans, and Dom’s black T-shirt pulled from his drawer hours ago. “Not all of us need to dress like we’re attending a gala just to wander the halls.”
“In this home, even the servants manage to look more put together than whatever this rebellion against fashion is supposed to be.”
“Thanks for the critique,” I mutter, turning away. “If we’re done with the unsolicited fashion commentary, I have things to do.”
“If you’re actually planning a theft, I can point out all the valuable stuff,” she continues. “Personally, I’d recommend starting with Mother’s ruby collection. Much easier to fence than those dusty old paintings.” Her eyes glint. “Unless you’re looking for something harder to locate. Like, say . . . an exit that won’t trigger every protective ward in the estate?”
I keep my expression carefully blank despite my thundering heart. “Just familiarizing myself with my future home.”
“Mhm.” She smirks at me. “Of course. Just likeIwas ‘studying architectural theory’ when I memorized every escape route by age twelve.” She straightens with feline grace. “Speaking of forced family participation, Mother insists we join her for tea. ApparentlyWhispersilkis airing exclusive behind-the-scenes footage of Dom and Father’s interview.”
“I should really—”
“Oh, Aria.” She loops her arm through mine, her grip delicate and immovable. “That wasn’t actually a request.”
I let her lead me into the heart of the manor, knowing resistance is pointless.
