Howard's voice, thick with irritation, barely registered. "Good heavens, girl, have you taken a fall?"
Julia scrambled up from the floor, her limbs trembling, her mind a gallery of horrors. Marian's face, pale and pleading in the dark glass. Howard's words, a death sentence muttered over a dusty ledger. Insane or wed.
"I… I tripped," she stammered, not daring to look at the window again. She couldn't look at Howard, at the feigned concern in his eyes that she now knew was the mask of a vulture. He was assessing her, she realized. Checking for cracks. Waiting for her to break.
"You must be more careful, my dear," he said, his tone condescending. "This old house is full of hazards."
She fled without another word, his voice echoing behind her. She ran, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, her mind screaming. She needed Silas. He was the only solid thing in this world of shifting reflections and whispered plots. He was her anchor.
She found him in the west gallery, standing before a portrait of a long-dead Blackwood ancestor, his expression grim. He must have sensed her approach, the frantic energy that radiated from her, because he turned just as she reached the doorway.
His face changed instantly, his brows knitting together in deep concern. "Julia? What is it? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
The words were too close to the truth. A sob caught in her throat. She couldn't speak, not here, not in the open where any member of his monstrous family could be listening from the shadows. She shook her head, her eyes pleading with him.
He understood at once. He crossed the space between them, his hand gently taking her arm. "Come with me," he said, his voice a low, protective rumble.
He led her through the labyrinthine corridors, his grip firm and steadying, to the small, unassuming room he had been given. It was sparse, containing little more than a bed, a desk, and a trunk, but the moment he closed the door behind them, it felt like the only sanctuary in the world.
And then, she shattered.
The carefully constructed walls of her composure, already weakened by the phantom perfume and the veiled threats, crumbled completely. The terror of the last few days, the weight of every lie and every ghost, came crashing down. Sobs wracked her body as she told him everything, the words tumbling out in a broken, frantic rush.
"The perfume… Marian's perfume was in my room, Silas, but there was nothing there…" she gasped, clinging to the front of his shirt. "And Lucien… he said we all wear her skin here… and I heard them, Vespera and Alistair, they want him to marry me, to secure the estate… they were talking about me like I'm a deed to a property…"
She took a shuddering breath, the worst of it still to come.
"And Howard… in the library… he had the deed book and he said… he said, 'Once she's insane or wed, it's ours.'" She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a terror that went beyond fear of the house. "He's waiting for me to go mad, Silas. It's what they all want."
Her voice broke on the final confession. "And then… I saw her. In the window. I saw Marian's face instead of mine. It was her, pleading… and then she was gone." She buried her face in his chest. "Am I losing my mind?"
Silas's arms tightened around her, holding her with a fierce, trembling strength. He didn't speak for a long moment, just let her cry, his hand stroking her hair, his body a warm, solid shield against the encroaching madness.
When her sobs finally subsided into shuddering breaths, he gently tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were blazing with a furious, protective fire.
"No," he said, his voice raw with conviction. "You are not losing your mind. Do you hear me, Julia? This is not madness. This is this house. This is them. They are gaslighting you, trying to make you doubt your own senses. They are trying to drive you mad because it is part of their plan."
He believed her. The simple, absolute certainty in his voice was the most profound relief she had ever known. He wasn't humoring her. He wasn't pitying her. He believed her.
"The perfume, the reflections… it is this place," he continued, his voice low and intense. "It holds onto things. And they… they are using it against you. Howard's timing was no accident. He wants you to see things. He wants you to break."
He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb, his touch lingering. "But you will not break," he vowed. "We will not let them win."
The fire in his eyes softened, replaced by something deeper, more intimate. The fear and the fury of the moment melted away, leaving only the charged space between them, humming with an energy that was both comforting and dangerously potent. The world outside this room, with its ghosts and its schemers, ceased to exist.
He leaned in and kissed her.
It was not like their other kisses—not the frantic, desperate claiming in the corridor, nor the tender exploration in the chapel. This was a kiss of profound reassurance, a deep, slow melding of lips that spoke of sanctuary and absolute belief. It was an anchor in the storm, a promise that she was not alone in the dark.
The kiss deepened, the gentle reassurance giving way to a desperate, consuming passion. It was a hunger born of shared danger, a need to chase away the ghosts with a reality so powerful it could not be denied. His hands moved from her face to her back, pulling her flush against him, her body molding to the hard lines of his.
A soft, broken sound escaped her lips, a sigh of surrender and relief. Her own hands, no longer trembling, tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer. He groaned against her mouth, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated need.
Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her into his arms and carried her the few steps to his bed, laying her down gently on the cool sheets. He hovered over her, his dark eyes searching hers, asking a silent question. She gave him his answer by raising a hand to his cheek, her thumb stroking the rough line of his jaw.
That was all the permission he needed.
His mouth returned to hers, more demanding this time, as his hands began a slow, deliberate exploration. He unfastened the buttons of her dress with a deftness that belied the urgency she could feel humming through his body. He pushed the fabric aside, his lips tracing a fiery path from her mouth to the hollow of her throat, his touch sending shivers cascading through her.
The cool air of the room hit her skin, but she felt nothing but the heat of his mouth, his hands. He shed his own coat and shirt with a fluid, impatient grace, his bare chest warm and solid as he pressed against her again. Her dress was a restriction, a barrier. With a soft murmur against her skin, he worked the rest of the buttons free, pushing the heavy fabric down and away until she was clad only in her thin chemise.
He looked at her then, his gaze a raw mix of awe and a fierce, untamed hunger that made her breath catch. "Julia," he whispered, the single word a prayer.
His hands were exquisitely gentle as they traced the line of her collarbone, his fingers brushing the delicate lace of her chemise. He followed the path with his lips, his kisses growing bolder, more insistent. She arched into him, a silent plea for more, her body, so long held in a state of rigid tension, finally beginning to unwind, to remember what it was to feel something other than fear.
His hand slid down, over the flat of her stomach, making her gasp, and then lower still, his fingers brushing against the apex of her thighs through the thin cotton. Her eyes fluttered shut, a wave of heat pooling low in her belly. He kissed her again, deeply, swallowing the small, shocked sound she made as his fingers found her.
She was damp for him, a fact that made a fresh wave of heat course through her. He explored her gently at first, his touch questioning, learning the shape and feel of her. She bucked against his hand, a small, involuntary movement, and a low growl rumbled in his chest. His fingers, clever and sure, began to move against her, a slow, hypnotic rhythm that sent shockwaves of pleasure through her entire being.
It was too much. The fear, the tension, the desperation of the last few days—it all coiled into a single, tight knot of unbearable sensation. "Silas," she gasped, her hands clutching his shoulders.
"I'm here," he murmured against her ear, his voice thick. "I'm right here. Let go, Julia. Just for a moment. Let it all go."
His rhythm quickened, his thumb finding the small, sensitive nub of her clitoris and pressing down. A cry was torn from her throat. The world dissolved into a blinding white light of pure sensation. The ghosts, the schemers, the house itself—it all burned away in the fire he had ignited within her. Her body convulsed around his hand, wave after wave of shuddering, overwhelming pleasure crashing through her, leaving her utterly spent, boneless, and finally, blessedly, quiet.
He held her as the aftershocks subsided, his own breathing ragged. He pulled the covers up over them both, tucking her against his side, his arm a solid, protective weight around her. He pressed a soft kiss to her hair, his lips brushing her temple.
For the first time since she had arrived at Blackwood Hall, Julia felt safe. Truly safe. The house and its horrors were still outside the door, but in here, in his arms, they could not touch her.
And wrapped in that fragile, temporary peace, she finally slept, a deep and dreamless slumber, unaware that in the house of ghosts, even sleep was not a sanctuary. It was just another door left unlocked.