The morning sun crawled into Rose's room like a reluctant guest. She stirred, lashes trembling, then sat up. The sheets clung to her warmth, but she pushed them aside, padding barefoot across polished wood.
The shower hissed alive. Steam curled over the glass, wrapping her in a veil. Water poured down her skin, tracing her frame with heat. Her body relaxed, but her mind—her mind was elsewhere.
Last night.
The alley.
The hunters.
And him.
Her cheeks flamed as she pressed her forehead against the glass. Grayson…
She could still feel the echo of his arms around her, his chest solid against her back, the warmth of his hands holding her as though she were fragile glass. Every memory sent a pulse through her, hot and flustered. She bit her lip, eyes closing, letting the water hide the blush spreading across her face.
She stayed too long, and when she stepped out, her body was pink from heat—not just the steam.
Rose slipped into her maid's uniform. Despite her two-month absence, it still hugged her perfectly: the neat black dress, crisp apron, stockings drawn smooth along her legs. She brushed her hair until it glowed like pale gold, then dabbed perfume at her neck—soft, floral, delicate. The kind of scent that lingered only when someone leaned close.
She checked herself once more in the mirror. Innocence, wrapped in duty. But beneath her calm exterior, her heart hammered.
---
The hall was alive with whispers when she joined the other maids. They rushed to her with gasps and soft embraces.
"When did you come back?"
"How? We didn't even hear the gates—"
Rose smiled faintly, shaking her head. "Late last night. You must have been asleep."
She didn't add the truth—that Grayson had placed her in her room with a single step through shadows.
When one maid announced she would fetch Grayson for breakfast, Rose's voice broke softly: "I'll go."
Her tone left no room for argument. They exchanged quick glances, then nodded, letting her go.
Her steps carried her down the long corridor, each one tightening the knot in her stomach. She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, gathered herself, and knocked at his door.
Her heart fluttered wildly. She hadn't seen him since last night—since his arms had held her. How would he look at her now?
---
Inside, Stone stirred awake. His hair was chaos, his torso bare, shadows of muscle carved against pale light. Only dark pants clung to his hips.
When Rose saw him, the world stilled. She had read countless novels, imagined countless heroes—yet none compared. In her eyes, he was not a man but a character carved from fiction: the brooding lead who lived in blood and shadow. His vermilion eyes carried storms, yet his presence was heat.
Her face burned. But she did not run. She bowed her head slightly, her voice trembling but clear.
"Thank you… for yesterday."
Behind her, soft gasps echoed. Rose stiffened. She had forgotten the others.
From the corner of the hallway, the maids pressed closer, whispering.
"So it's true… he brought her home."
"Oh my god… what did they do before that—"
"Cassandra!" one hissed, covering her friend's mouth. "Don't think such things. Master Grayson would nev—"
Her words froze as the door opened wider, and Stone's voice, calm and low, rolled through the air.
"Come in."
The maids' jaws dropped. Rose stepped inside, shutting the door behind her.
---
His room was a quiet storm of shadows and scattered objects. Rose's eyes widened as she noticed it—something absurd amid the darkness. A mechanical horse, large and strange, like a child's toy scaled for an adult.
"What is this?" she asked softly, unable to hide her curiosity.
Stone's grin was sharp. "A toy… one I—" his voice faltered, then smoothed again—"I was fixing. Got bored. But now it's done. Want to try?"
Her lips parted. She hesitated. Then she nodded.
The machine whirred as she climbed onto it, delicate hands clutching the handles. Stone pulled the lever, and the horse jolted alive. The movement was violent, imitating a gallop. Rose gasped, short soft sounds breaking from her throat as her body bounced helplessly.
Outside, the maids stiffened. Their cheeks turned crimson at the sounds drifting through the door.
"She's… moaning—"
"Don't say it!"
But their minds betrayed them, painting pictures far different from the truth.
They fled down the hall, breathless, carrying rumors like wildfire. Within minutes, the mansion buzzed. Rose. Mistress. Grayson's mistress.
---
Inside, the machine slowed. Rose's face was scarlet, her body trembling from the rough motion. Stone leaned against the wall, watching her with a smirk.
Later, they stood at the balcony. The gardens spread below, jeweled in dew. Rose lingered at his side, stealing glances. His presence pulled her gaze like gravity.
"What is it?" he asked at last, his voice a low current.
She flinched, then looked away, tucking another strand of hair behind her ear. "Nothing. It's just… things have changed so much since I've been gone."
Stone's lips curved. "Want to take a shower with me?" he asked, casual, teasing.
Her eyes widened. "Huh? I—I mean, no… we can't. You're my master."
Her voice was soft, gentle, innocent.
He only smirked and turned away, walking back inside toward the bathroom. She watched him go, heart caught between longing and fear. Her hand trembled at her side. No… I can't. She shook her head, fleeing the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.
Stone paused, looking back at the door. The mechanical horse gleamed in the corner, forgotten. He smirked again.
"It all laid out just as planned"he murmured to himself.
He had known the maids were listening. He had opened the door wide, let them hear exactly what he wanted them to hear. Their minds had filled in the rest, spreading the story for him. Rose's blush, her hesitations, his teasing remarks—it all fell into place.
She would come to him ,and he'll just watch her....
********
The garden welcomed him with the hush of morning. He dressed not as a master, but as a phantom of elegance: black trousers fitted to long strides, a loose white shirt open at the throat, the sleeves rolled back to his forearms. The breeze teased the fabric, carrying with it an aura both careless and deliberate. Wherever his eyes wandered—roses, stone paths, shadowed hedges—it felt as though he was marking them, claiming them in silence.
A maid approached, bowing. "Master Grayson… you have guests. Family."
He turned, expression unreadable, and returned to the mansion.
The living room held her.
Crimson hair spilled like fire over her shoulders. Silver-grey eyes glittered with life where his burned with shadow. Her beauty was dangerous, too perfect, too vivid—like the kind of girl plastered on magazines, unattainable, expensive. Her casual clothes alone cost more than lifetimes.
When she saw him, she smiled with mischief.
"Hey, cousin."
The memory of her name surfaced. His lips shaped it slowly.
"…Alora. Bearer of Bell's Flame."
Her smile deepened. "Hey, cousin," she repeated, voice sultry.
His reply was calm, smooth as silk. "When did you start talking like that?"
Her brows lifted. She laughed, a sound sharp and playful. "I like it."
She closed the distance, perfume wrapping him like a trap. Her eyes gleamed—seduction and threat woven together. She leaned close, lips nearly brushing his, her hand slipping beneath his shirt, fingers trailing the ridges of his abdomen.
Stone didn't flinch. But behind his calm mask, a thought burned bitter:
"What kind of sick asshole was Grayson?"
Alora's lips curved, her face inches from his. Her touch was fire.
And Stone, the monster in his skin, knew this was a game he couldn't mimic forever.