The carriage rattled over uneven stones, jolting Seraphina from her uneasy reverie. The mist had thickened into a white shroud, curling around the skeletal trees that flanked the road. She had tried—tried so very hard—to still the tremor in her hands, to command her breath into calmness, but the air itself seemed to breathe against her throat, whispering promises of secrets she could neither resist nor fully endure.
When at last the wheels ground to a halt, the driver muttered something unintelligible and pointed. Through the veil of fog, the silhouette of Blackthorn House emerged—a looming specter of stone and shadow. Its turrets clawed skyward, as if reaching for release from some ancient curse, while blackened ivy twisted itself over the walls like veins across a corpse. Windows glimmered faintly with candlelight, though whether the glow promised warmth or menace, she could not tell.
The door creaked open before she could lift her hand to knock. A woman—tall, severe, her gray hair bound in a tight knot—regarded her with eyes that glinted like obsidian.
"Miss Seraphina Moreau?"
Her voice carried no inflection, no warmth. Seraphina nodded, clutching her small leather case.
"Lord Dorian awaits. Follow me."
The woman's gown whispered against the flagstones as she led Seraphina inside. The entryway opened into a cavernous hall, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. A chandelier of wrought iron hung precariously above, its candles dripping wax like pale tears. Paintings lined the walls: portraits of unsmiling men and women, their gazes following her as though they knew something she did not.
A chill seeped into her skin. Though the hearth in the hall smoldered, its flame seemed reluctant, as though even fire feared the house.
"Who are you, madam?" Seraphina asked, her voice a hesitant thread.
"I am Mrs. Hawthorne, housekeeper of Blackthorn. You will address me as such."
There was no room for argument.
As they passed down a corridor, Seraphina glimpsed a half-open door. Beyond it, an ornate mirror reflected her pale face and wide eyes. Yet—she froze—another figure lingered in the reflection. A man in the shadows, tall and indistinct, watching. When she whirled around, the corridor was empty.
Mrs. Hawthorne did not pause, nor did she acknowledge the strange tableau. Seraphina hurried after her, pulse quickening.
At last, they reached a pair of doors carved with thorns and roses. The housekeeper pushed them open, and Seraphina's breath caught.
The library.
It was immense—shelves rising to the ceiling, ladders to reach their heights, tomes bound in leather darkened by time. The air smelled of parchment and smoke. By the fire, a man stood with his back to her, one hand resting on the mantel. His black coat fitted his broad shoulders with austere elegance.
"Lord Blackthorn," Mrs. Hawthorne announced.
He turned.
Dorian Blackthorn was unlike any man Seraphina had ever seen. His features were carved with severity—cheekbones sharp, jaw resolute, lips pressed into a line that spoke of both command and restraint. But it was his eyes that seized her breath: storm-gray, with depths that seemed to hold both ruin and salvation.
"Miss Moreau."
His voice was low, resonant. It lingered in the air, coiling around her name as though tasting it.
"You honor my invitation."
Seraphina curtsied, though her knees trembled. "My lord. Your letter spoke of a position. I…I wished to learn more."
A flicker crossed his expression, too swift to name. Amusement? Sadness? He gestured toward a chair by the fire.
"Sit."
She obeyed, setting her case beside her feet.
"I require a companion," he said, pacing slowly before the fire. "Someone who can read aloud from these shelves, manage correspondence, provide…company."
The pause before that last word unsettled her more than any thunderclap.
"You will find the hours unconventional," he continued. "The nights long. The corridors unfriendly. Few endure here."
"Why me, my lord?" she asked softly.
His gaze locked with hers, sharp as the crack of a whip. "Because you do not yet know fear. But you will."
The fire popped, as though punctuating his words.
A silence fell, deep and charged. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed, though no footsteps followed. Seraphina's skin prickled, as if unseen eyes lingered.
"I accept," she said before she could think better. Perhaps it was the storm in his eyes, or the echo of her mother's last words urging her toward survival. Perhaps it was something darker, a pull she could not name.
Lord Blackthorn inclined his head. "So be it."
---
Later that night, Seraphina was shown to her chambers—a high room with a narrow bed, heavy curtains, and a single candle flickering on the dresser. Mrs. Hawthorne left her with a warning:
"Do not wander after midnight."
No explanation. Just the command.
Sleep eluded her. The wind moaned against the windows, and in the silence between gusts, she swore she heard footsteps pacing the corridor outside. Soft, deliberate. Pausing at her door. Then fading.
At last, compelled by both dread and defiance, she rose. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she cracked open the door. The corridor yawned empty, shadows twisting across the walls like fingers.
She should have retreated. She should have obeyed. But something drew her on, like a moth to a forbidden flame.
Barefoot, she padded down the hall, each step echoing in the cavernous silence. She passed the portraits again—their eyes more watchful in the candlelight, more alive.
At the far end of the corridor, she found a door ajar. Beyond it, a staircase spiraled downward into blackness.
A voice whispered from the dark.
Her name.
"Seraphina…"
Her candle guttered violently, and in the instant before it went out, she glimpsed a figure at the bottom of the stairs. A man—tall, shrouded, his hand outstretched toward her.
The darkness swallowed him.
Her breath tore from her chest, ragged. She stumbled back, clutching at the wall. The air thickened, pressing against her lungs.
Then—arms, strong and unyielding, seized her from behind.
She gasped, twisting, and found herself against Lord Blackthorn's chest. His face hovered close, eyes burning in the shadows.
"I told you," he growled, his voice a velvet snarl. "Do not wander."
His grip was iron, yet the warmth of his body seeped through her fear, igniting something perilous. She could feel the steady pound of his heart, the restrained violence in his touch.
"Who—" Her voice broke. "Who was that?"
His jaw tightened. He released her so suddenly she nearly fell.
"Return to your room."
He turned, his coat sweeping behind him as he vanished into the dark, leaving her trembling, alone, and burning with more questions than before.
Yet one truth pierced her like a blade:
Blackthorn House held secrets—ones as deadly as they were irresistible. And Lord Dorian was at the very heart of them.