The morning sun barely touched the windows.
Calla sat on the edge of the bed, dressed and ready before sunrise. Her sleep had been broken—fractured by dreams of silver eyes, snarling shadows, and a voice she couldn't quite place whispering her name.
The forest loomed outside her window, quiet but watchful. Even in daylight, it looked alive. Breathing.
She shook off the thought. It's just a job, she reminded herself. A strange one, sure. But nothing I can't handle.
A soft knock made her jump. She opened the door to find an older woman holding a folded black uniform.
"You'll wear this," the woman said gently. "I'm Aurora. Housekeeper. Breakfast is in the east dining room."
Calla hesitated. "Thanks. Is… everyone up already?"
Aurora's eyes flickered. "Mr. Vayne is always up before dawn. Ivy won't join. She doesn't eat with staff."
"I'm not staff."
The woman tilted her head, her silver-streaked braid swaying. "Aren't you?"
Before Calla could respond, Aurora walked away, footsteps soundless on the hardwood floor.
---
The east dining room was something out of a period drama—long mahogany table, antique silverware, crystal chandelier, and tall windows overlooking the courtyard. Sunlight tried to creep through the clouds, casting pale light across the cold floor.
Calla sat alone at the far end of the table, shifting in her seat.
Then she felt it before she saw him.
Elias entered silently, dressed again in black. No tie. No jacket. Just a dark sweater stretched across his broad chest and pants that hugged his tall frame. He moved like a shadow—controlled, intentional, lethal.
He didn't greet her. Didn't even look at her as he sat down and opened a tablet.
"You're awake early," he said, fingers tapping the screen.
"I had questions."
"Of course you did."
She waited, but he didn't elaborate.
"I heard howling last night," she said carefully.
He didn't flinch. "Foxes. The forest is full of them."
"They were big foxes."
Now he looked at her. Slowly. Like a man debating whether to lie or laugh.
"I'm not interested in small talk, Ms. Rowan."
"It's not small talk if it keeps me from walking into a bear trap," she said. "Or worse."
He smirked faintly. "You're not like the others."
"Others?"
"You ask too many questions."
"You hired me for my honesty, remember?"
"I hired you because I need someone who won't faint at the first sign of danger."
"Should I be expecting danger?"
He didn't answer. But he didn't have to.
Silence stretched between them like a drawn bowstring.
Then Calla cleared her throat. "What's in the west wing?"
The change in him was instant. His posture didn't move, but the tension in the room turned razor sharp.
"I said I wouldn't tolerate small talk," he said quietly.
"Then don't treat me like I'm small."
His gaze locked on hers. Cold. Hard. Intense.
"Stay out of the west wing, Ms. Rowan. That's not a suggestion."
Calla's chest tightened. Not from fear—well, not just fear. There was something else beneath it. A pull. A challenge.
Still, she nodded.
"Understood."
---
The rest of the day passed in slow, careful movements.
Calla was tasked with updating Elias's travel files, managing the electronic logs for the estate, and scanning old personal documents into his secure cloud storage. The work was simple enough, but the deeper she got, the stranger it all became.
Flight logs with no destinations. Bank transfers to untraceable accounts. Maps of forests from multiple countries.
And then the letters—dozens of handwritten notes, signed only with initials. Some in English. Others in languages she couldn't even recognize. One had the phrase "Blood must answer for blood" written in jagged red ink.
Every door in the house was locked except the rooms she was allowed to enter. The staff barely spoke. The air in the west corridor was always colder. Heavier.
---
Late in the afternoon, she needed air.
She wandered down the main hall, drawn by a pull she couldn't explain. The further she walked, the quieter it got. As if the house itself was holding its breath.
Then she saw it.
The door.
It was black. Arched. Unlike any other in the estate. Its surface was carved with claw-like markings, faint but deliberate. There were symbols too—etched near the handle. Not just designs. Runes.
She stepped closer, her fingers tingling as she reached out.
The handle was ice cold.
She tried it.
Locked.
But she pressed her ear to the wood and—
Thump.
Calla jerked back. Her breath hitched.
Silence.
Then another thump. A dragging, low growl, like claws across stone.
"I said not to touch that door."
She spun around.
Ivy stood a few feet behind her, arms folded, one perfectly arched brow raised.
"You're brave," Ivy said. "Or stupid."
"I wasn't opening it. I was—"
"Curious," Ivy finished. "Everyone who works here gets curious. The difference is, some of them don't survive it."
Calla's spine stiffened. "What's behind that door?"
"Memories," Ivy said, her smile sharp. "The kind that bleed."
They stared at each other for a long moment.
"You want advice?" Ivy said, stepping closer. "Don't mistake Mr. Vayne's interest in you for protection. He's not a savior. He's a storm."
"Maybe I like storms."
Ivy's smile widened. "Then you'll die beautifully."
She turned and walked away, heels echoing down the marble floor.
---
That night, Calla found it hard to sleep.
Something was off. Not just the house. Her.
Her skin itched. Her ears rang. Her dreams pulsed with strange symbols and whispers.
At midnight, she jolted awake.
Her window was open.
She could've sworn she closed it.
She got up and crossed the room.
The curtains fluttered softly. Fog poured into the room like breath. The scent of pine, smoke, and something animal lingered in the air.
She reached out to close the window—then paused.
On the sill, a smear of red.
Blood.
Still wet.
Her breath caught. She stepped back slowly, heart hammering.
A low growl echoed through the room.
Not from inside.
From below.
She ran to the window and looked down.
There, standing in the courtyard beneath the moonlight, was a creature.
Massive. Shadowed. Its fur black as oil, its eyes glowing like molten silver.
It looked up at her.
And smiled.