Aurora didn't say much after her final sentence. She just gave me that quiet, matronly stare that felt more like an audit of my soul than anything else. Then she stepped close, adjusted a strand of hair behind my ear like I was a Barbie doll, and leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead.
"Don't forget all that we've discussed," she murmured, her lips cool against my skin. "It would do you a lot of good to get some sleep before Caligo comes in."
Right. Sleep. Because that's exactly what I was capable of in a haunted mansion where everyone smelled like secrets and conspiracies.
With that, she swept out of the room, her posture still stiffly regal even though she'd declared herself a servant or a mother or a butler or the God of Practical Advice or whatever she was. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, I felt it. That thick, oppressive si; silence that only came when you were very, very alone in a place that felt like it had eyes.
I flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
What the hell was this place?
I had been bought. Bought. Like a puppy or a kitchen blender. There was a whole roster of weird characters—Aurora with her passive-aggressive mom energy, Nyx with her glittering threats and charm, Caligo the Devil himself, and then Ciro, who was somehow both an aloof rebel and apparently my last hope of protection… according to Aurora.
What sort of family did I belong to now?
And why the hell were all the men in this house painfully attractive and terrifying?
My stomach growled right on cue, cutting into my brooding like an airhorn. Great. Add starvation to my emotional meltdown. Not dramatic at all.
I was still weighing the risks of opening the door and demanding snacks like a peasant or pressing the bell while ensuring I avoided the one that led to hell according to Aurora when it creaked open and a line of maids filed in, each carrying a silver tray like we were about to host a very tiny royal banquet.
They laid the food out on a table in the corner, heads bowed, not meeting my eyes, as though they were acolytes in a ritual and I was the sacrificial lamb.
One of them hovered around a second longer. I thought it was fishy until her fingers brushed mine as she handed me a glass of something pinkish. She did it very professionally and discreetly too.
My brows furrowed.
There was a tiny folded slip of paper in my hand.
She didn't look back as they all shuffled out. I waited until the door clicked shut before I unfolded the paper with a mix of paranoia and curiosity.
'Come to the East Wing at 2AM. Bring nothing. I have the answers you're looking for.'
There was no name. Just tight handwriting, rushed and slanted like the writer had been looking over their shoulder.
I stared at it.
Who was this from?
Why not just tell me now? Why the middle of the night, like we were meeting for a cult induction or an illegal moon ritual? Why was I already experiencing a hundred weird occurrences on my very first day here?
I debated the possibilities as I slowly ate the food. I didn't know what anything was called, but it was delicious. At this point, everything was a coin toss.
Somewhere between the soup and the soft bread with butter, I fell asleep.
I didn't mean to. I had every intention of staying awake until 2AM, maybe even devising a plan or rigging a trap. Something. Anything.
Instead, I drifted off like a lamb in a pile of fleece, warm and full and temporarily free of existential dread. I couldn't be blamed. My body wasn't the only tired thing—my soul was.
Until I heard the door open hours later. I was the type of sleeper who stirred at the slightest sounds.
My eyes cracked open the tiniest bit, just enough to see movement.
Caligo.
I would have recognized him even if I hadn't seen his face. The way he moved—predator-smooth and oozing with dark aura. But this time, he was covered in something that made my blood chill.
Blood.
It stained his shirt like he had wiped his hands on it, smeared along the collar, splattered across his sleeves and trousers. Not his own, unless he bled in patterns.
Oh, Jesus. W-what has he done?
I didn't dare move. My heart was beating loud enough that I was worried he could hear it. Did he hurt someone again? Did he k-kill them?
He peeled the shirt off first, dragging it over his head in one fluid motion. And despite the fact that I was panicking inside, I found my gaze frozen to the hard lines of his body.
He had the kind of huge muscles that told a tale of hours dedicated to the gym.
His back flexed as he moved toward the bathroom, and then his fingers found the waistband of his trousers.
Nope.
Eyes shut. Immediately.
Virgin rules. Code red. Danger zone.
But then...
My eyes opened again. Just a little. I swear, I didn't want to look. I was just curious… just a little.
God help me.
The trousers dropped, and there was absolutely nothing underneath. And I saw it.
It. you know…?
I had read books. I had taken biology. I had seen questionable Internet things before I was taken to the convent four years ago.
But nothing—and I mean nothing- had prepared me for the sheer... length and thickness of what Caligo was packing. It was massive. It was terrifying. It had its own gravitational pull.
My whole body seized with a foreign, mortifying heat, like the air had been replaced by steam and embarrassment.
What was I even doing? What kind of disaster-girl peeps at the psychotic demon man who bought her?
I had been reeling at the sight when his head snapped toward me. I squeezed my eyes shut again so tight they crinkled at the corners.
Had he seen me? I didn't think so. I hoped not.
I heard receding footsteps. Then the sound of water running. The bathroom door clicked shut.
I exhaled shakily. My entire body was now acutely aware of his presence. Of everything.
"That was huge," I murmured, shuddering under the sheets at the memory.
I rolled to my side, facing the wall, hands clenched under my chin.
Whose blood was on his clothes?
What had he done?
Aurora said he was difficult. Nyx said nothing at all, which was worse. And now I was wondering if I had been brought here as a guest or as a witness.
What if I were next? Or worse, what if I wasn't next? What if he liked me too much to kill me but still too much to let me go?
What kind of psychodrama had I fallen into? Somewhere behind me, the water stopped. The door creaked open. Bare feet padded across the floor.
I pretended to sleep, forcing my breaths to stay even. I didn't open my eyes again, not even when the mattress shifted and the weight of his body pulled it down ever so slightly. He was close. I could smell him now—smoke, soap, and something warm that made my toes curl.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask him who the hell he killed. I wanted to ask why he bought me. I wanted to ask why he looked like a pagan god who had walked off a war-torn battlefield.
But I did nothing. I just breathed, waited, feared, and wondered if I could survive another day in the Luminar Pack—whatever that was.
I might not have the answers yet. But something told me that note wasn't just a coincidence.
At 2AM, if I had the courage, I'd find out who wrote it. Assuming I survived the night sleeping three feet from a blood-drenched Adonis who may or may not be a serial killer.