I pressed my forehead against the cold window, watching the village disappear behind bare winter trees. Papa sat across from me, hands shaking so badly he had to grip his knees to still them.
"Belle, I..."
"Don't." My voice came out harder than I meant it to. "Just don't."
He'd sold me. That was the only word for it, really. Dressed it up as "an arrangement," "temporary service," and "the only way to save the farm," but I knew what I was. Payment for a debt he'd gambled away in some backroom card game with men who didn't forget.
The trees grew thicker. Darker. The road turned from packed dirt to smooth, black stone that looked as if it had been polished by a thousand years of rain.
"He's not... he won't hurt you," Papa said. His voice cracked. "The contract specifies..."
"A year of my life for your mistakes." I finally looked at him. "What exactly does the contract specify, Papa? What did you promise I'd do?"
He went pale. Opened his mouth. Closed it.
The carriage jolted over something, and I grabbed the side to steady myself. Through the window, I caught my first glimpse of it.
Black Rose Castle.
It rose from the hillside like a thorn, all dark stone and twisted spires. Actual roses grew over everything, thorny vines thick as my arm, blooms so deep red they looked black in the fading light. They covered the walls, the towers, even crawled across the windows like grasping fingers.
Beautiful. Terrible. Wrong in a way that made my skin prickle.
The carriage stopped.
No one came to open the door. Papa reached for the handle, but I was faster. I stepped out into the cold before he could touch me, boots crunching on gravel that sparkled like crushed glass. The cold wind whipped my chestnut curls across my face.
The castle loomed above us, silent except for the wind moving through those impossible roses. Every window was dark. Every door closed.
"Hello?" Papa called out, voice thin and reedy.
Nothing.
I walked toward the main entrance, a massive door carved with more roses, their petals seeming to shift in the corner of my eye. The closer I got, the more I felt it. A presence. Heavy and watchful, pressing against my skin like humidity before a storm.
Something was looking at me.
I stopped three feet from the door, heart suddenly racing. The roses on either side rustled even though the wind had died.
"Belle, wait..."
The door opened.
Not slowly. Not with any creak of old hinges. It simply opened, smooth and silent, revealing an entrance hall lit by floating orbs of pale blue light. They drifted through the air like lazy fireflies, casting everything in cold underwater shadows.
A man stood in the doorway. Tall, thin, dressed in a butler's uniform so perfectly pressed it looked painted on. His hair was white, face ageless, eyes the color of tarnished silver.
"Miss Marchand." His voice was soft, almost kind. "We've been expecting you."
Papa rushed forward, nearly tripping over his own feet. "I've brought her, just as the contract stated. She'll "serve" the full year, I swear it. She's a good girl, hard working, she won't cause any..."
"You may leave." The butler didn't even look at him. Those silver eyes stayed locked on me. "Your business here is concluded."
"But I should make sure she's settled..."
"Now."
The word wasn't loud. Wasn't threatening. But Papa flinched like he'd been slapped, stumbling backward toward the carriage. He looked at me one last time, mouth working soundlessly, then climbed inside.
The driver snapped the reins before the door even closed.
I watched the carriage disappear down that black stone road, taking with it the last piece of my old life. My hands were shaking. I made fists to stop it.
"This way, Miss Marchand." The butler stepped aside, gesturing into the castle.
I didn't move. "What's your name?"
"Lucien."
"Where is he? The one who bought me."
Something flickered across Lucien's face. Amusement? Pity? "The master does not receive guests in daylight."
"I'm not a guest."
"No," he agreed. "You're not."
The floating lights drifted closer, circling me like curious fish. Up close, I could see they weren't orbs at all, but roses. Tiny perfect roses made of light, petals opening and closing with each pulse of illumination.
Magic. Real, actual magic.
My stomach dropped.
"Come inside, Miss Marchand. You must be cold."
I was freezing. My coat was too thin, my dress meant for spring, not late autumn. But cold was better than whatever waited in that castle.
Lucien sighed. "He will not hurt you. The contract forbids it."
"What does the contract say I have to do?"
"Serve him." Lucien tilted his head. "In whatever capacity he requires."
The words sent ice down my spine. "I won't..."
"You will do as you agreed. As your father agreed on your behalf." His voice stayed gentle, but something steel-hard ran underneath. "Or the contract breaks, and your father's debts comes due with interest. They'll take the farm, Miss Marchand. Your sisters will have nowhere to go."
Rose and Lily. Ten and twelve, still so small. Still needing someone to take care of them.
I'd already lost Mama. I couldn't let them lose everything else.
I walked through the door.
The entrance hall was massive, all dark wood and darker stone. A chandelier hung from the ceiling three stories up, dripping with black crystal roses that caught the light and scattered it like blood across the walls. Paintings lined the corridors, but I couldn't make out the faces. They seemed to shift when I tried to look directly at them.
"Your room is this way." Lucien moved past me, footsteps silent on the polished floor.
I followed him up a curved staircase, past more paintings, more roses, more of those floating lights. The castle felt empty and enormous, like walking through the ribcage of some great dead thing.
We stopped at a door on the third floor. Lucien opened it, revealing a bedroom bigger than my entire house back home. A four-poster bed dominated the space, curtains the color of dried blood. A fireplace crackled with blue flames. Windows looked out over gardens I couldn't quite see in the gathering dark.
"Your belongings will arrive shortly. Dinner is at eight. You are free to explore the castle..." He paused. "With one exception."
"Let me guess. The West Wing."
His eyebrows rose. "You know the old stories."
"Everyone knows the stories." I stepped into the room, running my fingers along the bedpost. The wood was warm, almost alive. "Don't go in the West Wing. Don't ask questions. Don't look at him directly."
"The first rule is absolute. The others are merely suggestions." Lucien moved toward the door. "He will visit you tonight."
My head snapped up. "What?"
"Every night at midnight, the master will come to your room. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not leave your bed. You will not scream." He said it like he was reciting a grocery list. "Do you understand?"
"No. I don't understand any of this."
"You will." Something almost like sympathy crossed his face. "I suggest you rest before dinner, Miss Marchand. You'll need your strength."
He closed the door before I could respond.
I stood in the center of that enormous room, listening to my own breathing. The blue fire crackled. Outside, the wind picked up, making the roses scrape against the windows like fingernails.
Midnight. He would come at midnight.
I walked to the window, pressing my palm against the cold glass. The gardens below were a maze of shadows and thorns. And somewhere in the darkness between the hedgerows, I saw them.
Eyes.
Golden eyes, burning like candle flames.
Watching me.
I jerked back from the window, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. When I looked again, they were gone.
But I knew what I'd seen.
And I knew, with a certainty that made my knees weak, that those eyes would be back.
At midnight.