The night Elena Moreau arrived at Blackwood Castle, the moon was swollen and red, hanging low in the sky like it was watching her.
The car stopped at the iron gates without a sound. Mist curled around the wheels, thick and cold, as though the land itself was breathing. Elena stepped out slowly, clutching her coat tighter around her body. The air smelled of damp stone, roses… and something darker she couldn't name.
The gates creaked open on their own.
She hesitated.
This is a mistake, her mind whispered.
But something deeper—something reckless—pulled her forward.
The castle loomed ahead, tall and unforgiving, its towers cutting into the sky. Candlelight flickered behind high windows. Someone was awake. Waiting.
Inside, the doors opened before she could knock.
And there he stood.
Tall. Dark. Dressed in black like the night had tailored him personally. His hair was slightly unkempt, his face sharp with restraint, his eyes—God—his eyes were a dangerous shade of grey, like storms that never truly passed.
"Miss Moreau," he said, his voice low, controlled. "You made it."
She swallowed. "You're… Lucien Blackwood?"
He nodded once, gaze never leaving her face. Not her clothes. Not her luggage. Her face—as if he'd been expecting her specifically, not just a guest.
Thunder rolled in the distance.
"You shouldn't have come," he added quietly.
Her heart skipped. "Then why invite me?"
A slow, unreadable smile touched his lips.
"Because some things," he said, stepping closer, "are already written."
The doors closed behind her with a heavy finality.
And somewhere deep within the castle, something ancient stirred.