Elena felt the weight of the castle the moment the doors shut.
The sound echoed through the grand hall—deep, final—like the closing of a promise she didn't remember making. The air inside was warmer than outside, scented with burning candles and old stone. Shadows clung to the walls, stretching and folding with each flicker of flame.
Lucien Blackwood stood a few steps away, hands clasped behind his back, posture composed—too composed. A man trained in restraint.
"Your journey was long," he said, turning slightly. "You must be exhausted."
"I'm fine," Elena replied, though her legs felt weak beneath her. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "Your message said you needed help restoring the east wing."
Lucien's gaze sharpened for a brief second. "Yes. The east wing."
Something about the way he said it made her chest tighten.
A servant appeared silently, dressed in dark grey, head bowed. "Your room is ready, sir."
Lucien nodded. "Rowan will show you."
Rowan—thin, pale, with eyes far too knowing—gestured for Elena to follow. As she passed Lucien, she felt it. A pull. Like walking through a charged current. His shoulder brushed hers accidentally—or not at all—but her skin burned where the space between them collapsed.
She turned instinctively.
Lucien was already watching her.
Their eyes locked.
For a heartbeat, the world went still. No candles flickered. No wind howled beyond the walls. Just his gaze—heavy, searching, almost… aching.
"You'll hear things at night," he said suddenly.
Elena frowned. "Hear things?"
"The castle is old," he continued, as though choosing his words carefully. "Pipes. Wind. Dreams."
"Dreams don't make sounds," she said softly.
A corner of his mouth curved. Not quite a smile.
"You'd be surprised."
Rowan cleared his throat, breaking the moment. "This way, miss."
They walked down a long corridor lined with portraits. Faces followed her—some stern, some sorrowful, some almost pleading. Elena's steps slowed.
"They look… sad," she murmured.
"They are," Rowan replied simply.
Her room was at the end of a spiral staircase. Large. Cold. Beautiful. A four-poster bed draped in dark fabric, a single candle burning beside it.
As Rowan turned to leave, Elena asked, "Who lives here? Besides Mr. Blackwood?"
Rowan hesitated. Just long enough to be noticeable.
"
Elena stood alone.
She set her suitcase down and exhaled shakily. The silence pressed in. She moved toward the window and pulled the curtain aside.
Lucien stood in the courtyard below, staring up at her window.
The castle does," he said. Then he shut the door.
Her breath caught.
Their eyes met again.
This time, he did not look away.
Instead, he lifted his hand—slowly, deliberately—and rested it over his heart.
The candle beside her flickered violently.
And Elena knew, with a certainty that frightened her, that she had stepped into a story that had begun long before her arrival—and would not let her leave unchanged.