Maryna
I shouldn't have known where it was.
But the House had been whispering to me for days now.
In the flicker of blue torchlight. In the way mirrors tilted when I passed. In the warmth that bloomed beneath my skin whenever I stepped too close to something I shouldn't.
It wasn't just guiding me.
It was inviting me.
And tonight, I stopped resisting.
The corridor was quiet.
Not silent—nothing in this place was ever truly silent—but quiet in that breath-held sort of way, like the walls were waiting for something.
Or someone.
My fingers brushed the edge of the sconce just outside the northern wing. A flicker of blue flame leapt upward—and the wall beneath it shifted.
A seam appeared in the stone.
A door.
No hinges. No handle. No keyhole.
Just a slit—waiting.
I pressed my hand against it.
It stung.
Not pain, exactly. But heat.
Like blood waking up.
The stone sighed open.
And the scent that hit me was ancient.
Dust. Leather. Ink. Time.
And underneath it all—a pulse.
Not a sound.
A feeling.
Like the floor itself had a heartbeat.
The staircase coiled downward like a serpent. Narrow. Slick with condensation.
I moved carefully, every step deliberate.
My candle barely helped. The darkness down here wasn't just absence of light—it was presence. Thick. Watching.
When I reached the bottom, the air grew colder—but the pulse in my chest grew faster.
Something was here.
Something waiting.
The library was nothing like the one upstairs.
No glass cabinets. No polished tables. No velvet chairs.
Here, the shelves were carved directly into the stone. Scrolls and tomes lined them in haphazard stacks, some tied with ribbon, others sealed with wax.
The walls were etched with runes that shimmered faintly—like they remembered being touched by power.
In the center: a table.
Upon it, a book.
I knew its name before I read the spine.
Seductio Tenebris.
The book Vasilios had once shown me.
The one he hadn't let me touch.
It was here.
Waiting.
I stepped forward, fingertips brushing the worn leather cover.
And that's when I felt him.
Before he spoke.
Before I turned.
Before he touched me.
Marek.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said.
His voice was smooth. Always too smooth. Like silk hiding a blade.
I turned slowly.
He leaned against the stone archway, arms crossed, one ankle tucked behind the other.
Unbothered.
Predatory.
Hungry.
"You followed me?" I asked.
He chuckled. "Please. If I followed you, you'd never know it."
His eyes drifted to the book.
Then to me.
Then lower.
"You're awakening," he said. "And it's driving all of us a little mad."
I took a step back.
He took one forward.
The space between us felt thinner than it should've.
"Don't," I said quietly.
"I'm not going to touch you," he said. "Not unless you want me to."
His voice was low now. Intimate. Like he was standing much closer than he was.
"But you want something, don't you?"
I hated that he wasn't wrong.
I hated how warm my skin felt under his gaze.
How my body reacted like it knew his name better than my mind wanted to admit.
I said nothing.
Which was almost worse.
"You've stirred the House," Marek continued. "It's breathing with you now. You're in its veins. You've changed the walls."
He tilted his head.
"And you've changed him."
Vasilios.
The name buzzed in the back of my mind like a warning.
"I came for the book," I said.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Did you?" he asked. "Or did it come for you?"
His words shouldn't have made sense.
But they did.
Marek stepped toward the table.
Stopped on the other side.
His fingers didn't reach for the book. They reached for me.
Not touching—just hovering.
"Your heart's racing," he whispered.
My chest rose sharply.
"You don't know what's inside that book," he said. "But your blood does."
He leaned forward.
Close enough to feel the heat of him.
Close enough that I had to force myself not to lean back.
"But here's the question, Maryna Valmont…"
His hand finally touched the table—right beside mine.
"…do you want to know who you really are?"
Silence stretched.
Thick with tension.
Thicker with something else.
His breath ghosted across my skin as he leaned nearer.
"I could tell you," he said. "I've tasted others like you. But none of them burned."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
The weight of it sat heavy in the air.
"I'm not yours to taste," I said.
His smirk deepened.
"No," he said. "But you're not his, either. Not completely."
His fingers brushed mine.
Just once.
A spark shot through me.
Not magic.
Just… need.
I snatched my hand away.
He laughed softly and stepped back.
"You'll read it," he said, nodding to the book. "And when you do… you'll understand why none of us can look away."
Then he turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Leaving me with nothing but silence—
And the book that had waited for me longer than I could imagine.