The moment Rhys crossed the threshold, the temperature dropped twenty degrees.
Margaret shivered, pulling her cardigan tighter. "The heating system is original but functional—
"It's not the heating," Rhys murmured.
The entry hall was magnificent. Marble floors, sweeping staircase, crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than most houses. But everything was...
preserved. Like walking into a museum. Or a tomb.
"Most of the furnishings are original to the palace," Margaret explained, her voice echoing in the vast space. "When it was relocated, the collector—Edgar Ashton, hence the name—insisted on bringing everything. Furniture, paintings, even the stones from the throne room."
"Where is the throne room?"
"East wing. It's—are you alright?"
Rhys had gone pale. Because he could feel Pryce now. Not seeing him yet, but feeling his presence like a hand on the back of his neck. Possessive. Welcoming.
You came, Pryce's voice whispered directly into his mind. You actually came.
"I'm fine," Rhys lied. "Keep going."
Margaret led him through room after room. A ballroom with faded grandeur. A library with books so old they'd crumble if touched. Bedrooms furnished with four-poster beds and moth-eaten canopies. A dining hall with a table that could seat thirty.
And everywhere, that presence. Watching. Waiting.
"The master suite is this way," Margaret said, leading him up the grand staircase to the second floor. "It was Prince Valerian's personal chambers. Apparently, he was quite the artist—there are original paintings still on the walls."
She opened a door, and Rhys stepped into a room that stole his breath.
It was beautiful. Terrifying. Frozen in time.
A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, crimson curtains still rich despite centuries. Paintings covered the walls—landscapes, portraits, and...
Rhys moved closer to one painting.
A young woman with dark curls and storm-gray eyes, laughing, a crown of flowers in her hair.
"That's supposedly his mistress," Margaret said. "Elara. Local legend says he was obsessed with her. The painting was never finished—see how her hands are just sketches?"
Rhys did see. And he also saw that the face in the painting looked eerily like his own. Same eyes. Same cheekbones. Same slightly crooked smile.
"Who painted this?"
"Valerian himself, according to records. He was quite talented." Margaret moved to another painting. "This was his final work. Painted just days before he died."
Rhys joined her and immediately wished he hadn't.
The painting showed Elara—but different. Bruised. Bloody. Eyes closed. Hanging from a rope in what looked like a dungeon.
And beneath it, written in paint that looked disturbingly like dried blood:
MINE FOREVER
"Jesus," Rhys breathed.
"I know. It's disturbing. My uncle tried to have it removed, but anyone who touches it—" Margaret shuddered. "Bad things happen. So it stays."
Rhys couldn't look away from the painting. From Elara's dead eyes that looked like his eyes.
"I'll take it," he said.
"What?"
"The estate. I'll buy it." Rhys turned to face her. "One million, cash offer. No inspection, no contingencies. I want to close as soon as possible."
Margaret looked torn between relief and concern. "Mr. Castor, I really think you should take some time—"
"I've made up my mind."
"At least stay one night first! See if you can actually handle—"
"I can handle it."
Can you? Pryce's voice whispered, amused.
Margaret sighed. "Alright. I'll draw up the papers. But Mr. Castor? Please be careful.
This place...
" She looked around the master bedroom, and for a moment, her professional mask slipped, revealing genuine fear. "This place is hungry. I don't know how else to describe it. It's been empty for so long, and whatever lives here, it's been waiting for something. Or someone."
"I know," Rhys said quietly. "That's why I'm here."