Rhys didn't sleep that first night.
He'd chosen a smaller bedroom on the second floor—not the master suite, he couldn't handle that yet—and barricaded the door with a chair. Logical? No.
Comforting? Marginally.
The room was furnished in faded Victorian elegance: floral wallpaper, a narrow bed with lace curtains, a washstand with a cracked porcelain basin. It smelled like dust and old roses.
Rhys sat on the bed with his laptop, researching.
Prince Valerian of Ashbourne - Historical Records
The internet had surprisingly little. A few academic papers about English royalty. Some genealogy websites. A Wikipedia article that was mostly "citation needed" tags.
But what he did find was chilling:
Prince Valerian Edmund Ashbourne (1698-1723) was the only heir to King Edmund III of Ashbourne, a minor kingdom in northern England. Noted for his artistic talents and volatile temperament, Valerian became embroiled in scandal when he became obsessed with Elara Thorn,
a commoner. Historical accounts vary on what occurred, but Valerian allegedly imprisoned Elara on charges of prostitution and treason.
She died in custody—officially ruled suicide. Valerian himself died three days later in a duel with Lord Cassian Blackwood. The kingdom fell shortly after, destroyed by unexplained plague and disaster. The palace was abandoned and later sold to American collector Edgar Ashton in 1890.
"Allegedly," Rhys muttered. "Officially. They have no idea what really happened."
He clicked on another link—a digitized historical text from 1725, two years after Valerian's death:
"The Palace of Ashbourne stands empty, yet locals report strange phenomena. Lights in windows. Voices crying in the night. Several who entered seeking shelter were found dead, faces frozen in terror.
The Archbishop declared the palace cursed, marked by the sin of a prince's unnatural obsession. None dare enter now."
Rhys shivered.
Another click. A journal entry from 1893, when the palace was being relocated:
"The workers refuse to continue. They claim a presence watches them, grows angry when they touch certain items.
Yesterday, three men were injured when a chandelier 'spontaneously' fell. I begin to think Edgar's obsession with acquiring this palace is folly. Some things should remain buried."
The screen flickered.
Rhys looked up sharply.
The lights in his room had dimmed. No—not dimmed. The bulbs were going dark one by one, until only the laptop's glow remained.
"I know you're here," Rhys said, proud that his voice was steady.
"Am I so predictable?" Pryce materialized in the corner, luminous in the darkness. "Or do you simply sense me now? We are connected, after all."
"Stay away from me."
"This is my palace. I go where I please." Pryce drifted closer—not walking, drifting, feet not quite touching the ground. "Besides, did you really think a chair against the door would keep me out?"
He passed through the barricade like it was smoke.
Rhys stood, backing away. "You said you'd give me thirty days—"
"To break the curse, yes. I didn't say I'd leave you alone." Pryce's smile was predatory. "In fact, I think it's time you learned some house rules."
"I'm not playing your games."
"Rule one:" Pryce ignored him. "You don't leave the grounds. The moment you step past the property line, I'll know. And I'll be... displeased."
"You can't keep me prisoner—"
"Rule two: You don't contact anyone. No friends. No family. No Brother Ignatius." Pryce's eyes flashed dark. "This month is for us. No outside interference."
"That's kidnapping!"
"It's intimacy." Pryce was right in front of him now. "How can we resolve our past if you keep running to others for help?"
Rhys's back hit the wall. "Rule three?"
Pryce's hand pressed against the wall beside Rhys's head, caging him in. "Rule three: We have dinner together. Every night. You'll sit across from me, talk to me, let me court you the way I should have courted Elara."
"I'm not her!"
"Then show me who you are instead."
Pryce's other hand came up, fingers trailing down Rhys's jaw. "Prove to me you're different. Stronger. Brave enough to face me without flinching."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Liar." The word was a caress. "Your heart is racing. You're trembling. You're terrified."
He was right. Rhys hated that he was right.
"What happens if I break your rules?"
Rhys asked.
"Then I stop being patient." Pryce leaned in, cold lips brushing Rhys's ear. "I've given you power here—the freedom to explore, to research, to try to break free. But if you abuse that gift? If you try to run or call for help?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'll remind you how powerless you truly are."
"By hurting me."
"By showing you." Pryce pulled back, met Rhys's eyes. "By demonstrating that your body responds to me even when your mind resists. That on some deep, primal level, you recognize me. Want me. Need me."
"I don't—"
Pryce's hand moved fast, gripping Rhys's throat. Not choking—just holding.
Possessive.
"Don't lie to yourself, beloved. I can feel your pulse jumping under my fingers. I can see your pupils dilating. You're afraid, yes.
But you're also..." His thumb stroked over Rhys's racing pulse. "...curious."
He released Rhys abruptly, stepping back.
"Dinner is at eight. Don't be late."
Then he vanished, leaving Rhys gasping and shaking against the wall.