The house blinked first.
Not literally—houses don't have eyes—but the windows flickered as the taxi rolled to a stop, like it had just woken up from a centuries-long nap and realized, oh no… it's her.
I didn't move right away.
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag, nails biting into faux leather as my pulse thudded in my ears. The air smelled wrong. Damp earth, old wood, and something else—something metallic and sharp, like rain after lightning strikes.
"Miss?" the driver said gently. "This is it."
I nodded, paid him, and stepped out.
The iron gates loomed ahead, tall and twisted, vines crawling over them like they were trying to escape. As soon as my feet touched the gravel, the gates creaked open on their own.
I stopped dead.
"…Yeah, no," I muttered. "I didn't sign up for autonomous haunted architecture."
The gates ignored me.
Blackwood Estate rose beyond them, massive and brooding, its dark stone walls wrapped in ivy like a mourner's veil. The house looked exactly the same as it had the night I left—untouched by time, untouched by fire, untouched by consequence.
Of course it survived.
Thunder grumbled overhead, low and distant, like the sky itself was side-eyeing my life choices. The clouds pressed down, heavy and swollen, casting everything in a gray-blue gloom.
I took one step forward.
The temperature dropped instantly.
It felt like the house exhaled.
Memories slammed into me—my mother's sharp whisper telling me never to come back, my father's name spoken only in half-finished sentences, the night screams filled these halls and flames licked everything except this cursed place.
The front door creaked open.
I did not touch it.
I stared at the gap, heart racing. "Absolutely not," I said out loud, because speaking makes fear smaller. "You will not gaslight me into thinking this is normal."
The house remained silent.
The door stayed open.
I swallowed.
Fine.
If this place wanted me inside so badly, I'd give it exactly what it asked for—me, unimpressed and alive.
I crossed the threshold.
The door slammed shut behind me.
The sound echoed through the house, deep and final, like punctuation at the end of a sentence I hadn't agreed to finish.
"Okay," I whispered. "We're doing this."
The air inside was colder, heavier, like breathing through wet fabric. Dust floated lazily, catching the faint glow of wall sconces that flickered to life one by one, lighting the grand entrance hall.
The chandelier above creaked ominously.
Classic.
Portraits lined the walls—rows and rows of Blackwoods staring down at me with sharp eyes and sharper bone structure. Their expressions ranged from bored to outright hostile.
One woman in a dark green gown looked especially judgmental.
"What?" I snapped at her. "It's a long trip."
The staircase curved upward like a spine, disappearing into shadow. The carpet beneath my feet muffled my steps, but I still felt watched. Seen. Measured.
Then a voice cut through the silence.
"Miss Elara Blackwood."
I froze.
Every muscle locked, survival instincts screaming.
Slowly, I turned.
He stood at the foot of the staircase like he'd always been there—tall, composed, shadows clinging to him like loyal pets. He wore dark clothes tailored too well to be accidental, and his posture screamed confidence in a way that was deeply unfair.
His eyes were silver-gray.
Not light gray. Not stormy gray.
Silver.
They pinned me in place.
"And you are…?" I asked, lifting my chin. Fear was knocking, but pride answered the door with crossed arms.
The corner of his mouth tilted. Not a smile. Something worse.
"Lucien," he said. "Caretaker. Guardian. Depending on the century."
I let out a short laugh, because panic humor is still humor. "Right. And I'm guessing next you'll tell me this house is haunted."
His gaze drifted to the walls. The ceiling. Then—back to me.
"Oh, it is," he said softly. "But not in the way you think."
The lights snapped off.
Every single one.
Darkness swallowed the room whole.
I sucked in a sharp breath but didn't scream. I refused. I was not about to be that girl in a horror story.
"Lucien," I said evenly. "If this is your idea of a welcome party, I'd like to speak to management."
A low chuckle echoed, closer now. Too close.
"The house is reacting," he said. "It recognizes you."
"I don't like that sentence."
Light flickered back on—dim, unstable, like the house was reconsidering its choices. Lucien stood only a few steps away now.
I hadn't heard him move.
"That's because you don't remember," he said.
I frowned. "Remember what?"
His expression shifted—something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "This house," he said carefully, "does not belong to you because of a will."
My stomach tightened.
"It belongs to you," he continued, "because it answered to your blood."
The chandelier above us rattled violently.
I stepped back. "That's not possible."
"You bled here once," Lucien said quietly.
The world tilted.
I stared at him, breath shallow. "I—what?"
"The house remembers," he repeated. "Even if you don't."
A sharp pain sparked behind my eyes, sudden and blinding. Images flashed—red staining marble, my younger hands trembling, a voice screaming my name over and over.
I gasped, dropping my bag.
Lucien caught my arm before I could fall.
His touch burned.
Not painful. Not gentle.
Electric.
I sucked in a breath as warmth spread through my skin, chasing away the cold. Our eyes locked, and for one horrifying second, the house went completely silent.
No creaking. No wind.
Like it was listening.
"You should not touch me," I whispered, even though my body was very much disagreeing.
His grip loosened instantly, but his gaze lingered. "You're awakening things," he said. "Things that were buried for a reason."
"Love that for me," I muttered weakly.
The walls groaned.
A distant thud echoed from upstairs, heavy and deliberate.
Something moved.
Lucien straightened, all humor gone. "You were never meant to return so soon."
"So soon?" I repeated. "I've been gone ten years."
His jaw tightened.
"Exactly."
The sound came again—closer this time. Footsteps.
Not ours.
The chandelier flickered violently, then shattered, glass raining down around us. Lucien yanked me backward just in time, pulling me against his chest.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
Up close, he smelled like smoke and rain and something ancient.
"Welcome home, Elara Blackwood," he murmured near my ear. "The dead have been waiting."
The footsteps stopped above us.
And somewhere deep within the house, something laughed.
The silence after the laughter was worse than the sound itself.
Lucien didn't let go of me immediately.
I noticed because my body noticed.
His arm was firm around my waist, steady in a way that suggested he'd caught people before—often. My back pressed against his chest, and for reasons I refused to unpack right now, my pulse betrayed me by syncing with his breathing.
Slow. Controlled. Dangerous.
"You can let go," I said, even though I didn't move.
"I could," he replied.
He didn't.
The house creaked again, impatient, like it was annoyed we were stealing its moment.
Lucien finally stepped back, but not far enough. Not nearly far enough. His hand lingered at my side, fingers flexing once like he was fighting instinct.
I looked up at him.
Big mistake.
Up close, his eyes were worse—flecks of silver swirling in gray like storm clouds deciding whether to break. His lashes were unfairly long. His face carried the kind of beauty that wasn't soft or kind, but sharp and deliberate, like it had been carved with intention.
"You're staring," he said quietly.
"I'm assessing the threat," I shot back.
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "And?"
"You're annoying," I said. "Mysterious. Probably emotionally unavailable."
"Accurate."
"And yet," I added, my voice dropping despite myself, "you don't feel like the thing I should be afraid of."
His expression darkened.
"That," he said softly, "is where you're wrong."
Another thud echoed upstairs—closer now, heavier. Something scraped against wood.
Lucien turned instantly serious. "You should stay close to me."
I arched a brow. "Oh? Is that professional advice or personal?"
His gaze flicked back to mine, lingering a second too long. "Both."
My stomach flipped. Traitor.
He took my hand this time—no warning, no hesitation. The contact sent a sharp pulse up my arm, like static snapping between us.
I gasped.
Lucien stilled.
"You feel that," he said.
It wasn't a question.
I swallowed. "Yeah."
His thumb brushed over my knuckles, slow, reverent, like he was confirming something he'd suspected for a long time.
"That hasn't happened in centuries," he murmured.
"Congrats," I said breathlessly. "I'm a medical marvel."
His grip tightened just slightly. "You're a catalyst."
The word landed heavy between us.
The house groaned approvingly.
I yanked my hand back. "I don't know what game this is, Lucien, but I didn't come here to unlock ancient evils or flirt with immortal caretakers."
"Pity," he said, eyes unreadable. "Because the house disagrees."
The walls pulsed once.
Heat curled low in my stomach—unwanted, undeniable.
Lucien stepped aside, gesturing toward the staircase. "Your room is ready."
"How thoughtful," I muttered. "Does it come with nightmares, or is that a separate package?"
He watched me climb the first step, his voice following me like a promise I didn't ask for.
"You've always dreamed of me, Elara."
I froze.
Slowly, I turned back. "Excuse me?"
Our eyes locked again.
He didn't smile this time.
"You just don't remember yet."