Page 49 of Wicked Embers

I’m so lost in thought that the cool façade I was clinging to evaporates when Dolph suddenly reappears in the bedroom. I nearly jump out of my skin, barely holding back a scream that would’ve done a little girl proud. His sharp gaze locks onto me.

“Did you have a beef with one of your desk drawers?”

“Huh?” I frown, my brows knitting as confusion overtakes me. Following his gaze into the writing room, my steps falter. The moment I cross the threshold, my heart clenches. That eerie, skin-crawling sensation from the dining room earlier tonight returns, settling over me like a suffocating fog.

The drawer I’d closed earlier, the one holding my mother’s journal, is open—dangling on the brink of falling out like someone rifled through it in a hurry.

A cold chill races up my spine, propelling me into the room. Dolph resumes his sweep while I peer into the drawer, the shock hitting me like a punch to the gut.

My mother’s journal is gone. In its place is a pristine white card embossed with a gold crown. My fingers tremble as I pick it up. A flicker of recognition flits through my mind, but I shove it aside.

“Leigh, please don’t open the balcony door off the bedroom,” Dolph calls from the other room. “We’re on lockdown.”

“Open?” I shake my head, quickly dropping the card back into the drawer and shutting it before he sees it. “I didn’t… yes, I did. I’m sorry, I like the cold breeze.” I walk back into the bedroom.

Something holds me back from telling him the truth—that I didn’t open that door.

“Everything’s bolted,” Dolph confirms as he finishes his sweep. “You’re secure.” He says goodnight and leaves, but the room suddenly feels way too big, the shadows too dark. My skin prickles again as if unseen eyes are watching me.

“Great!” I mutter, shutting the door behind him. “Guess I’m not getting any sleep tonight.”

I move through the room quickly, slamming doors shut, locking them, and pocketing the keys. The Bratva might not care about deterring assassins, but I do. I know they can break thedoors down. But at least I’ll hear the crash and have time to prepare.

Breathing a little easier, I glance at the television.Nope!I’m scared enough already without watching something else that may frighten the bejeebers out of me. I think my bejeebers have had enough bejeebering for one night. But if I’m not going to sleep, I may as well write. Back in my writing room, I grab a pen and reach for my songbook—but my fingers hit solid wood where it should be.

“What the hell?” Panic flares in my chest as I frantically search the floor and behind the desk. It’s gone.

The air grows heavier, the shadows shifting and stretching around me. The writing room feels alive, its atmosphere thick with an unnatural chill. My mother’s journal… gone. My songbook… gone. A shiver snakes up my spine as a ludicrous thought strikes me—the fucking room is possessed. First, it swallowed my mother’s words, and now it’s devoured mine.

The silence presses down like a weight, my pulse roaring in my ears. I start backing toward the door, fumbling for the key and yanking it from the lock. Spinning on my heel, I bolt out of the writing room as if hell itself is licking at my heels.

My bare feet skid on the floor as I dart into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. My hands tremble as I manage to jam the key into the lock and twist it shut.

I lean back against the door, panting. “Hells balls!” I mutter, glaring at the writing room like it might come after me. “Okay, maybe I have an overactive imagination, but with the luck I’m having…” I shake my head. “And not a fuck am I going back in there without a priest, holy water, and a match.” I pointa trembling finger at the door as if berating it. “This place is like a goddam house of horrors!” A shudder racks my entire frame.

Standing in the middle of the bedroom, trying to shove the Ghostbusters theme song out of my head, my gaze lands on the round table to the side of the room. An antique chessboard gleams under the dim light, its pieces meticulously arranged—poised for a battle of wits, strategy, and sheer nerve.

It’s as if the universe itself is mocking me, laying out the perfect metaphor for the con I’m about to line up. “Oh, sure,” I mutter, a nervous laugh slipping out despite myself. “That’s not ominous at all…”

Clutching my arms, I glance at the bedroom door, really not wanting to be alone in a room that’s really way too big and not to mention as creepy as fuck.

I can either use all the salt in the house to put a protective ring around my bed or steal Dolph’s gun, which I don’t think’s going to protect me if this is a haunting. I also don’t think Radomir would look too kindly at me, blowing holes in his furniture at the slightest creek or shadow that freaked me out.

So, no gun or salt, but maybe a game or two of chess? My eyes land on the board. I can keep the game going for as long as it takes for the sun to come up. It beats asking Dolph to sleep on the couch because I’m a big, fraidy cat, crazy lady who thinks the writing room is possessed. Although I do think we really should call a demon hunter or exorcist first thing in the morning.

I’m about to reach for the door handle when a hand snakes around my mouth, and another locks around my waist, pulling me against a solid, warm body. My heart stops, then pounds wildly in my chest. Relief flickers—thank God, it’s not a ghost—but panic surges immediately after. It’s a person.

And they’re here in the room. I’m not sure how, though, as I locked the place up.Oh, fuck maybe they’re a demon.I’m about to sink my teeth into the calloused hand, praying it doesn’t taste like sulfur, when I feel the person’s face move closer to mine. I catch the person’s shadow on the door—phew! No horns.

I start to struggle, and a deep voice whispers against my ear. “Don’t fight, Lulu-Petal. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Lulu-Petal.

The name strikes like a whip. I hear my mother’s voice calling me that in memories I can barely piece together, but her voice starts to get distorted in my mind becoming gruffer, heavier, threaded with an emotion I can’t name but feels like something squeezing my heart.

Confusion and panic grow inside me, and I thrash against him, digging my nails into his arm, trying to bite his hand. He lets out a soft grunt but doesn’t loosen his hold.

“Shh, little duchess,” he murmurs. “If you scream, I’ll have to kill Dolph to protect you, and I really don’t want to do that.”

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