Page 26 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

A few weeks back, I found myself at a graveyard. It started off with jumping over a fence and into grounds I had no business being. My thoughts had been in a haze after the cruelty my body had succumbed to from Callum. He was drunk and I was helpless. At first he sought out reasons to hit me, but now he just does it when he feels like it.

The rain was gracious in covering the blemishes and allowing me to bask in its merciless torment. His presence should have spooked me, but it did not. That same feeling of being watched came back, but instead of running to the nearest police station, I opened up to the obscurity of my actions.

I knew he was there, cloaked in the light’s shadows, hidden in the darkness of my room, surrounding me. Yet when Callum put his hands on me, I never felt him, but somehow I hoped he had been there.

Like he had been behind that glass. I finally put a face to the voice that had been needling my days. And oh, how beautiful that face is, how taunting his eyes are. Now I’m to dine with him, this stranger, that is not so much a stranger. I’m to walk in the dress he sent me and agree to his demands, for the sake of us and for the sake of my mother.

But then again, there is not an ocean I wouldn’t cross for the woman that birthed me.

* * *

The car was a shiny black color, with tinted windows and driven by a man in a suit. I barely remember his voice,the same way I no longer recall our drive other than the trees and fog that obscured our journey. However, what hasn’t been lost on me is the way my eyes grew to saucers when we entered the iron-fashioned gates to his home.

To call it a mansion feels almost laughable, a mere whisper in the shadow of its true grandeur. It towers, almost defiant, with stone walls in deep burnt red, their edges softened by the passage of time, as if they’ve weathered centuries of secrets. Ceramic carvings, intricate and delicate, adorn every arch, every column, telling stories from eras long forgotten. The windows, draped in heavy curtains, stretch high and wide, framing sweeping views of balconies that seem to hover over the world below. At the center of it all, a grand water fountain spills its endless streams into a basin, the sound of cascading water echoing through the air, as if the house itself is breathing, alive with its own mystique.

The lights cast a soft glow over the sprawling estate, their warm embrace making the rose vines climb higher, their petals glowing like soft embers against the stone. The walls seemed alive with nature’s tendrils, twisting around them like whispered secrets. A grand staircase, carved from dark wood, spirals upward to two imposing doors, their intricate patterns reflecting an artistry that felt both ancient and new. As the doors creaked open, Oscar emerged, his presence as unwavering and composed as it had been when we first met. His calm exterior was unbroken, an unreadable mask that only made the tension in the air thicker.

My heels click against the rock-strewn staircase as I walk into the place Sebastian lays his head every night. My gaze drifts back to the car, now receding into the distance, and I let out a quiet breath.

“Miss Fontaine, l hope the ride was to your liking?”

“It was, and Odessa is just fine,” I reply, my voice softer, a delicate edge of calmness beneath the undertones of something unspoken.

“Wonderful. Shall we?” Oscar’s voice is steady, almost detached, yet with an inviting quality that could only be there to guide me deeper into the heart of this opulent labyrinth.

As I step over the threshold, the foyer takes my breath away. Above me, a grand crystal chandelier hangs like a jewel from the heavens, its facets scattering the light into a thousand prismatic reflections. The tiles beneath my feet are masterfully crafted, each one telling its own silent story through intricate patterns. The walls, covered in glaucous olive wallpaper, seem to hold the weight of time itself. Paintings, lavish and indulgent, line the halls, capturing moments so rich and deep that they seem to pulse with a life of their own. Some were old, others more contemporary, but all of them felt undeniably expensive.

A sweeping staircase curls upwards, its steps like a path leading to another world. To the right, an opening reveals a sitting area, lush with plush fabrics and sumptuous cushions. Yet, I find my attention drawn to the objects scattered around, like pieces of a living history.

Oscar leads me into the living room, his back straight, his purpose unwavering. As he walks away, I remain still for a moment, allowing the room to consume me. The heavy, marble fireplace stands as the room’s centerpiece, its mantle bearing the weight of time and a selection of finely curated artworks. Oil canvases hang on the walls, each brushstroke exuding power and precision. The air smells of age and wealth, of things that have seen generations pass by.

This room, modern in shape yet tinged with a cultured past, mixes the sleek and the ancient. The orange and blackfurniture speaks of a bold yet nostalgic era, while the surrounding artifacts tell tales of their own, tales woven through history, mystery, and influence.

Then, my eyes catch a glimpse of something on the far wall, a towering bookcase, overflowing with stories bound in time. The worn spines, marked by the tender touch of someone who has devoured their contents, call to me. Drawn to it, I move closer, my fingers brushing over a particular book with a rich purple spine and gold lettering that seems almost to glow in the muted light. It feels like I’m tracing a forgotten chapter, a secret that’s just beyond my grasp.

“Apate.” His voice slices through the quiet, sharp enough to make me freeze. I turn, startled, to find him standing there in black slacks and a black shirt with a few buttons undone, adding to his effortless charm. His hair is swept back into a neat bun, the shape of his face made even more captivating by it. And those eyes, icy blue, so pale they might swallow the world whole. A dark pull catches at my chest, a temptation to drown in the abyss of his gaze, to lose myself in it and never surface again.

His eyes skim over my dress, hungry and appreciative, as though they could devour every inch of me. The fabric clings to my curves, every movement accentuated, every contour embraced. I suddenly feel seen, in a way I never have before, the dress and the light makeup making me feel beautiful. A sensation that has long evaded me, one I thought I’d forgotten.

“The goddess of deceit and fraud, whose companion was pseudology. She was one of the evil spirits released from Pandora’s box. A master of illusions and trickery. And she had a hand in the death of a mortal.”

The story is engrossing and familiar.Haven is filled with so many mythical tales written on the walls, I find myself reading through as my escape from reality at times.

“You look like a goddess, Odessa. Devastatingly beautiful.”

My heart falters, and the room seems to shrink around us. His eyes gleam with something unreadable as he closes the distance, until I can feel the warmth of his body radiating, his presence commanding. Sandalwood and something more masculine, more primal, wraps around me like a cocoon, ensnaring my senses and holding me captive. I breathe in, drawn to him despite myself.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice soft, almost too soft. But there’s nothing else I can say, nothing that seems fitting. So, I let the silence fall between us, a tension that only builds with every passing second.

He tilts his head ever so slightly, a subtle movement that always shows his scrutiny. It’s as if he’s trying to peel me open, to sink beneath my skin and claim whatever it is that he finds buried within. His presence, heavy and all-encompassing, presses me back against the bookshelf. His chest is mere inches from mine, yet the space between us is charged, a tension that crackles in the air. No part of him touches me, yet the heat of his body seeps through, suffocating and intoxicating.

He may have called me a goddess, but in his proximity, I realize he is a god, unquestionable untouchable. His chiseled jawline cuts through the air, and his lips, full and inviting, seem to mock the very restraint I’m trying to hold onto. And those eyes, devious and predatory, remind me that no matter how much I try to mask it, he sees everything.

“Do I flame fear in your veins, Wild Rose?” His warm breath fans my face and a shiver cascades down my spine.

“Would you like me to be afraid?”

“Perhaps.”

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