Page 73 of Salem's Fall
Just thinking about it sets my body on fire all over again. The way he pulled me close, his lips so commanding and possessive. It was like he reached right into my soul and ignited something I didn’t know I had. I can still feel the heat of him lingering on my lips, a slow-burning ember that refuses to go out. Like a moth to his flame, I’m drawn to him against all reason. But that’s the thing about moths and flames.
That pretty fire kills.
I let out a long sigh, feeling Lucky shift against my leg in the bed. Despite the cat’s company, the room feels vast and empty. It’s like a vacuum of beautiful darkness pressing down on me. My eyes catch the single orange rose in a slender vase on the nightstand, its petals curling like a burnished flame. No note, but unmistakably from Damien. He hasn’t returned—not that I’ve seen—but every morning, there’s another rose, slipped in while I sleep.
Eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I decide to check out the rest of the house. I slide out from under the covers and give Lucky a quick scratch behind his ears before standing. He follows my every move, his eyes mirroring my own uncertainty as I steel myself and push open the bedroom door, stepping outside.
I make my way down the winding staircase, my fingers trailing along the dark mahogany banister. The halls are dimly lit, the walls a rich burgundy with intricate molding running along the top. The air smells faintly of wood polish and something darker, muskier. In the heavy silence, every step I take echoes, Lucky’s little paws pitter-pattering behind me.
The main foyer stretches out below, its wood floors polished and shining. Sunlight slants through tall, arched windows, casting a hazy glow that feels almost intrusive in Blackthorn Manor’s cool, shadowed interior. A wrought-iron chandelier hangs above, its dozens of flickering lights casting shifting patterns across the walls.
As I walk past the library, my gaze drifts over an enormous stone fireplace, strange symbols carved into its surface. Antique trinkets sit carefully arranged on the mantel, each one probably worth a small fortune. Massive oil paintings hang in thick frames and towering bookshelves stretch to the ceiling—a dream library filled with books of every shape and size.
I can’t deny the allure of Blackthorn Manor. The place reeks of old money, every corner dripping with an air of power and opulence. If I weren’t effectively a prisoner here, I might actually be able to appreciate its beauty.
A loud, demanding growl from my stomach reminds me I haven’t yet eaten. I turn down a hallway in search of food, the polished floors giving way to sleek, checkered tiles of the kitchen. I nearly jump when I find someone already standing there. An older gentleman in formal attire watches me with quiet amusement, as if he’s been expecting me. He’s dressed in a vintage black suit with coattails, complete with a bow tie, like someone who just stepped out of an old movie.
“You must be Miss Woodsen,” he says, bowing slightly, hands clasped in front of him.
I blink, caught off guard. “Uh, yes. And you are?”
“My name is Edward Jottingsworth, Miss. I’m Mr. Blackhollow’s butler,” he explains. “I’m here to be of assistance should you require anything during your stay.”
I try not to smirk. Of course Damien has a butler.
For a fleeting second, the instinct to beg for help sparks in my mind, but I push it down just as quickly. This man works for Damien. Whatever kindness he might offer, it won’t extendto letting me walk out the front door. And it’s not like I’m being tortured—I’m just… stuck.
“Oh, um… thank you,” I say, offering a polite smile. He looks nice enough, and it’s not his fault Damien has me trapped here like a prized possession. “I was just looking for something to eat.”
“I’d be more than happy to prepare something for you,” he says, leading me into a large, gleaming kitchen outfitted with every modern appliance imaginable.
He gestures for me to sit at a small breakfast nook tucked away in the corner. Lucky curls at my feet as I sit and watch Edward move with an almost unsettling efficiency, retrieving ingredients and setting them out on the counter with practiced ease.
“What would you prefer for brunch, Miss?” His voice is soft, but there’s an underlying precision to it. It’s clear he’s hosted many guests here at Blackthorn Manor.
“Oh, anything’s fine. Just something simple.”
He nods and sets to work with an almost hypnotic grace. I feel slightly overwhelmed. The absurdity of it all—a prisoner being served breakfast by a butler in a grand gothic mansion—doesn’t escape me.
“The meals at Blackthorn Manor are prepared daily by outside chefs and delivered,” he explains, plating my meal. “Mr. Blackhollow prefers to keep in-house staff at a minimum, within a select circle of trusted employees—especially this time of year.”
Goosebumps rise along my arms as I’m reminded again of how close we are to Halloween and Veil Night and whatever that may bring.
Moments later, Edward places a plate before me arranged so meticulously, it looks like it belongs in a five-star restaurant: a mouthwatering crêpe with eggs, turkey bacon, and a fancy French cheese; crisped fingerling potatoes with truffles; freshfruit and berries with chantilly cream. The aroma is intoxicating.
“If you’d prefer, I can arrange for your meal to be served in the dining room, Miss,” he says.
“Sure, that sounds… nice.”
He nods approvingly and leads Lucky and me through an elaborately decorated corridor, his steps quick and purposeful as he guides me into a formal dining room as grand as the rest of the place. An antique ebony table stretches the length of the room, its dark surface polished to a soft sheen beneath a towering crystal chandelier. On the far wall hangs a massive gilded mirror, reflecting flickering candlelight from the wall sconces, adding to the room’s quiet, opulent grandeur. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows is a stunning view of the grounds, trees shedding their autumn leaves in a beautiful cascade of orange and gold.
“I do hope you enjoy your stay with us at Blackthorn Manor, Miss Woodsen. Even if the circumstances are… less than ideal,” Edward says, something in his eyes—understanding, maybe even sympathy—as he leads me to the dining room table.
But then something stops me cold in my tracks. At the other end of the table, cloaked partially in the shadows, is Lucien. His expression, half amusement and half something darker, freezes the breath in my lungs.
“Hello, Miss Woodsen,” he says, his voice dripping with that predatory charm I’ve come to expect from him. He leans back, gesturing for me to take the chair across from him. “Please, have a seat. Join me.”
My pulse quickens as I debate whether to sit or flee. Lucky stiffens next to me, teeth showing, ears flat against his head.
