Page 12 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Twelve

Gravemoor

Thomas slowed the car at the gates of Gravemoor Castle. The tires crunched to a stop on the gravel.

“I’ll wait here,” he said quietly.

Lyric nodded, already reaching for the door. She paused only long enough to unfasten the coat. She couldn’t let him see her for the first time in a trench coat—not tonight. She slipped it off, folded it onto the seat, and stepped into the night.

The night was thick with fog. It curled around her ankles as she stepped outside, whispering across the pavement like it knew her name. The air was cool and damp, with a scent of earth, stone, and something older, something forgotten.

And then she looked up.

Gravemoor Castle.

She had only been here once before.

The night of the masquerade ball.

But tonight, there were no glowing lanterns. No guests. No velvet ropes or red carpet.

The grand facade stood draped in shadows, turrets swallowed by mist. It looked nothing like it had that night—when it had been dazzling, alive, almost magical.

Now it was exactly as she remembered from childhood.

Ancient .

Dark.

Haunted.

She knew this place.

Everyone in town did.

It had always been there, looming behind its rusted gates at the edge of the woods—whispered about but never dared. Abandoned, they said. Haunted. Cursed.

The place where lights flickered long after midnight and voices echoed when no one lived inside.

Kids told stories about it—the girl who went in and never came back. The man seen pacing the grounds in the fog, coat swirling like smoke, eyes like ice.

Lyric never believed it.

Not really.

But standing here now, alone in the mist, heart hammering—she wasn’t so sure.

Her breath tightened as she stared up at the manor. It was beautiful.

And terrifying.

Her body tensed, instincts screaming to run.

But then—something stirred in her.

That same low, aching fire she had tried to deny. The one curling deep inside her, stronger than fear.

Her curiosity flared with it—wild, hungry, breathless.

She took a step forward.

Then another.

Not because she had to.

Because she couldn’t stop herself.

Gravemoor stood like it had waited centuries just for her.

Spires piercing the sky.

Windows dark and endless.

Its silence alive.

The iron gate groaned as she pushed it open, the sound scraping down her spine.

Still—she kept walking.

A single lantern flickered on the drive, throwing long shadows across her thighs as the velvet dress grazed her skin like whispers .

But she wasn’t alone. Not really. He was here. She had felt him.

Waiting.

Watching.

Wanting.

And she was coming to him—not as the girl who worked behind a dusty counter.

But as the woman he had awakened.

She paused at the base of the steps.

For the first time that night, a flicker of uncertainty found her.

A breath lodged in her throat.

What if she wasn’t enough?

What if she had imagined all of it?

She was still just a girl—one who had dreamed too much and lived too little.

What if he saw her and changed his mind?

What if she had misunderstood everything?

Her fingers brushed the slick iron railing. Cold bit into her skin.

She closed her eyes.

And then—it came.

A wave of heat, slow and sinuous, wrapped around her like velvet.

Not comforting.

Not warm.

Hungry.

It slid across her collarbone, down her spine.

Her nipples tightened.

Her thighs pressed together.

The fire inside her reignited—hotter, deeper, demanding.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

And yet—it was.

It lived inside her.

Or maybe it was him.

She didn’t know the difference anymore.

She moved forward, body no longer her own.

Her hand found the handle .

Wrought iron.

Twisted and gothic.

Wet with dew.

It burned against her palm.

Every part of her screamed she shouldn’t.

But she did.

She turned the handle.

And stepped inside.

Into the dark.

Into him.

---

The heavy door groaned shut behind her.

The sound echoed like a tomb closing.

She jumped, spinning back toward the door. Panic fluttered in her chest.

Maybe I should leave.

Maybe this was madness .

But then—

In the hush of the manor, a soft flicker of light danced in the distance.

Candlelight.

It spilled faintly from the top of a grand staircase, trembling like it breathed.

Her hesitation broke.

She turned from the door, heels tapping across the stone.

Her eyes had adjusted now.

Shadows bent and folded around her, but she could see the glimmer above.

The pull.

She climbed slowly, hand trailing the cold, smooth railing. Every step made her pulse louder.

Then—she smelled him.

That same dark, molten scent that haunted her dreams.

Smoke.

Musk.

Something ancient .

Her thighs tightened.

Her mouth parted.

He was here.

Waiting.

She moved like a woman entranced.

Somewhere in the distance, faint music played—low and melancholy. A piano. Just a few broken chords, drifting like the last breath before a kiss.

And then—silence.

It fell thick as velvet.

Her own heartbeat filled the void, loud and wild in her ears.

Down a long, narrow corridor lit only by flickering sconces, she moved.

Breathless.

Burning.

Forward.

Like a moth to a flame.

The hallway opened into a room—a bedroom, though even that word felt wrong.

This was a temple of seduction.

Hundreds of candles flickered across every surface—mantels, windowsills, candelabras.

Their glow painted the walls in shades of gold and sin.

Crimson velvet drapes lined the windows, pooling into puddles of blood-red folds.

Shadowy mirrors covered two entire walls, swallowing her reflection and spitting her back, wide-eyed, breathless, undone.

Red and black roses spilled across the floor like offerings.

A grand piano sat against the far wall, its lid closed—but she knew it had been him.

The moment she arrived, the music had stopped.

Above the fireplace hung a massive oil painting—ancient, unsettling. Gothic creatures curled into the corners of the canvas, their eyes following her, too lifelike.

And at the center —

The bed.

Massive.

Dark mahogany carved with leering gargoyles.

Sheets of black satin, rumpled and scattered with more roses—like someone had torn through a garden in the throes of passion.

Her breath stilled.

She stepped farther in, barely aware of her own movement.

And then she saw him.

He stood just beyond the glass doors, out on the terrace, shrouded in moonlight and mist.

Facing her.

Watching.

Those same intense eyes.

They locked onto her like a wolf claiming its prey—silent, predatory, certain.

She froze.

Her breath caught.

The confidence she’d worn like armor began to crack, doubt bleeding through.

What am I doing?

She didn’t know if she should speak.

If she should move.

If she should run.

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

But she couldn’t.

He opened the glass door and stepped inside.

Effortless.

Commanding.

Each step toward her felt like a tide pulling her under.

She didn’t breathe—couldn’t.

He stopped inches from her, his presence towering, magnetic.

Then he reached out—slow and deliberate—and tilted her chin up with two fingers.

Her lips parted.

His face was so close she could taste his breath—cool mint and heat .

She thought he would kiss her.

She needed him to kiss her.

But he didn’t.

He hovered there, mouth just brushing hers—taunting.

She whimpered.

And then—he pulled away.

He turned to the piano, pressed a discreet button on its side—within seconds, the keys began to move on their own. Music filled the room slow and haunting.

A melody that pulsed like blood and velvet.

He returned to her, hand outstretched—not asking.

Commanding.

She placed her hand in his.

And he began to move.

Not a dance.

A seduction in motion.