Page 29 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Thornwick Estate

As the car rolled through the gates, Lyric noticed the large etched sign on the stone pillar: Thornwick Estate .

She blinked and turned to Kai. “Thornwick? Is that your last name? Not Thorn?”

He paused, staring straight ahead, nodding once, “It is.”

That was all he gave her.

As the gates closed behind them with a groaning finality, the outside world disappeared behind iron and ivy.

Ahead, Thornwick Estate began to appear—slowly, as if it were emerging from the very earth itself.

An immense fortress of grey stone and shadow, its walls stretched wide into the landscape.

The gabled roofs pitched steep and sharp against the misty sky.

Twin wings unfurled from the central structure, east and west, enclosing sprawling gardens choked by wild vines.

The windows, tall and narrow, blinked in the pale daylight like tired, suspicious eyes.

The heavy oak doors sat recessed beneath a crumbling archway, crowned with fractured glass.

Even in daylight, the house felt dim.

Dim... and watching .

Charles parked the car in the long circular drive.

He stepped out, came around, and opened the door like it was second nature.

Still, Lyric’s stomach twisted as her heels clicked against the cobblestone.

She paused, staring up at the estate, feeling its weight settle deep into her bones.

“You should know… there are some rules here,” Kai said quietly. “It will be fine.”

Something in the way he said it made her glance at him twice—but before she could press further, he was already walking toward the front door.

He didn’t reach for the handle.

Instead, he knocked.

She blinked. “Why are you knocking? This is your house, isn’t it?”

Kai smiled thinly.

“It’s my mother’s house. Still her kingdom.”

Before she could question him again, the heavy wooden door creaked open.

A small cluster of people stood waiting just beyond the threshold.

At the center was a woman—tall, rigid, and eerily beautiful.

Charles walked past them and took his place in line.

He wore a black suit that strained just slightly at the buttons, his expression set in permanent seriousness.

Charles, Lyric thought instinctively—the loyal butler, standing at attention like a soldier ready for orders.

Beside him stood two maids:

One, a severe older woman with graying hair pulled tight into a bun, her posture stiff as a board.

Her face was all sharp lines and sharper judgment—not a trace of softness to be found.

The other was younger—maybe just a few years older than Lyric herself.

She was petite, with dark hair braided neatly over one shoulder, and her hands twisted nervously at the hem of her apron .

Her wide, anxious eyes flicked between Kai, Lyric, and Mrs. Thornwick with barely concealed fear.

And standing above them all—commanding the room without saying a word—was Mrs. Thornwick.

She wore a high-collared black blouse buttoned to the throat, and a long sweeping skirt that brushed against polished black lace-up shoes.

Her hair, streaked faintly with silver, was pinned into a severe chignon so tight it seemed painful.

No makeup softened the stark planes of her face—high cheekbones, hollowed cheeks, full unsmiling lips.

She held her hands clasped neatly in front of her waist, her chin raised high, her dark eyes sharp as flint.

If an angel had fallen from grace and chosen discipline over compassion, she might have looked like this.

“Mother,” Kai said warmly, stepping forward to kiss her cheek.

Mrs. Thornwick’s face softened, but only for him.

“Malachai,” she said, her voice thick with pride. “You’re home.”

The name landed between them like a stone dropped into deep water.

Lyric blinked, feeling it strike something inside her.

Malachai Thornwick.

It didn’t sound like the Kai she knew—the man who laughed easily and kissed her forehead.

It sounded old. Heavy. Belonging to this place, this cold stone house with its iron gates and crumbling grandeur.

She swallowed, the realization settling slowly.

She hadn’t even known his real name.

And if she didn’t know that...

Did she really know him at all?

After Kai finished greeting his mother, he turned to Lyric.

“Mother, this is Lyric.”

Mrs. Thornwick stared at Lyric for an uncomfortably long time.

Lyric stepped forward, hand outstretched, ready to say, “Nice to meet you. ”

But Mrs. Thornwick looked down at Lyric’s hand and didn’t move.

She then looked up into Lyric’s eyes and replied, “Lyric…. Is that short for something?”

“No Ma’am,” Lyric said, suddenly feeling ashamed. “It’s just Lyric.”

“Hmph… just Lyric …” Mrs. Thornwick scoffed as she turned away.

Mrs. Thornwick folded her hands tighter across her waist and lifted her chin even higher.

“This house,” she announced, her voice carrying through the great hall, “was built by my great-great-grandfather, Malachai Thornwick the Second, in 1839. Every stone, every beam, laid with his own vision in mind. Thornwick is a house of tradition—and tradition is what preserves its soul.”

Her gaze sharpened as she flicked a glance between Lyric and Kai.

“Under this roof, we honor those traditions. Which means”—a small, cutting smile— “as you are not married, you will be given separate rooms.”

She turned her head slightly without looking away.

“Charles, be a dear and show them to their rooms.”

Rooms.

Plural.

Lyric blinked, confused, but Kai said nothing.

Charles retrieved their suitcases and began ascending the staircase, his steps slow and deliberate.

The house creaked with every footfall, as though stirring reluctantly from a long sleep.

---

They followed him up the grand sweeping staircase, the carved woodwork, dark and polished to a dull shine.

A faded red runner stretched up the middle, worn thin by generations of footsteps.

The scent of old wood, lavender, and something fainter—dust, maybe—clung to the air .

The light filtering through the leaded glass windows was dim and fractured, leaving the halls painted in dusky patches.

Portraits lined the walls—stiff men in dark coats and severe women in high collars—their glassy eyes seeming to follow Lyric as she passed.

She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her sweater without thinking, as if it could shield her from the silent judgment pressing down from all sides.

---

The first room they stopped at was breathtaking.

High ceilings.

Blue velvet curtains sweeping to the floor.

A massive carved headboard centered against the wall, framed by matching antique furniture that gleamed faintly under the heavy chandelier.

Charles turned stiffly to Kai.

“Your room, Sir.”

Lyric paused in the doorway, admiring the richness of it all, the effortless luxury—until Charles turned again.

“This way, Ma’am.”

She glanced at Kai, eyebrows raised in question.

He just smiled and placed a hand lightly against the small of her back to guide her forward.

They walked what felt like an eternity down a narrower corridor—the floorboards growing softer and more uneven underfoot.

The walls here were crowded with aging portraits and dark wood paneling, the air cooler and less cared for.

At the very end of the hall, Charles stopped.

He opened the door without ceremony.

Lyric stepped inside.

It was... pretty.

But not like Kai’s.

The ceilings were lower.

The furniture was smaller and less ornate .

One wall was covered in floral wallpaper that clashed awkwardly with the heavy Victorian trim—as if the room had been modernized halfway through and then forgotten.

The air smelled faintly of old flowers and something sweeter, almost cloying.

Charles set her bags down and left without a word, the door falling closed with a soft click behind him.

Lyric turned to Kai, heart pounding faster than she wanted to admit.

“What is going on? Why do we have different rooms?”

Kai laughed softly, pulling her into his arms like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Don’t panic,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. “My mother has rules. Under her roof, if you’re not married, you sleep apart.”

Her chest ached as she looked up at him.

“You told me we’d be spending more time together,” she whispered. “Now we can’t even sleep in the same bed?”

He kissed her forehead—a gesture both tender and dismissive.

“We will,” he promised.

“She’s on the other side of the estate. She never comes down here. You’ll sleep with me. She doesn’t have to know.”

Lyric nodded, forcing herself to smile, to believe him.

But the scent of the room lingered.

The silence thickened around her, settling into the base of her spine.

And somewhere, buried deep in her stomach, something began to twist.