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D amien stood outside the Pavilion Hotel, the night wrapping around him like a too-tight jacket. The rhythmic thrum of the nearby surf blended with the melodic tangle of voices drifting from the bar. Normal sounds—ordinary, even. And he wondered how the world around him could go on as usual when his own world was spiraling into danger and mystery.

He drew a breath, part of him wanting to turn away. To forget about this appointment. To ignore the answers he so desperately needed.

To go back to Nikki.

Is she Nikki? Is she even still your wife?

For three days now, he’d been asking himself that horrible question. Ever since the night with the dress. With the blood.

Nothing felt real. Three children. Years together.

And a primal connection that he’d never felt with anyone other than Nikki.

She was his, dammit. His.

But right then, he was terrified that she wasn’t. Not anymore.

He felt his hands tighten into fists as his body tensed. But who was he supposed to fight? Nikki? The house? The memory of Vivian Lorainne?

And where the hell could he go—where could he take her? They couldn’t outrun this nightmare. No matter how much he might want to, somehow, he knew that he had to stay.

Had to fight. Not his wife, but the … thing … that had seduced her.

He shivered, fear as cold as ice trailing down his spine. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t.

And yet, dammit, he was terrified that he already had.

The thought sent a fresh wave of tension through him. He was a man who prided himself on control. Keeping it. Enforcing it. He was Damien Fucking Stark, but for the last three days, he sure as hell hadn’t felt like it.

Not with his wife turning into another person. Wearing only Vivien Lorainne’s clothes. Styling her hair as the star had done. Even mimicking Vivien’s makeup.

And, yes, maybe he could have handled that—convinced himself it was only a way for Nikki to amuse herself, or chalked it up to boredom on the island and taken her home— if that had been the only thing going on.

But it wasn’t. She’d grown distant. Cold.

Different.

In the space of three days, she’d become a woman he didn’t know. A terrifying thought because he knew Nikki as well as he knew himself. Or, at least, he thought he did.

Was he even himself anymore? He wasn’t sure. But he knew one thing for certain—the woman in his bed wasn’t Nikki anymore.

Yes, she still came to him. Yes, she still touched him. Stroked him. Whispered that she wanted him. And, damn him, he responded, pushed by a need so powerful it felt like it was coming from outside him. Taking her hard. Taking her fast. Begging her with every touch and every kiss and every thrust deep inside her to tell him what was wrong. Why she’d withdrawn.

Why she was losing herself to a murdered movie star?

She never gave him a clue.

She gave him sex. And she gave him silence.

She gave him Vivien Lorainne.

But when she looked at him, he saw something beneath that facade. Something cold and calculating.

Something that scared the hell out of him.

“ Dammit.” The word came out hard, lingering in air that seemed to carry a strange tension. He drew in a breath to calm the storm building inside him, then let it out slowly. He wanted his wife back. And for that, he needed answers. So he’d come here to talk to the only person he knew who might be able to help.

Determined, he squared his shoulders, then took a step forward. Then another, and another after that, until he was inside the hotel and saw Franklin Hart sitting at one of the tables in the lobby bar.

“Dr. Hart. Thank you for meeting me,” Damien said after he’d shook hands with the man. He settled into his own seat as a waiter hurried over with a Scotch.

“Please. Call me Franklin. And you’ll allow me to call you Damien?”

“Of course,” Damien said. He hadn’t noticed it after the auction, but there was something about the man he didn’t care for. Something about the way he held himself. The way he looked at Damien but didn’t quite meet his eyes. But that didn’t matter now. Franklin was his only resource, and Damien was enough of a negotiator to know when he did—and, more importantly, when he didn’t—hold the upper hand.

Franklin leaned back in his chair, and Damien felt the man’s eyes on him. Studying him. “You said you needed my professional opinion,” he finally said, “but beyond that, I’m at a loss. Are we talking matters of the psyche or the occult?”

Damien took a sip of the Scotch, letting it sit on his tongue, relishing the burn, and giving himself a few precious seconds before he had to speak his fears aloud. And, in so doing, move them from imagination to reality.

“Both,” he finally said. “Though, to be honest, I hope this falls within the purview of psychology. If I can walk away from this table knowing that my fears are all in my head, you’ll have made me a very happy man.”

“I see,” Franklin said, though of course he didn’t. Not yet. “Then let us keep an open mind as we chat. Tell me why you called me. Leave nothing out, even if you believe it was only in your mind.”

It was harder to start talking than he’d anticipated. After all, he’d spent his life building walls, locking his vulnerabilities away where no one could see them. But now, with Nikki slipping through his fingers and that damn house breathing down his neck, he needed to show his cards. Because Nikki’s sanity—hell, maybe her life—depended on it.

And so he began. He told Franklin everything. From the original impulse to buy the house to the strange connection Nikki seemed to have with the place. He told Franklin about the violent—even bloody—sex. About the way the house seemed to whisper.

He couldn’t explain it, but something about the place felt off. Wrong in a way that defied logic or reason. He wasn’t a man who believed in ghosts or curses. But if the house wasn’t haunted, it was doing a damn good impression of it.

Franklin’s expression barely changed as Damien laid it all out, but Damien caught the slight tilt of his head, the way his eyes narrowed just a fraction. Observing. Analyzing. The look of a man who could see straight through bullshit.

Damien kept going, telling Franklin about the changes to his wife. The strange obsession with Vivien Lorainne. The distance. “She goes out without telling me where she’s going. Comes back with nothing but nonsense.”

“Nonsense?”

“Trinkets. Little things. Nothing that matters.”

Franklin hummed thoughtfully. “And what do you think it means?”

An impotent rage rose inside him. “I haven’t got a fucking clue. All I know is that she’s not Nikki anymore.” He closed his eyes. Tried to tamp down the fury … and the fear. “I need you, sir. I need you to tell me how to bring her back.” He shook his head, then sighed. “I sound insane.”

“You don’t,” Franklin said smoothly. “But you do sound like a man who’s troubled. And I certainly see why.”

Damien closed his eyes, then drew a breath. “It’s the house, isn’t it? It feels … wrong. Like it’s alive. Like it’s seeping into her, changing her.” He let out a sharp breath. “I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I can’t shake it.”

God, he sounded unhinged.

Franklin nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “You’re worried, of course. And it’s true—houses can carry energy. Memories. It’s not unheard of.”

“So you’re saying—”

“ No ,” Franklin said firmly. He sat back. “Your house isn’t haunted, Damien. Of that, I’m certain. What I’m saying is that when you hear hoof beats, think horses, not zebras.”

“What do you mean?”

Franklin steepled his fingers. “You know I’m interested in the occult, so a haunted house is not something that I would dismiss without certainty. But despite the stories over the years, there hasn’t been any credible indication of a haunting at your cottage.”

Damien thought of the strange noises. Nikki’s behavior. The stories that Franklin was so easily dismissing.

Franklin laughed. “You’re thinking too loud, my friend. Come on, if the house were truly haunted, don’t you think someone in my position would know it?”

Damien dragged his fingers through his hair. “Fine. But what’s your point?”

“I’m saying that when someone feels trapped, they often act out. So you tell me. Which is more likely— that Nikki is working through some sort of frustration or that some dark presence in your house is manipulating her?”

“You think Nikki feels trapped?” Damien shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. You don’t know my wife. You don’t know us. ”

“Perhaps not,” Franklin said. “But I know how stress can impact a person. How changes in environment can be a trigger. And I also know a bit about your wife’s history. She was very brave to talk publicly about her history with cutting, but it is her history.”

Damien tightened his hand around his Scotch, not sure if that was to center himself or to have it at the ready in case he decided to throw it. He kept his voice steady as he said, very slowly and very clearly, “What exactly are you saying?”

“I think it’s very likely that Nikki is having an affair.”

Damien went completely still. “No.” The word was immediate. Firm.

And yet…

“No,” he repeated.

Franklin tilted his head. “You sound certain.”

“Of course I’m certain,” Damien snapped.

“It’s just that—” Franklin shook his head. “Never mind.”

Something cold and dangerous seemed to writhe in Damien’s gut. “Tell me.”

Silence lingered.

“ Goddammit . Tell me.”

Franklin lifted his hands as if in surrender. “It’s just that at the gala, I saw her talking to a man. I spoke to him later. Greg was his name. But I know people, Damien. I’m trained to look at people and to truly see them. And Greg wasn’t there for the gala. He was there for her.”

Damien stared at him, the knot in his chest tightening. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“You need to talk to her. Bring this out into the open. Let her know you see the changes. That you’re aware. If it’s an affair, confronting her will force her to face it. If it’s something else, it might be enough to snap her out of it. But you can’t keep ignoring it.”

Damien’s stomach twisted. “And if you’re wrong?”

“Then you have ruled out one cause for this new distance between you. You talk, and you rebuild.”

Rebuild.

How was that word even in his vocabulary where Nikki was concerned?

Dammit, he wasn’t going to lose her. Not to a house, not to some asshole named Greg. Not to anything.

But as he walked back to the cottage an hour later, a whisper of doubt coiled through him, dark and insidious.

Was she even still his to bring back?

It’s late. The house is silent, except for the faint creaks of wood expanding and settling, as if the house itself is breathing. I sit curled up in the armchair near the window, the dim light of a single lamp casting long shadows across the room.

I pull my legs up to my chest, resting my chin on my knees. Craving. Needing.

Blood.

I think about the blood. The way we’d been last night.

Not last night. Days ago.

Time … time isn’t the same anymore.

I squeeze my eyes tight, forcing the thought away. All these strange thoughts in my head lately. I don’t want the thoughts. I only want the memory of Damien. Of how it had felt. Raw and unrestrained, as if something primal had taken over both of us. Something wild and wonderful.

Something terrifying.

No. Not terrifying. Primal. Necessary.

I crave it even now. It should have left me sated, fulfilled. Instead, I feel ... restless. Unsettled.

As if I’m not myself. As if my desire has a dangerous edge.

What is happening?

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to calm the erratic thudding of my heart. But the calm doesn’t come. Instead, I feel a strange sense of heaviness, like dark fingers pressing against my skin, holding me down. I want to get up. I want Damien.

I want to curl into his arms, to feel the safety and love that only he can provide.

He doesn’t love you. He despises you. Despises what you’ve become.

No.

I scream the word, but there is no sound. I try to get out of the chair, but I can’t move. I’m frozen, pinned in place by an unseen force. I’m stroking the snake bracelet, the motion soothing, and when I’m calm enough, I look around. My eyes stop at the small table beside the chair, where the journal sits. Its cover is pristine now, unmarked. No ouroboros. No initials.

I reach for it, my fingers brushing over the smooth leather. A shiver runs down my spine as the memory of the shifting passages sends a chill through me. I want to throw it across the room. This horrible, wrong thing.

But instead, I flip open the cover and, again, begin to read.

The entries start out mundane. Notes about Vivien’s day-to-day life. Tea with Carlton. A meeting with her agent. But as I turn the pages, the letters begin to blur, the ink shifting and swimming on the paper. I blink, my breath catching as the words reshape themselves into something darker:

Carlton swears Basil speaks to him in whispers. That he hears the voice even in his dreams. He insists Basil is more than flesh and blood. That he is strong. Inescapable. I’m scared. Scared of my own husband. And yet I don’t understand why. I only know that he’s changed.

I shudder, my grip on the journal tightening. My eyes dart to the next page, and I watch, mesmerized, as the ink ripples again before settling into stark, black words:

These pages are tainted—I am certain of it. I should stop writing in this journal, and yet I can’t seem to do so. It’s as if I’m compelled to record my thoughts. To spill out my soul. I only hope that by doing so I am not bleeding out.

My thoughts go again to Damien. To the blood. To the need. To the passion, raw and primal that played out between us.

Bleeding out…

Yes, that’s what it feels like. Not blood, but my soul.

Damien!

The cry rips through my mind in one moment of pure, perfect terror. I love him. I need him.

I need him to save me.

But Damien isn’t here.

Basil is, though. Basil is everywhere.

And Basil loves me.