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??The Beast Beneath

Ember

The next few days didn’t get better. Well, they did. But not in any way that mattered.

Dorian Vale made sure I had everything.

Fresh pastries that melted on my tongue. Fruit so ripe it bled. Coffee so rich I forgot, for a moment, that I was still a captive. But kindness wasn’t kindness when it came from a man who knew how to weaponize it.

He watched me too closely. Clocked every shift of my body. Every sigh. Every lie I told myself about what this was.

He didn’t touch me. He didn’t have to. He had already taken something far more dangerous, my attention.

On what felt like the millionth day, he unlocked the door. “Care to stretch your legs, podcast girl?”

I rolled my eyes but followed. I was too curious not to. He didn’t restrain me. Didn’t shadow my every move. He just… let me walk beside him. Like I belonged here.

The manor was enormous. Opulent, yes, but old. It groaned like it remembered things no house should. I spotted figures moving in the distance. Staff. But none of them made a sound. They moved like whispers, appearing only when he looked their way.

“You keep ghosts on payroll now?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at a tall woman who glided past, head bowed, skin pale as wax.

“Of course not,” he replied, amused. “They’re not ghosts.”

“What are they then?”

He smiled. “Loyal.”

We turned a corner and entered what looked like a small conservatory. There were no plants. Just windows, mirrors, and silence.

“Where are we going?”

He glanced sideways. “Touring. You’ve been cooped up. I thought you might enjoy a peek behind the curtain.” “How generous.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

He led me through a sprawling hallway, then paused at a large, black iron door. It radiated cold.

“This,” he said, tone darkening, “is the west wing. It’s off-limits.”

I crossed my arms. “Why? You hiding bodies?”

“Not anymore.”

“Funny.”

“I’m hilarious when properly motivated.”

He moved on without waiting for me to catch up, forcing me to follow or get left in the echo of whatever that door was hiding.

“You know,” I said, keeping pace, “most captors don’t offer room service and scenic walks.”

“I’m not most captors,” he murmured. “And you’re not most prisoners.”

I hesitated. “Then what are we?”

He stopped at the top of a staircase, turning to face me. There was something unreadable in his expression, something ancient and dangerous.

“You’re a complication,” he said. “But one I’ve come to enjoy.”

The air thickened. The tension between us stretched, elastic and taut.

“Enjoy me all you want,” I whispered, stepping a little too close. “Doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying to escape.”

His lips twitched. “I’m counting on it.”

When we returned to my room, he lingered by the door. “You’re free to roam,” he said. “But the west wing stays locked. That’s not a warning. It’s a promise.”

And just like that, he was gone. Vanished into the silence he carried like a second skin.

And I?

I sat on the edge of the too soft bed, heart pounding, mind racing.

Still a prisoner. But now I had a map of the cage, and a devil who wanted me to trace its walls.