Page 4 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

So Celestine removed her high heels and tiptoed through the halls with a bag stuffed to the brim with the bloody dress and knife. Quickly entering the Smoking Room, she hid the evidence and put her shoes back on before quietly making her way to the door.

Almost done.

All she had left to do was to get out without any noise.

Easier said than done.

Anxiety snaked up her body, climbing the rungs of her ribs. Celestine sucked in a breath and held it, begging for a bit of luck from God or whatever entity existed up in the sky. Slowly—miserably slowly—she clicked the door shut.

She’d done it! Thank heavens. Now, all she had to do was find her next victim. Celestine had three options to choose from—thank God Dorothy was as amorous as she was—and she would choose the first one she stumbled upon.

She headed in the direction of the commotion.

Celestine turned the corner and was about to reach her destination when a tall, haunting figure appeared inches before her as if conjured. As if he were a predator seeking his prey.

Fuck.

She jolted and clutched a hand to her chest, a small squeak escaping her lips.

She didn’t respond well to surprises, and it took her a moment to process who, or what, was before her.

It could have been a ghost. They lurked on the edges of the manor.

The Specter could summon creatures from the great beyond .

But this man was no ghost.

“Oh, you gave me a fright,” she said, flattening out a wrinkle in her dress to hide her nerves.

Silhouetted by a darkness that seemed to stick to his clothing, like parasites feasting on human flesh, was Dean Ashbrook—the man who made brooding an art form.

He was James’s cousin and one half of a set of identical twins.

The twins had black hair, blue eyes, and pale skin.

Many considered them the ideal gentlemen, looking like a modern-day Adonis.

And boy, were they indeed mouth-watering.

“Are you going to say anything?” Celestine twisted the straps of her bag awkwardly and waited for him to do something…

anything, but all he did was glower, and his stare was like obsession, like possession.

His eyes traced her like the chalk outlining a corpse, catching first on her new red dress, then moving on to the wet tips of her red hair, and finally landing on a spot behind her ear.

“You have something—” Dean ended his sentence by pulling out his pocket square and using it to point to her neck. He held it out by a corner, making sure to hold the cloth at an angle to avoid touching her.

Dean Ashbrook hated Celestine and always had.

From the moment they first met, Dean was obsidian, unknowable and as cold as mountain rock.

But regrettably, that’s what excited her about him.

The hatred fascinated her, and she spent countless hours trying to figure out what she’d done to offend him. Alas, she’d never discovered it.

But perhaps one day she would.

Celestine grabbed the cloth and dabbed it against her neck, holding his glare the entire time. Electric tension stormed between them, and her traitorous heart leaped into her throat, her stomach tying itself into knots. It happened every time Dean was near. He was a poison designed solely for her .

Celestine bit her lip and glanced down at the fabric—a drop of red coated the sea of white.

Well, fuck.

He lifted one manicured eyebrow. The gesture said, I assume you weren’t gallivanting with vampires.

Anxiety twisted her gut and burned her lungs. Dean had to know she was the night’s murderer, but if he said anything, it would ruin the Specter’s show. And it was far too soon to unmask the killer.

Celestine gulped and steadied her hand against the wall, glancing at her surroundings. She’d never been caught out this early.

No one was around. Could she murder him and get away with it?

No, it was far too risky.

But Dean noticed far too much, including her fear. The side of his mouth curled up as he drank in her current state. He slid his hands into his suit pants pockets, and his eyes sparkled with mirth. Oh, he enjoyed torturing her, having her at his mercy.

The man always delighted in having something over her.

“Please don’t say anything yet. It’ll rui—”

“Sometimes you should let the show be ruined instead of suffering through something you loathe,” Dean interrupted, his voice like a velvet noose circling her slender neck. “Leave your Specter and get far away from this den of sins. Go down to Hollywood and leave us be.”

Celestine jerked back as if slapped. Did he really hate her so much that he wanted her gone immediately?

Dean normally wasn’t this direct. Usually, he barely spoke to her, let alone said, what was that, twenty words?

It was the most he’d ever spoken to her at once, and he used it to tell her to leave.

The valves in Celestine’s heart clenched .

He wanted her gone. And that hurt more than Celestine cared to admit.

A manufactured breeze stroked her neck, and the hair on her arms rose.

“You must truly hate me.”

Dean’s chin slightly dipped into a nod, his jaw tightening, but his lips remained shut. He’d used up his allotted word count for the moment and refused to say anymore. Instead, he rotated on his heel and strolled away, as if completely unaffected by the interaction. Done engaging altogether.

Fury stroked through her. He was so…frustrating, and worse, condescending.

But she couldn’t focus on that now. She needed to find a target.

Thankfully, luck was on her side tonight, because just as Dean made to turn out of her sight, one of Dorothy’s many lovers turned the corner and nearly ran into him.

Richard Monroth.

Dean scowled at the other man. They hated each other. Richard was a regular at Wolfsbane Hall who enjoyed fucking and murdering—he got off on both. Often at the same time. He had long desired a night with Celestine, but there had never been a show that would satisfy that desire.

Not until tonight.

And Celestine had no qualms about fucking him, especially not if it would anger Dean Ashbrook.

A bright smile appeared on her lips, and she said, “Ah, Lord Mountdrake, I have been looking everywhere for you.” She bounced on her toes and ran toward him, hoping he would accept her affections and catch her.

He did, and she jumped into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist and her lips touching his. He met her with a hunger that far outmatched hers. His tongue jutted inside her mouth, greedy and demanding .

Celestine met his ferocity, but eventually, she pulled away to breathe. She’d expected Dean to have left, but he merely leaned against the wall and glared at her. Celestine’s nostrils flared, and she met his glare with one of her own. Dark and provoking.

His lips curled slowly and sharply into a smile that seemed to be carved from dark warnings.

Celestine gulped and turned her gaze back to the man holding her up by her ass cheeks. “Would you like to go somewhere more private?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said in a smooth voice, but he didn’t put her down as expected. Instead, he held her tighter to his chest and walked her to the closest room.

The Downstairs Study.

As the door closed, Celestine looked once more out into the hallway, where her eyes again found Dean’s. He gave nothing away on his face, but every muscle in his body was stiff.

Celestine swallowed but turned her attention back to her next victim.

It didn’t take long for Richard to have her dress up around her waist and his dick pounding inside of her as she was perched on the desktop. There was no foreplay, no seeing if she was ready, and no attending to her needs.

His sex was all about him.

She didn’t mind. Sometimes, she just wanted it rough.

Sometimes, she enjoyed the pain. Celestine didn’t have to fuck Richard—she never had to fuck any patron.

She could have stopped with a few kisses; usually, she would.

But it was a murder night, and on a murder night, she would take any distraction, any drug.

And for the moment, her drug of choice was his dick.

The slight pain, the pounding, and the lack of care fueled her in a way. She was using him just as much. Sex for her wasn’t about love. It was a transaction. She usually got pleasure with James, but with others, she got something different.

As he pounded into her, she used the distraction to rip one of his cufflinks off and hide it in a marble jar that shook with their movements.

At some point during the encounter, Richard pulled out and flipped her, smashing her head into the desk as he took her from behind. Her eyes focused on the marbles rattling in the glass. It wasn’t that she felt no pleasure at all, his penis stroking her velvet did feel good, it just wasn’t great.

It simply was .

A slightly gratifying means to an end.

He roared as his hot seed filled her, and he convulsed, his weight resting on top and pinning her further into the desk. “Oh, that was so good,” he growled, panting into her hair.

She stifled a sigh. At least it was for one of them. She gritted her teeth, waiting for him to climb off her and remove his below-average dick. When he did, she turned around, meeting his sex-soaked, satisfied gaze. At least she was of service to someone.

Cum rolled down her leg. As he saw it, he said, “What a good little cum hole you are,” and slapped her cheek softly in the most condescending of ways.

Then he cupped her chin and pulled her into him, taking another kiss, his cock hardening again.

Eventually, he released her lips. “On your knees. I want to fill both of your holes with my seed.”

Celestine swallowed past the lump in her throat.

Men were so predictable. Channeling her character Dorothy, Celestine said, “As truly tempting as that suggestion is, I’d rather not.

I’ve gotten my use out of you.” She tapped his cheek like he had done to her before she reached into the jar, took a handful of marbles—including the cufflink—and twirled on her heels, walking away, treating him like trash the same way he would have treated her.

“Well, that was fun,” she said, clicking the door closed and leaving him alone with his seething thoughts.