The night over Saint Petersburg was quiet — too quiet for a city that never slept.

Snow fell in slow spirals, wrapping the streets in ghostly white. The moonlight reflected on the frozen canal like silver glass, and far in the distance, the Volkov mansion stood tall, ancient and beautiful, like a beast watching over its prey.

Aria Ivanova pressed her gloved hands tighter around the camera. Her breath misted in the cold air as she crouched behind the iron gates.

For months she’d followed the Volkov family — Russia’s most dangerous crime syndicate. Drugs, assassinations, money laundering — every dark rumor in the city whispered their name.

But tonight wasn’t about rumors. Tonight, she wanted proof.

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears.

She waited until the guards made their usual round, then slipped through the side gate Lena had unlocked remotely.

Inside, the world changed — silence so deep it felt wrong. The air smelled faintly of smoke, leather, and old wood. Marble statues lined the path, their eyes hollow in the moonlight.

One photo, she thought. One file. One secret.

That was all she needed to end the Volkov empire.

But the mansion seemed to breathe. The corridors stretched endlessly. She moved past paintings of grim men with pale eyes — the Volkov ancestors, each more terrifying than the last. Their gazes followed her.

Her phone buzzed once. A text from Lena:

📩 In and out, Aria. You’ve got 10 minutes before cameras reset.

Aria’s fingers trembled as she crept into the study. It was exactly as the leaked blueprints showed — oak shelves, a huge desk, and an old fireplace that flickered low.

She started snapping photos.

Weapons locked in display cases. Stacks of ledgers marked with coded numbers. She smiled.

“Got you,” she whispered.

Then — a sound.

Soft. Slow. Footsteps.

Her body went rigid.

She turned off the camera light, hiding behind the tall curtains near the window. Her heart raced.

The door creaked open.

Someone walked in — tall, steady, powerful. She could hear the sound of boots against marble, the click of a lighter, the soft exhale of smoke.

A deep voice, calm but dangerous, spoke in Russian.

“Do you know what happens to thieves in my house?”

Aria froze.

He was close now — close enough that she could smell his cologne: cedar, smoke, and something darker, like blood.

A hand snapped the curtain aside, and she was yanked out roughly. Her camera fell, hitting the floor with a crack.

Her eyes met his.

Nikolai Volkov.

He was taller than she imagined. A black suit, open collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, veins tracing down his forearms. His eyes — icy gray, sharp, and unreadable — studied her like she was prey he’d been waiting for.

A faint scar cut across his jaw. His expression was calm, but his grip on her arm was iron.

“Who sent you?” he asked.

Aria bit her lip, forcing herself to stay defiant. “No one.”

Nikolai’s mouth curved slightly. “A brave liar.”

He picked up her camera and scrolled through the photos. His face darkened.

“So you’re not only a thief,” he said, voice low, “you’re a spy.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m a journalist.”

“Ah,” he murmured, stepping closer until she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. “So you steal truth instead of money.”

The faintest smirk touched his lips — but there was no warmth in it.

“You think I’ll let you walk out of here with this?”

“I don’t think you’ll kill a woman just for a few pictures,” she said, though her voice wavered.

His eyes flickered — not with pity, but amusement.

“You underestimate what kind of monster I am.”

He lifted her chin with his fingers, forcing her to meet his eyes.

For a moment, she saw something else there — a strange shadow, a flicker of pain buried deep.

Then he dropped his hand.

“Take her to the cellar,” he ordered coldly.

Two guards appeared instantly. They grabbed her arms, dragging her down the hallway as she struggled.

“Nikolai!” she yelled, hating that her voice cracked. “You can’t just—”

“Watch me,” he said softly.

The cellar wasn’t a dungeon — it was worse.

Cold stone walls, dim yellow light, and an eerie stillness that made her skin crawl.

The guards left her tied to a chair, locking the door behind them.

Aria’s wrists burned against the ropes. She twisted, trying to free herself.

Somewhere above, she heard the echo of piano notes — haunting, slow, like a lullaby for ghosts.

Her fear deepened.

This house was too quiet. Too perfect.

Something about it felt alive.

After what felt like hours, the door opened again.

Nikolai stepped inside, no guards this time. He had taken off his jacket, his shirt sleeves rolled up, showing a tattoo — a wolf wrapped around a dagger.

He walked slowly toward her, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Who are you working for, solnyshko?” he asked softly. Little sun.

“I told you. I’m independent.”

He tilted his head. “Independent journalists don’t break into mafia estates at midnight.”

She bit her lip, refusing to answer.

He leaned closer, his voice a dangerous whisper. “You’re lucky I find you interesting.”

Aria glared at him. “Let me go.”

“Hmm,” he said, circling her like a predator. “You come into my home, you steal from me, and then you give orders?”

She stayed silent.

Then he stopped behind her and leaned close enough that she could feel his breath against her ear.

“Tell me, Aria Ivanova,” he whispered, “why shouldn’t I bury you in my garden tonight?”

Her name on his lips made her stomach twist.

She turned her head slightly. “Because if you kill me, the whole world will know what you are.”

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then — laughter. Low, deep, and dangerous.

“You think the world doesn’t already know?” he said. “They just prefer not to see.”

He moved in front of her again. His gaze softened — just barely. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she lied.

“Good,” he murmured. “You should be afraid for yourself, not of me.”

Her brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost reverent.

Then his voice changed — lower, colder.

“You remind me of her.”

“Who?”

He blinked once, like he’d said something he didn’t mean. “No one.”

She studied him, curiosity mixing with fear. Beneath his coldness, she saw something broken.

But before she could speak, a sound echoed through the hall — faint footsteps, followed by a woman’s voice whispering in Russian.

Nikolai turned sharply. “Irina?”

His face went pale. The air seemed to freeze.

Aria frowned. “Who’s Irina?”

He didn’t answer. He looked… haunted.

Then, suddenly, the lights flickered.

For a moment, the shadows moved — like something passed between them. Aria felt a chill run down her spine. A cold whisper brushed her ear, though no one was near.

Run before he loves you.

Her heart stopped. “Did you hear that?”

Nikolai’s jaw tightened. “No one’s here.”

But his eyes said otherwise.

He untied her wrists slowly, still watching the dark corners of the cellar.

Then, turning back to her, his voice softened. “You’ll stay here tonight.”

“What? I’m not—”

“You step one foot outside, and my men will shoot you,” he said simply. “So choose: stay where it’s safe, or die in the snow.”

“Safe?” she repeated bitterly. “With you?”

He smiled faintly. “Safer than the ghosts outside.”

She shivered. He wasn’t joking.

He walked toward the door, then paused, his hand on the knob. “Aria,” he said without looking back, “next time you come for secrets… bring something worth dying for.”

And then he left her alone — in that silent, haunted cellar.

The night dragged on. Aria sat by the dim lamp, rubbing her wrists, trying to calm her racing heart.

Somewhere in the mansion above, she could hear faint laughter, footsteps, whispers — all blending together.

But at one point, she heard something else. A woman’s soft cry. Then… a lullaby.

She followed the sound, pushing the door open carefully.

The corridor was empty. The air turned colder the further she walked.

She stopped when she saw it — a portrait of a woman in a black dress, her eyes identical to Nikolai’s. A small nameplate beneath it read:

Irina Volkov. 1968–2002.

The same name Nikolai had whispered.

As Aria stared, she swore the woman’s painted eyes shimmered — and her lips curved into the faintest smile.

Then, just as quickly, the air behind her shifted.

A hand clamped around her wrist.

Nikolai.

His expression was unreadable. “I told you not to leave.”

“You didn’t tell me your mother’s portrait would start moving.”

He looked at her sharply. “What did you see?”

“Her. Smiling. Like she’s alive.”

For a moment, the mask slipped. His eyes darkened, voice a low whisper. “Don’t ever mention her again.”

Aria met his stare — unflinching. “You’re afraid of her.”

He smiled thinly. “You’re braver than most. Foolish, but brave.”

He stepped closer, his hand still on her wrist. His grip wasn’t harsh this time, just firm — possessive. “From now on, you don’t go anywhere unless I say so. You breathe when I allow it.”

“Excuse me?” she snapped, trying to pull free.

His eyes locked onto hers. “You wanted to play with wolves, solnyshko. Don’t cry when one bites.”

And then — before she could speak — he leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear.

“You belong to me now.”

Her heart pounded violently, anger and fear tangled inside her.

He released her hand and walked away, leaving her trembling — but not from fear this time.

As his footsteps faded, Aria whispered to herself, “You don’t own me.”

But somewhere in the depths of the mansion, a faint voice — that same haunting whisper — answered:

He already does.

Morning came slowly in the Volkov mansion.

Or maybe it didn’t come at all — the thick curtains let in no sunlight, the air still cold and heavy with the scent of burning wood and something metallic.

Aria sat on the edge of the bed that Nikolai’s men had forced her into the night before.

The sheets were silk, crimson and black, softer than anything she’d ever touched. But the comfort felt like mockery — a cage disguised as luxury.

She hadn’t slept.

Every time she closed her eyes, she heard whispers. A woman humming. Footsteps outside the door when no one was there.

At one point she thought she saw movement in the mirror — a pale reflection behind her that disappeared when she turned.

It’s this place, she told herself. It’s messing with my head.

A knock came — sharp, commanding.

Before she could answer, the door opened.

Nikolai stood there, freshly dressed in a black shirt and vest, his hair still damp from a shower. His gray eyes swept over her once, unreadable.

“Good morning, solnyshko,” he said softly.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, standing up. “And untie your pet, Mr. Volkov. I’m leaving.”

He leaned against the doorframe, amused. “Leaving? Where exactly? The moment you step beyond those gates, my men will assume you’re a threat.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Will you?” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

The sound made her flinch.

“Why are you keeping me here?” she demanded. “You got my camera, you have your secrets — let me go.”

“I haven’t decided what to do with you yet,” he said simply. “And I don’t like making quick decisions.”

She crossed her arms. “You like control. That’s what this is.”

He smiled faintly. “Control is the only way to survive in my world.”

“Maybe in your world,” she shot back, “but not in mine.”

He took a slow step toward her, then another, until the space between them was a breath.

His gaze lowered to her lips before flicking back up. “You walked into my world the moment you broke into my home.”

She didn’t back away. “Then maybe I’ll burn it down from the inside.”

His expression changed — a flicker of dark amusement. “You could try.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The air between them was heavy, alive with something dangerous.

Aria felt her pulse race, angry at herself for noticing how close he was, how his presence filled the room like gravity.

Then he said quietly, “Breakfast is ready.”

“What—?”

He gestured toward the hallway. “You’ll eat. I don’t let my guests starve.”

“I’m not your guest,” she muttered.

He leaned close enough that his breath brushed her ear. “Then think of yourself as my captive. Either way, you eat.”

She glared at him, but followed.

She wasn’t stupid — if she wanted to survive, she had to play along, at least for now.

The dining hall looked like something from a gothic painting — long table, chandeliers, portraits watching from the walls.

Food covered the table: bread, eggs, fruit, black coffee. Everything too perfect, too untouched.

Nikolai sat at the head of the table, while Aria reluctantly sat opposite him.

Guards stood at the corners of the room, silent as statues.

She noticed something strange.

None of the food on his side of the table was eaten either. He only drank coffee, staring at her quietly.

“You’re not eating?” she asked.

“I prefer to watch,” he said.

“That’s creepy.”

“That’s honest.”

She sighed, taking a sip of coffee just to have something to do. It was bitter, strong — almost like he’d brewed it himself from darkness.

Finally, she asked, “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

He smiled slightly. “Because I can’t decide if you’re a threat or a temptation.”

She froze, the cup halfway to her lips.

“Or both,” he added softly.

Before she could reply, one of the guards entered suddenly. He bent down to whisper something to Nikolai.

Nikolai’s expression shifted, his jaw tightening. Then he stood.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

Aria frowned. “What’s going on?”

“Stay,” he repeated, sharper this time.

Then he left the room, the guards following.

The doors shut behind him, leaving her alone in that massive hall.

At first, she thought about escaping. But then she heard something — faint, rhythmic. Tap… tap… tap.

Her gaze turned toward the tall glass windows at the far end of the hall.

A woman stood outside.

Pale, in a black dress, her face almost invisible through the frost.

Aria’s heart lurched. The woman lifted a hand and pressed it against the glass.

Her lips moved, but no sound came.

Aria stood slowly. “Hello? Are you—?”

The woman’s head tilted, eyes hollow and unblinking.

Then she smiled — the same haunting smile as the portrait last night.

The glass cracked.

A long, thin line split across the window, spreading like a spiderweb.

Aria stumbled back, her pulse racing. “What the hell—”

The door behind her burst open.

Nikolai stormed in, grabbed her arm, and pulled her away from the window just as it shattered — glass exploding into the room like a rain of blades.

They fell together, his body shielding hers.

When the noise finally stopped, shards lay glittering around them like diamonds.

Aria looked up, breathless. “What—what was that?”

Nikolai didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his breathing heavy. A thin cut traced down his cheek — a line of red against his pale skin.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

He brushed it off. “It’s nothing.”

She caught his wrist. “It’s not nothing!”

Their eyes met again, too close.

She saw something flicker in him — pain, fear, and something deeper. Something human.

He stood abruptly, turning away. “Get her out of here,” he ordered the guards.

“No!” Aria shouted. “Tell me what that was!”

He turned, his expression cold again. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

He hesitated, then said quietly, “Some ghosts don’t stay buried.”

Before she could question him further, he walked out, leaving her staring at the shattered window and the faint trail of blood he left behind.

Later that day, Lena’s voice crackled through Aria’s hidden earpiece — she’d forgotten to remove it.

> “Aria? Finally! Where the hell are you? The signal’s been dead for hours!”

“Lena,” she whispered, looking around to make sure no one was near. “I’m inside the mansion.”

> “You mean still inside? Are you crazy? What happened?”

“Long story. But Lena…” she hesitated, “there’s something wrong here. I saw someone — or something — outside the window.”

> “Like who?”

“A woman. I think she’s… dead.”

There was a pause.

> “Aria, get out of there. Whatever you think you’re investigating, it’s not worth—”

The line cut off. Static hissed. Then silence.

Aria cursed under her breath. She turned to leave — but Nikolai was standing in the doorway, watching her.

“How long have you been there?” she asked.

“Long enough,” he said. His eyes were unreadable. “Who were you talking to?”

“No one.”

He stepped closer. “You’re lying again.”

She tried to move past him, but he blocked her path, his voice low and sharp. “You don’t call anyone. You don’t leave this house. You don’t even breathe without my permission.”

Her anger flared. “You can’t control me.”

His hand slammed against the wall beside her, making her jump. His body caged hers, his voice a growl.

“Watch me.”

Her pulse thundered. For a moment she saw it — the darkness that lived inside him, the madness that made men kneel and enemies die.

But she also saw the way his hand trembled slightly as he held it there. He was angry, yes — but not at her.

At himself.

Then his voice softened. “You have no idea what danger you’re in.”

“Then tell me,” she whispered. “What’s really happening here?”

He looked down at her, his expression torn between fury and something else.

After a long silence, he said quietly, “My family is cursed, Aria. Every woman who falls in love with a Volkov… dies.”

She blinked. “That’s not—”

“I watched it happen to my mother,” he interrupted, his voice cracking just slightly. “And to my father’s mistress before that. The house takes them. The ghosts of the past take them.”

Her breath caught. “You actually believe that?”

He gave a bitter smile. “Believe? No. I see it.”

She shook her head. “That’s impossible.”

“Then explain the woman at the window.”

Aria fell silent. Her mind tried to rationalize — hallucination, trick of the light — but deep down, a cold dread spread through her chest.

He stepped back finally, exhaling. “You’re staying in the west wing tonight. It’s safer there.”

“Safe from what?”

“From me,” he said, and left.

That night, Aria couldn’t sleep again.

The west wing was colder than the rest of the mansion, filled with unused rooms and echoing hallways.

She wrapped herself in a blanket, staring at the door.

Around midnight, she heard the piano again — the same haunting melody from the cellar.

Curiosity won. She followed the sound through the corridor until she reached a dimly lit room.

The grand piano stood alone in the center, dust covering its surface — except for the keys, which moved on their own.

Her heart stopped.

No one was there.

The melody continued, soft and sorrowful.

Then — a shadow appeared in the reflection of the piano’s glossy lid.

A woman again. Irina.

“Why are you showing me this?” Aria whispered.

The ghostly figure turned toward her, lips moving silently.

Aria stepped closer, straining to hear — when suddenly, cold hands grabbed her shoulders from behind.

She screamed, spinning around — only to find Nikolai standing there, his expression dark.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay in your room?” he hissed.

“You can’t keep me locked up!”

“Do you have any idea what you just walked into?”

He grabbed her hand, dragging her away from the piano. The air around them turned freezing cold, their breaths visible in the air.

Behind them, the piano keys slammed down all at once — a loud, discordant crash that echoed through the halls.

He didn’t stop until they were back in her room. He turned on her, eyes burning.

“You listen to me, Aria. You touch nothing. You speak to no one that isn’t alive. Do you understand?”

She stared at him, chest heaving. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he said softly. “But at least I’m still alive.”

Their eyes met — defiance against obsession, fear against desire.

And yet, even as she hated him, she couldn’t deny the pull she felt — something dark, magnetic, dangerous.

He stepped closer again, his voice barely above a whisper. “You think you can fight me, solnyshko. But every time you look at me, you forget to hate me.”

Her throat went dry. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” His fingers brushed her cheek. “Because I can already feel you shaking.”

She pushed him away, furious. “Get out.”

For a moment, he looked like he might refuse. But then he smiled faintly — a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“As you wish.”

He left, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Aria sat on the bed, her heart pounding, trying to steady her breath.

Outside, thunder rolled in the distance.

And faintly, through the storm, she heard a whisper — a woman’s voice again.

Run before he loves you.

Rain lashed against the tall windows, making the Volkov mansion groan under the storm’s weight.

The lightning flashed every few seconds, cutting across the corridors like knives of light.

Aria lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the walls breathe.

Every creak sounded too deliberate, every gust of wind too whisper-like.

Sleep had become impossible here — not with ghosts that hummed lullabies in the dark, and certainly not with him watching her every move.

Since the night in the piano room, Nikolai hadn’t spoken much.

He was colder now — not distant, but restrained, as if fighting a war inside his own mind.

He ordered food for her, posted guards near her door, and even replaced the broken window in the dining hall — yet never once explained what had really happened.

Aria’s instincts screamed that he was hiding something.

Not just about his family, but about himself.

She sat up, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. The clock read 2:11 a.m.

The storm outside was wild, but somewhere deep within the house, she heard another sound — faint, rhythmic. Thud… thud… thud.

Like footsteps.

She got up quietly. The floor was cold against her bare feet. She opened the door and stepped into the corridor, the air smelling faintly of old roses and burnt candles.

“Hello?” she whispered.

No answer. Only the slow, heavy rhythm of steps, leading her deeper into the west wing.

The walls were lined with portraits again — men in military coats, women in lace, their eyes seeming to follow her.

Lightning flickered, and for a split second, one portrait — a woman in white — looked different. Her face had turned.

Aria gasped and stepped back. When the next flash came, the painting was normal again.

She exhaled shakily. “Get it together, Aria…”

Then she saw it — a shadow moving at the end of the corridor.

It was tall. Familiar.

Nikolai.

Relief washed over her — until she realized he wasn’t walking normally. His movements were slow, mechanical, like sleepwalking.

And his shirt… was soaked in something dark.

“Nikolai?” she called softly.

He didn’t respond. He just kept moving toward the farthest door — the one that always stayed locked.

Aria followed, keeping her distance. When he reached it, he took out a small silver key and opened it without hesitation. The door groaned open, and he stepped inside.

Aria hesitated only a moment before slipping in after him.

The room was enormous — and cold.

Old candles flickered around the edges. A huge mirror stood on one wall, cracked down the middle.

And there, on a table, lay a collection of letters, yellowed with age.

Nikolai stood in front of them, staring blankly.

His lips moved silently. Then he whispered a single name.

“Irina.”

Aria’s breath caught. His mother.

The air around him shimmered faintly, and suddenly, a woman’s figure appeared behind him — translucent, glowing faintly blue.

Her hair floated as if underwater, her eyes hollow but sad.

Aria froze.

It was her. The same woman from the portrait.

Irina Volkov.

“Nikolai,” the ghost whispered. Her voice was soft, melodic, and filled with sorrow. “You promised you’d never bring her here.”

Nikolai’s eyes flickered. He spoke to the air — or rather, to her. “I had no choice.”

“She will die,” the ghost said gently. “Just like I did.”

He clenched his fists. “No. I won’t let it happen again.”

“Love is death in this house,” she said. “You know that.”

And with that, the figure faded, leaving only the echo of her words and the chill that clung to the air.

Aria stood frozen in the shadows. She wanted to move, to speak — but the look on his face stopped her.

He looked broken. Haunted. Human.

Then, as if sensing her, Nikolai turned sharply.

His eyes met hers. The coldness returned in an instant.

“What are you doing here?” he said quietly, dangerously.

“I— I heard something. I followed you.”

He walked toward her slowly, his expression unreadable.

“You followed me,” he repeated. “Again.”

“I just—”

“Do you enjoy disobeying me, Aria?”

Her heart raced. “I didn’t mean to—”

He stopped in front of her, inches away. His voice dropped lower.

“Do you have any idea what happens to people who spy on me?”

She forced herself to look up. “You already told me. You kill them.”

His jaw tightened. “Do you think I enjoy that?”

For a moment, his voice wasn’t cold anymore — it was tired. Almost desperate.

Then he stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

“Your mother?” she whispered.

He looked at her sharply. “Don’t say her name.”

“But I saw her—”

“Stop.” His tone was sharp, commanding. “You saw nothing. You heard nothing.”

“Then why are you shaking?” she asked softly.

That silenced him.

He turned away, his reflection splitting across the cracked mirror. “Because every time I dream of her,” he said quietly, “someone dies.”

The words hung in the air like poison.

The next day, the mansion felt different.

Quieter. Darker.

Even the staff avoided eye contact.

Aria tried to focus on survival — she needed to find her phone, get a signal, escape.

But every door she tested was locked. Every corridor seemed to twist back toward the center of the house.

At lunch, Nikolai appeared again. He looked calmer, dressed perfectly as always. The cut on his cheek had healed already — almost unnaturally fast.

“You’re pale,” he said, studying her. “Didn’t sleep?”

“How could I? Your house is crawling with ghosts.”

He smirked faintly. “You’ll get used to them.”

“I’m not planning to stay that long.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching her. “You still think you can leave?”

“I will leave,” she said, glaring.

His voice softened. “Even if it kills you?”

Her chest tightened. “You’re threatening me again?”

“No.” His eyes met hers — cold steel and something else beneath it. “I’m warning you.”

She looked away, her appetite gone. “You act like you own everyone you meet.”

He smiled faintly. “Only the ones who belong to me.”

She glared at him. “I’ll never belong to you.”

He didn’t reply. He just studied her — long enough that it made her heart stutter — then stood and left the room.

Later that evening, she went exploring again. She couldn’t help herself.

The more he told her to stay put, the more her curiosity burned.

She wandered back toward the east wing, the part of the mansion Nikolai never mentioned.

Dust coated the floors. The air was stale, heavy.

She found an old door partially open and stepped inside.

The room was lined with mirrors.

Some were cracked, others fogged. In the center stood an antique vanity — with a silver comb resting on it.

Aria reached out and picked it up. It was cold.

As soon as her fingers touched it, the mirror in front of her shifted.

Her reflection… smiled.

But she hadn’t.

The reflection tilted its head. Blood dripped slowly from its mouth.

Aria dropped the comb, stumbling back. “No—”

The door slammed shut behind her. The mirrors began to hum — a low, vibrating sound that made her head spin.

Whispers filled the air.

He will love you.

He will kill you.

Run before he breaks.

Aria covered her ears. “Stop it!”

Suddenly, arms wrapped around her from behind.

She screamed, fighting — until she heard his voice.

“Aria! It’s me!”

She froze.

Nikolai held her tightly, his body warm against hers. “What did you do?” he demanded. “Why did you come here?”

“I— the mirrors—”

“Don’t touch anything in this wing,” he snapped. “Ever.”

He pulled her away from the vanity, slamming the door shut behind them.

When they reached the main hall, he turned on her, furious.

“Are you trying to die?”

“You keep saying that like I’m the problem here!” she shouted back. “Maybe if you told me what’s actually happening—”

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I am the problem, Aria.”

She stilled. “What?”

“I told you,” he whispered. “Every woman who gets close to me suffers. You think this curse is just a story? I watched my mother lose her mind. My brother’s fiancée drowned in the lake without ever touching the water. And now you—”

He broke off, voice shaking slightly.

Aria’s anger softened just a little. “You think it’ll happen to me?”

“I know it will,” he said. “And yet I can’t make myself let you go.”

She searched his face, seeing the torment there. For the first time, she realized his possessiveness wasn’t just control — it was fear.

Fear of losing her the same way he’d lost everyone else.

He took a slow breath. “You’ll stay in my room tonight.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“It’s the only room the ghosts don’t touch,” he said simply. “You’ll be safer there.”

She hesitated, then nodded slightly. “Fine. But only for tonight.”

A small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips. “We’ll see.”

Nikolai’s bedroom was massive but surprisingly bare — black walls, minimal furniture, and a single painting of a wolf above the bed.

It smelled faintly of smoke and cedar, just like him.

He gave her one side of the bed. “You sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

He glanced at her. “You’ll need more than that if the house decides you’re next.”

She sighed and lay down, turning her back to him.

The silence stretched on.

Then she whispered, “Why me?”

He looked over. “What do you mean?”

“Why keep me here? You could’ve let me go. You should’ve.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly:

“Because when I saw you that night in my study, I thought you were a ghost too.”

She turned toward him slowly. “What?”

He gave a faint smile, eyes dark. “You looked like something the house had created. Beautiful, stubborn, dangerous. I didn’t know whether to kill you or protect you.”

Her heart thudded in her chest. “And now?”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Now I’m afraid I’ll do both.”

The wind howled outside. Thunder cracked.

For a moment, everything felt still — like the house itself was listening.

Then, suddenly, the lights flickered.

Aria sat up. “Nikolai—”

The mirror across the room shimmered.

From its surface, a hand pressed outward — pale, wet, dripping red. Then another.

A woman’s face appeared — Irina’s — her mouth open in a silent scream.

Aria froze.

Nikolai stood instantly, pulling her behind him. The air turned icy. The ghost’s eyes bled black.

“Leave her,” Irina’s voice echoed. “You can’t stop what’s coming.”

Nikolai’s voice shook. “Mother… please—”

“She will die,” the ghost hissed, “and you will follow.”

The mirror cracked, the sound like a gunshot.

Then everything went dark.

When Aria opened her eyes again, dawn had arrived.

The storm was gone. The mirror was shattered.

Nikolai sat beside the bed, head in his hands.

Blood stained his sleeve — fresh cuts from the glass.

She sat up slowly. “Nikolai…”

He looked at her, exhausted. “She tried to take you.”

Aria’s heart ached at the sight of him — this man who ruled over death and darkness, trembling from something he couldn’t fight.

She reached for his hand. “Then maybe we fight it together.”

He met her gaze, the walls between them finally cracking — just like the mirrors around them.

“Aria,” he said softly, “you don’t understand. The house doesn’t want you here because it knows what I’m already trying to deny.”

“What’s that?”

“That I’m falling in love with you.”