Chapter 4: What the Dark Keeps

Bella’s POV

The hallway was silent.

It was past midnight, but sleep never came. Instead, Bella paced the guest room like a ghost, each step lighter than the last, as if afraid to wake the house itself. Damian's rules echoed in her head—but so did the memory of the faint light glowing through the window. From the west wing.

Don’t go near it.

But it was calling her. Not in words—but in whispers. She’d grown up knowing that silence could scream louder than anything else.

And tonight, it was screaming.

She opened the door slowly, her bare feet brushing over the chilled wooden floor. The hallway stretched ahead like a throat, swallowing her in shadow. Still, she moved forward—slow, quiet, careful.

She passed two doors. A library. A study. She didn’t dare peek inside. Her breath was shallow, heart thumping in time with every cautious step.

Then she saw it.

A single, black door. Older than the rest. Ornate carvings twisted along the frame like vines. The doorknob was brass—faded but polished by touch. This was it.

The west wing.

She hesitated. Damian’s voice rang in her head—that part of the house doesn’t exist for you.

But Bella knew what it felt like to be told you didn’t exist.

She pressed her hand to the knob.

Cold.

The door creaked open an inch—then more. The air inside was stale but not rotten. Just forgotten. Like a memory buried under dust.

She stepped in.

The hallway beyond was different. Narrower. Carpeted in deep burgundy. And lined with old photographs. Men in dark suits. Women with haunted eyes. No smiles.

No names.

Bella moved deeper into the wing, breath tight, ears straining. The deeper she went, the more the air seemed to press in around her. It wasn’t the kind of fear she’d known before. It wasn’t violent or loud.

It was... reverent. Like she was walking through a tomb made of memories.

She turned a corner and paused.

A room stood half-open.

Inside, moonlight spilled through cracked curtains, illuminating a piano. Covered in dust, keys yellowed with time. Sheet music sat open—notes frozen mid-song.

She stepped closer, fingers itching toward the keys.

Then she heard it.

A floorboard creaked behind her.

Bella spun around, heart hammering.

And there he was.

Damian Wolfe.

Leaning against the wall, half-shrouded in shadow, arms crossed over his chest. His expression unreadable.

“I told you not to come here,” he said softly.

Bella’s mouth opened, but no words came.

“You don’t listen well,” he added, stepping inside the room. He moved like a wolf in velvet—quiet, but full of control. The kind of man who didn't raise his voice because he didn't need to.

“I saw a light,” she whispered. “From my window.”

“I was in here,” he replied simply.

“Why is it off-limits?”

He looked at the piano. At the photographs on the wall. His eyes darkened.

“Because some ghosts need silence to rest.”

Bella’s fingers curled into fists.

“Is that what you think I am? A ghost?”

“No,” he said after a beat. “You’re a flame. But even fire can get lost in the wrong room.”

The words cut deeper than she expected.

“Why keep this part of the house locked away?” she asked. “Are you afraid of what’s inside?”

Damian stepped closer, and for a moment, she thought he might yell. But instead, his voice dropped—calm, steady, chilling.

“No. I’m afraid of what it wakes inside me.”