Page 13 of Fangs

I fail. I’m sorry, Mama. I tried so hard to be strong, to—

A sound punctures the quiet.

Faint, barely perceptible above the crackle of the hearth, but undeniably present.

I snap my head up.

The chamber is still. The firelight flickers across the stone, casting long, distorted shapes against the walls. But the atmosphere has fundamentally warped.

A heavy, oppressive weight settles over the space—a presence that wasn’t here a moment ago. A sudden drop in temperature seeps right through the radiant heat of the fireplace, wrapping a freezing, phantom grip around my bare skin like a lover’s possessive fingers.

I shove myself out of bed, muscles coiled tight, my gaze scouring the shadows.

“Is someone there?”

Silence. The shadows shift.

I swear I see them bend, twist, and writhe against the stonework like living, breathing things. They stretch across the floorboards toward me, reaching, pooling into the dark—and I bolt for the door.

The heavy brass handle turns beneath my palm with a mocking lack of resistance, yielding far too easily, like a trap constructed by a master architect who delights in giving his prey the illusion of escape.

My bare feet slap frantically against the cold, polished stone of the corridor, the sound echoing too loud and desperate in the suffocating stillness of the night.

Misbehavior

The manor’s corridors twist like veins through a dying body, endless pulsing with secrets I was never meant to find. I know I should stay in my room.

The order was absolute: Never leave your room after sunset. Under any circumstances.

Yet the shifting, unnatural shadows in my bedchamber drove me here, spilling me into a desolate maze of chambers and hallways until I no longer know how to retrace my steps back to my cage. I stand stranded in the corridor, arms wrapped tightly against my shivering body. The carpets beneath my bare feet thicken here, swallowing the sound of my breaths. The oil portraits lining the walls grow grander, staring down with painted eyes that feel terrifyingly aware. The air smells of aged cedar, antiquity, and something metallic and primal that I refuse to name.

A muffled sound halts me mid-step.

I freeze, my heart hammering. The noise bleeds from behind a heavy, carved door at the very end of the hall, casting a warm, golden sliver of candlelight across the dark floorboards.

Walk away, my survival instinct screams, clawing at the back of my throat. Find a corner, curl up, and pretend you heard nothing.

Instead, an intoxicating cocktail of morbid curiosity pulls me forward. I creep toward the light, breath trapped in my chest, and press my cheek against the heavy oak of the study door, squinting through the brass keyhole.

The room is an expansive, wood-paneled office. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves groan under the weight of leather-bound volumes, and a massive stone fireplace crackles in the corner, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

And there, near the window on a small velvet couch, are two figures.

Margaret!?!

And one of the Masters.

I recognize him instantly: Lord Thomas, the youngest of the four. His shirt flung wide open to expose a chest carved from marble. There is an effortless authority in the way he carries himself, commanding the very oxygen in the room.

Mag is on her knees before him, her clothes half-shredded. His hand fisted agonizingly in her hair. She bends to his will, her tongue tracing long, slow strokes across the ridged, toned muscles of his abdomen. He leans back against the cushions, basking in her worship like a pagan god receiving tribute. And the way he looks down at Margaret—a mixture of dark adoration and ruthless ownership—sends a violent, toxic jolt twisting straight through my chest.

Jealousy? Or maybe just longing.

No one has ever held me like that. A pathetic, starving ache for someone to look at me with that kind of absolute, undeniable power.

Mag’s small hands drift toward his belt, trying to pull him closer, but Thomas’s forearm blocks her, denying her touch. Her lips move against his skin, begging, whispering a plea I can’t catch through the heavy wood. I watch his hand tangle deeper in her hair, his fingers surprisingly gentle yet anchored in iron.

Then, Thomas’s head snaps up. His gaze locks directly onto the crack in the door. Straight onto the knot where my eye is pressed.