Page 87 of Sweet Nightmare

Very impressive.

Seriously, the man hasn’t complained once. Not a sigh, not a grimace, not even a hint of resentment. It’s as unsettling as it is admirable. I wonder if he’d be interested in Stevie’s job. I’m sure he’d take it more seriously than she does lately.

I’ll revisit that thought later.

I keep watching as he carries another suitcase past us before disappearing farther into the mansion and then I follow him inside.

Okay, Artemis. Let’s get this over with.

Maybe I'll be back in my own habitat before I know it.

I stop dead in my tracks just inside the mansion, too stunned by the sight before me to take another step.

This mansion doesn’t feel like a mansion. It feels like someone built a winter dream.

My eyes travel across the towering glass walls, their edges dusted with frost, offering an unobstructed view of the snow-covered mountains outside. White marble floors gleam beneath the warm golden lights, while an enormous crystal chandelier hangs overhead, scattering light across the room. It actually feels like walking among the stars.

How pretty…

Then there’s a massive white stone fireplace crackling along one wall, with two more visible farther inside.

I continue inspecting the place in silence until I notice something strange. There are no paintings. No framed photographs. Nothing personal decorating the walls, as you’d expect in a home.

Despite its beauty, the mansion feels… cold.

I like it immediately.

Which is unfortunate, considering I’m supposed to be angry about being dumped in a mysterious mountain mansion without so much as a proper explanation. I’d much rather hate the place.

My eyes land on the only framed photograph above one of the fireplaces.

I instantly freeze and my left eye starts to twitch.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

No…

The photograph is of a tall and shirtless man standing onstage before thousands of lavender lights. Tattoos are covering nearly every visible inch of his skin. He also holds a microphone in one hand.

Beneath the photograph, a single name is printed in elegant lettering.

KHAOS.

I stare at it harshly while the organ inside my chest beats abnormally slow.

“Mika,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Yes, buttercup?”

“I’ve been set up.”

Her hazel eyes follow my gaze.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” I repeat.