She didn't sleep.
The fire had long died out, and moonlight spilled across the floor like silver silk. Amethyst lay in bed, eyes wide open, replaying Luciano's words over and over.
"You're not ready to see the truth yet."
What truth?
What was hiding in this house of ghosts and velvet?
By the time dawn hinted at the edge of the sky, she'd made up her mind.
She slipped out of bed and pulled on a long sweater over her nightgown, quietly opening her door. The halls were still, echoing with that eerie, heavy silence. The kind of silence that made her feel watched — even when she was alone.
She passed the library, the grand staircase, the cold portraits.
And then, she found it.
A black iron door at the end of a narrow hallway — unlike the others, this one had no carvings, no elegance. Just solid, brutal metal. The handle was old and cold, and when she touched it, a shiver ran up her spine.
It was unlocked.
He said not to wander.
He said she wasn't ready.
She opened it.
A sharp draft met her immediately, and the air changed. The corridor beyond the door was darker, older — stone walls instead of wood. No lights. Just dim lanterns hanging every few feet, flickering faintly. It didn't feel like part of the same house. It felt... forgotten.
She walked.
Farther down, she began to hear it — a low, rhythmic clang, like metal hitting metal. Her steps slowed. At the end of the hallway was another door, this one slightly ajar.
She pushed it open — just enough to see inside.
What she saw froze her blood.
Luciano.
But not the Luciano she'd seen before.
He stood in a circle of concrete, shirtless, blood streaked across his ribs. Two men in suits stood on the edges of the room, silent. At Luciano's feet was another man — tied, bruised, barely conscious.
Luciano's hand gripped a length of chain.
"Last chance," he said, voice quiet, deadly calm. "Who sent you?"
The man on the floor spat blood.
Luciano didn't flinch. He brought the chain down with brutal force.
Amethyst gasped.
Too loud.
Luciano's head snapped toward the door.
She backed away instantly, heart slamming against her ribs, but it was too late. Heavy footsteps echoed behind her.
Before she could turn, a hand grabbed her arm and yanked her back.
Luciano.
Fury burned in his eyes.
"I told you," he growled, voice low and terrifying, "not to wander."
She tried to pull free. "You were torturing someone—!"
His grip didn't tighten, but it didn't loosen either. "He came here to kill you. To take you before I could claim you."
Her breath caught.
"What?"
"Your father wasn't the only man who knew your worth."
For a moment, she just stared at him. The chain. The blood. The man he'd beaten half to death.
This wasn't cold. This wasn't cruel.
This was war.
"You're not safe in this house," he said, quieter now. "You're only safe with me."
She could feel the heat of him now — chest rising and falling with restrained rage, with something else, too. Fear, maybe. Or possession. He looked at her like she was the last thing he could afford to lose, even if he didn't know how to keep her.
"I don't need your protection," she whispered.
"You do," he said, stepping closer. "You just haven't seen what's out there yet."
Then, in a voice so low she barely heard it:
"And I don't like the thought of someone else touching what's mine."
She should've slapped him.
Should've run.
But she didn't.
She just stood there, heart thudding, caught between fury and something far more dangerous.
Curiosity.