Chapter 70
Elizabeth POV
For once, the mansion is quiet in a way that feels… kind.
Not tense.
Not watchful.
Not waiting for something terrible to happen.
Just quiet.
I sit on the edge of my bed, sunlight spilling through the tall windows of my room, warming the hardwood floors and the soft cream-colored rug beneath my bare feet. The curtains sway gently in the breeze, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the gardens below.
It’s strange how quickly a place can start to feel like home—even when it’s filled with creatures that could tear the world apart if they wanted to.
I tuck my legs beneath me and close the book resting in my lap, pressing my palm against the cover as I exhale slowly.
Peace.
Real peace.
I haven’t felt this in days.
No nightmares last night.
No whispers in the walls.
No sudden surges of energy under my skin.
Just sleep.
Deep, steady, uninterrupted sleep.
Maybe the spell worked better than we thought.
Maybe the world finally decided to give me a break.
I stand and stretch, rolling my shoulders back, letting the tension ease out of my muscles. The morning sun warms my skin, and for a moment, I let myself pretend that I’m just a normal girl living in a very big, very old house.
Not a target.
Not a weapon.
Not a prophecy.
Just Elizabeth.
A soft knock taps against my door.
I turn.
“Come in.”
The door opens slightly, and one of the house attendants steps inside, offering a polite smile.
“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth. Breakfast has been prepared in the dining hall.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
She dips her head and leaves quietly, closing the door behind her.
I glance toward the mirror near my dresser.
My reflection looks… calm.
Too calm.
There’s a softness in my face I haven’t seen in a long time. The shadows under my eyes have faded. My shoulders aren’t hunched with tension.
I almost look peaceful.
And that alone feels suspicious.
Still, I push the thought away.
Not every quiet moment has to be a warning.
I slip into a light dress—soft fabric, pale blue, comfortable—and brush my hair back into a loose ponytail. The simple routine feels grounding, normal, steady.
When I step into the hallway, the mansion greets me with warm sunlight streaming through tall arched windows. The marble floors gleam. The air smells faintly of polished wood and fresh flowers.
I take the stairs slowly, trailing my hand along the smooth banister.
Something inside me feels lighter today.
Less hunted.
Less watched.
Instead of heading toward the dining hall, I find my feet carrying me in another direction—toward the back of the house.
Toward the gardens.
The moment I push open the glass doors, warm air rushes over me, carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers. Sunlight floods the stone pathway, and the sound of birds fills the space with gentle life.
The garden stretches wide and beautiful before me.
Rows of roses.
Clusters of lavender.
Bright marigolds swaying in the breeze.
White lilies standing tall like quiet guardians.
It’s breathtaking.
Peaceful.
Alive.
I step onto the path slowly, breathing in the fresh air as tension melts from my chest. The sunlight warms my skin, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel grounded in my body.
Safe.
I walk deeper into the garden, brushing my fingers lightly over the petals of passing flowers. Soft textures graze my skin—silk, velvet, fragile beauty.
Nature doesn’t fear me.
Nature doesn’t expect anything from me.
Nature just exists.
A small smile forms on my lips.
Maybe today can be normal.
Maybe today can just be… quiet.
Then I see it.
A flower I don’t recognize.
It sits alone at the far end of the garden, planted near the stone wall that borders the property. Its petals are deep crimson—richer than any rose I’ve ever seen. The color is almost unnatural, dark and vivid at the same time.
Beautiful.
But something about it feels… wrong.
I slow my steps.
The air around the flower feels heavier.
Thicker.
My heartbeat begins to rise.
I swallow.
Why does this feel familiar?
I move closer, drawn by something I don’t understand.
The petals shift slightly in the breeze, catching the sunlight. Their edges glisten faintly, like they’ve been dipped in something wet.
A strange pressure builds behind my eyes.
A sharp pulse forms at my temples.
My breath stutters.
And then—
The world tilts.
The garden fades.
The sunlight disappears.
Darkness swallows everything.
⸻
I’m standing somewhere else.
Cold air presses against my skin.
The ground beneath my feet is hard and unfamiliar, rough like stone. The sky above me is dim, heavy with thick gray clouds that block out the light.
Silence surrounds me.
Not peaceful silence.
Dead silence.
I turn slowly.
And that’s when I see it.
The door.
Tall.
Massive.
Painted a deep, violent red.
It stands alone in the middle of nothing, surrounded by endless rows of the same crimson flowers from the garden. They stretch in every direction, forming a sea of red that sways gently in the cold wind.
My heart pounds violently in my chest.
Fear crawls up my spine.
I don’t know why—but I know this place.
Not from memory.
From instinct.
From something older than thought.
The door feels… alive.
Waiting.
Watching.
Calling.
A low sound echoes in the distance.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I step forward slowly, unable to stop myself.
The flowers brush against my legs as I move closer. Their petals feel cold—too cold—like they’ve never known sunlight.
The closer I get, the stronger the smell becomes.
Metallic.
Sharp.
Familiar.
Blood.
My stomach twists.
The red paint on the door begins to shift.
Ripple.
Move.
Slide downward.
My breath catches in my throat.
The door isn’t painted red.
It’s bleeding.
Thick, dark blood pours slowly down the surface, dripping onto the ground below.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound echoes loudly in the empty space.
Pain suddenly explodes behind my eyes.
Sharp.
Blinding.
My knees weaken.
I gasp, clutching my head as pressure builds inside my skull.
“Stop,” I whisper.
But my body keeps moving forward.
The door looms closer.
Taller.
More terrifying.
Something behind it shifts.
I can feel it.
Something alive.
Something powerful.
Something very, very wrong.
Fear grips my chest like a vice.
I don’t want to open that door.
I don’t want to see what’s behind it.
Because deep inside my bones, I know—
Whatever is waiting there is not meant for the world.
The pain intensifies.
Burning spreads through my chest, down my arms, into my hands.
I look down.
And freeze.
Blood covers my palms.
Bright red.
Fresh.
It drips between my fingers, staining my skin.
My breath comes in shallow gasps.
“No,” I whisper.
The door trembles.
The handle begins to turn.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Something is trying to come through.
My heart races wildly.
Terror floods every part of me.
“Don’t,” I plead.
The door creaks.
A low, hollow sound echoes as it begins to open.
Darkness spills from the crack.
Cold.
Endless.
Hungry.
Pain surges through my body, sharp and overwhelming. My vision blurs as the world spins violently around me.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t move.
I can’t stop it.
The door opens wider—
And everything goes black.
“Elizabeth.”
A voice cuts through the darkness.
Deep.
Urgent.
Close.
“Elizabeth, wake up.”
Warm hands grip my shoulders.
Strong.
Steady.
Safe.
I gasp sharply, lungs dragging in air as my eyes snap open.
The garden comes rushing back into focus—the flowers, the sunlight, the soft breeze.
Reality.
I’m lying on the ground.
My body feels weak, heavy, disoriented.
And someone is holding me.
I blink slowly, trying to clear the haze from my vision.
Dark hair.
Sharp jawline.
Silver eyes.
Damon.
He kneels beside me on the stone path, one arm wrapped firmly around my back, supporting my weight. His other hand cups the side of my face, steadying me.
His expression freezes me.
Because for the first time since I met him—
He looks afraid.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Not controlled.
Worried.
Deeply, unmistakably worried.
His brows are drawn tight, jaw tense, eyes scanning my face like he’s searching for injuries that aren’t there.
“Elizabeth,” he says again, voice low and urgent. “What happened?”
I stare at him, still shaking, breath uneven.
The vision lingers in my mind.
The blood.
The flowers.
The door.
The thing behind it.
Fear floods my chest again.
My hands tremble as I clutch his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping me anchored to the world.
His arms tighten around me instinctively.
Grounding.
Protective.
Demanding answers.
“Talk to me,” he says, softer now.
My lips part.
But the words feel heavy, trapped behind the terror still clawing at my throat.
The image of the door flashes again in my mind.
Bleeding.
Opening.
Waiting.
A chill runs through my entire body.
I finally force the words out.
Hoarse.
Shaking.
Barely more than a whisper.
“Do not open that door.”