Page 8 of Fangs

“Why?” The question slips free before I can catch it. “Why do you send women away during their—”

“Because the masters of this house have particular sensitivities.” The woman’s smile is glass-sharp. “And you will learn to respect them.”

She offers no further explanation. I don’t dare to ask again. But the questions burn in my mind like live embers.

What are they hiding? What happens to women who bleed inside this house? What happens to me?

“There are other rules,” Lord McAllister continues, and I force myself to focus. “You will never leave your room after sunset. Under any circumstances. The door will lock from the outside at dusk, and you will remain inside until dawn.”

“Locked in my room?”

“Locked in your room.” His voice leaves no space for argument. “The corridors of this manor are forbidden to you after dark. If you break this rule there will be consequences.”

I nod once.

“What are the other rules?” My voice holds steadier than the fear clawing inside me. “I want to know everything.”

“Your curiosity is noted,” Lord Cain murmurs. “But not yet. First you eat. You bathe. You rest. Tomorrow we begin your training.”

Lord McAllister lifts one hand. Two women step from the shadows in identical gray gowns, hair pulled into severe buns, faces utterly blank.

“Show her to her quarters. Prepare her for the evening meal.”

They curtsy in perfect, unnerving unison, then take my arms with gentle, unyielding hands and guide me toward the massive doors.

I refuse to look back at the Masters. I won’t gift them that satisfaction. Still I feel their hungry eyes on me as I walk away.

Corridors stretch in every direction, a labyrinth of shadow. Paintings line the walls and seem to track my every step. The women’s feet make no sound on the marble.

“How long have you worked here?” I ask, needing to break the thick silence. “Do you speak my language? Where are you from?”

Nothing. They do not even glance at me.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

One of them turns her head and offers a placid smile that never reaches her eyes. She nods once. Then she faces forward again and speaks not a single word.

What the hell is wrong with this place?

The Cage

They stop at a door. One of them pushes it open.

I expect a cell. A narrow room with a cot and a chamber pot. A locked door and a single barred window.

Instead I find paradise.

The room stretches enormous, three times the size of my entire cottage. A four-poster bed commands the space, draped in silks and velvets the color of midnight and fresh blood. A fire crackles in a marble hearth, throwing restless shadows across the walls. A vanity with a gilded mirror stands ready. A chaise lounge upholstered in deep burgundy waits beside a wide balcony door that overlooks the gardens below.

What is this place? Why treat me like a guest?

I turn to the maids, mind racing. “Is this really my room?”

They nod, still wearing those empty smiles.

“I don’t understand. I thought—”

One of them gestures toward the bathroom. A copper tub waits, filled with steaming water. Rose petals float on the surface. The scent of lavender and honey thickens the air.