The corridor unfolded before them in a long, hushed expanse, its walls adorned with oil portraits of Lachns long dead and allies long forgotten. Brass sconces burned low along the length, their amber light pooling across the polished stone in measured, deliberate circles. The air held a precise trace of sandalwood softened by roses, faint yet intentional, weaving an atmosphere that wrapped around them like a second skin. Nothing in this house felt accidental.

  Anika moved a pace ahead, her stride even and controlled, almost ceremonial in its quiet authority. Camille and Savina followed, their footsteps echoing in quiet counterpoint along the marble—heels first, then the firmer tread of boots. One poised. One unyielding.

  They halted at the first door, its carved wood gleaming beneath yers of cquer. Anika opened it with a smooth motion and stepped aside.

  “Your suite, Mrs. Morvant.”

  Camille entered without hesitation. The room did not overwhelm her; it received her, enveloping her in its calcuted embrace. A four-poster bed stood centered beneath a canopy of cream silk that shimmered in the afternoon light streaming through tall mullioned windows. Muted gold walls bore delicate stenciling that revealed itself only when the sun struck at just the right angle. On a side table, a silver vase held fresh roses beside a crystal decanter of amber brandy and matching cut-gss tumblers.

  The marble floor kept the cool kiss of stone beneath her soles, though sunlight warmed the patches where it fell. Heavy curtains framed the manicured gardens below, where fountains whispered upward through the gss in soft, insistent rhythms. Camille moved slowly through the space, her fingers trailing across the silk coverlet in a measured glide. Not admiration, but evaluation. A faint smile curved her lips.

  “A cage is still a cage,” she murmured, “though I admit I appreciate the gilded bars.”

  She turned to Anika, chin lifting with effortless command.

  “Yes. This will do.”

  Anika inclined her head once.

  “Dinner is at eight.”

  Camille’s eyes sharpened with quiet interest.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  The door closed behind Anika as she continued down the hall. At the next suite, she opened the door with the same fluid precision.

  “And this will be yours.”

  Savina stepped inside and stopped short. The room matched the first in scale but differed sharply in intent. Dark-stained wood repced the gold tones, and burnished bronze fixtures caught the light in sharp, unforgiving reflections. The bedspread y in charcoal severity against ivory walls, while modern artwork fractured across the surfaces in violent geometry. In the adjoining bath, a cw-foot tub steamed quietly, already prepared, its surface rippling with invitation. A folded stack of towels waited nearby with military precision.

  Savina surveyed it all in slow silence, then fixed her gaze on Anika.

  “Seriously?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  Savina gestured broadly at the space.

  “I came here to talk, not to get tucked into some princess hostage suite.”

  Anika’s composure remained fwless, though the corner of her mouth threatened to curve.

  “The leash is optional. The velvet is not.”

  Savina let out a short, sharp ugh and crossed to the bed. She dropped onto it boots and all, the mattress yielding beneath her weight. Hands ced behind her head, she stared up at the chandelier, her jaw set tight.

  “Fine. I’m not staying long.”

  “Dinner at eight.”

  Savina waved her off without looking. The door shut with a soft click, and silence settled immediately—thick, attentive, alive with the faint hiss of the bath and the steady ticking of an antique clock.

  She stared upward. The chandelier glittered down at her, its crystals catching the light like watchful eyes. Not decorative. Observing.

  “…what kind of cult pace is this?” she muttered.

  The house offered no reply. But it had already begun.