The Forbidden Wing

Chapter Three – The Forbidden Wing

Ardyn

The walls whispered secrets.

That’s what it felt like as I wandered the endless halls of Caelum’s mansion the morning after the shower—my mind still caught in the heat of everything he didn’t do to me. I hadn’t seen him since. Not a single glance. No knock. No orders.

He left me to stew.

Maybe that was the real punishment.

The staff ignored me as they always did—well-trained ghosts who moved soundlessly through the estate. Dressed in my assigned maid uniform—black dress, sheer stockings, and that humiliating little white apron—I looked like a prop in someone’s twisted fantasy.

Only I was very, very real. And I was restless.

So I explored.

I didn’t mean to. It just started with the east hallway, the one I wasn’t supposed to enter.

“No one goes past the double arch,” the housekeeper had warned me on my first day. “Those are the Master’s private quarters. That entire wing is off-limits.”

She might as well have told me to go look.

The place was massive—gothic and modern, with oil paintings older than my family line and glass sculptures that caught the light like blades. I wandered deeper than I should’ve, each step quieter than the last, my pulse louder in comparison.

Eventually, I found a door. Heavy. Carved.

Locked.

I stared at the ornate keyhole, heart pounding. My fingers itched to touch it.

But then something stopped me. Not fear. Something sharper—like being watched. I turned.

Empty hallway.

No sign of him.

But my skin prickled as if his eyes were on me, crawling down my spine, waiting to see if I’d disobey again.

Instead, I backed away slowly, whispering to the air, Not yet.

---

That night, I couldn't sleep.

The sheets in my room were soft. Too soft. Too clean. I wasn’t used to comfort—it made me uneasy. But even more than that, I couldn’t get him out of my head.

Caelum.

The way he’d stood in that bathroom like a god ready to strike down a sinner.

His voice. His restraint.

He hadn’t touched me, hadn’t even raised his hand—and yet I still felt bruised. Raw. Aching with need.

I closed my eyes.

That’s when the dream started.

It was vivid.

He was standing at the edge of my bed, shirt undone, the top button of his pants open, hair tousled like he’d just woken from a nightmare—or caused one.

He climbed over me slowly, deliberately, one knee between my thighs, lips ghosting over my neck but never quite touching. My body lifted to meet him, already damp between my legs.

His fingers trailed over my stomach, circling my navel. Down… lower…

I begged in whispers—his name, over and over like a prayer.

He gripped my wrists, pinned them above my head, leaned in—

And right before his lips met mine, he smiled.

Not the cold, cruel smirk he gave everyone else.

This one was darker. Possessive.

As if he’d already claimed me in ways I couldn’t imagine.

Then his mouth—

---

I woke up gasping.

Hand between my legs.

Sweaty. Shaking.

Empty.

A choked moan slipped past my lips as I curled into myself. My thighs still clenched with need. My mind refused to leave the dream. His voice still echoed through me.

I wanted more. I needed more.

But he wasn’t mine.

He wasn’t even a man. He was a fucking riddle wrapped in a wolfskin coat.

Still, I couldn’t help it—I got out of bed, barefoot and hungry, and left my room.

---

The mansion was silent in the dead hours.

I wandered like a ghost, drifting toward the forbidden wing again. Maybe I wanted to get caught. Maybe I wanted him to punish me properly this time. All I knew was that something drew me—magnetized me—to the dark, unspoken corners of this house.

This time, the carved door wasn’t locked.

It opened with a whisper, revealing a room that didn’t look like it belonged in this century.

Marble floors. High vaulted ceilings. Velvet furniture that looked untouched. And shelves—so many shelves, filled with old books and even older photographs.

My eyes scanned everything, desperate to memorize it all. My fingers brushed over the titles on the spines, none of them familiar. Latin. Greek. French.

Then I saw it.

A photo.

Black and white. Framed in silver. Sitting alone on the mantle like it meant something sacred.

I stepped closer.

The woman was beautiful—dark hair, soft mouth, eyes like liquid grief.

But it wasn’t just her beauty that made my breath hitch.

It was her face.

She looked like me.

Not exactly, but enough to unsettle me. The shape of the jaw. The tilt of the eyes. The full lips. It was like staring into an older, more broken version of myself.

Who was she?

Why did he keep her photo here?

Was that why he’d bought me? Because I looked like her?

A sharp click sounded behind me.

I froze.

I turned slowly, heart thudding.

Caelum.

Standing in the doorway, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up, dark slacks hanging low on his hips. His eyes locked onto mine.

Intense.

Unflinching.

We didn’t speak.

We didn’t need to.

That one look between us said everything: I see you. I feel you. I want to break you—and I will.

He stepped into the room, slow, like a predator stalking prey. I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

His gaze dropped to the photo in my hand.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, voice low and unreadable.

“I know,” I breathed.

He took another step.

I didn’t back away. I couldn’t.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I added, swallowing hard.

“You dreamed of me.”

I blinked. “What?”

He smirked faintly. “You dreamed of me. You touched yourself again. I can smell it on you.”

Heat shot through me like fire. My cheeks flamed. My thighs clenched.

I wanted to deny it.

But instead, I said, “Yes.”

We stood in silence, the space between us charged and thick. That same tension from the shower crackled between us again—but sharper this time. More dangerous.

He looked down at the photograph again. “That woman… is dead.”

My lips parted.

“She meant something to you,” I whispered.

His eyes flicked back to mine. And for a moment, I saw something raw and unguarded behind them.

“Yes.”

I wanted to ask more. But his stare pinned me in place.

“She looks like me.”

“I know.”

The admission was a dagger.

“So that’s why you bought me?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stepped closer. Close enough to feel his body heat. Close enough that I had to tilt my chin to keep looking at his face.

“I don’t fuck ghosts, Ardyn,” he said softly. “I don’t buy replacements.”

Then his voice dropped lower—dark silk over steel.

“But you… you make me want to do things I haven’t done in years.”

My breath caught. My heart thudded wildly.

He leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear.

“But not yet.”

He turned, walked out.

Left me standing there trembling, breathless, and aching.

Again.

---

End of Chapter Three