Chapter 6: The Ghost in the Mirror

The SUV crunched to a halt on the gravel drive of Thorne Manor. The estate was a sprawling gothic monolith of black stone and narrow, watchful windows, tucked away behind a forest that felt far older than the surrounding London suburbs.

Elias didn't wait for the driver. He opened the door, his hand instantly finding the small of Cat’s back, guiding her with a possessive firmness that made her skin hum. Inside, the manor was a tomb of silent luxury—vaulted ceilings, marble floors that reflected the flicker of candlelight, and walls lined with maps that looked like they were drawn in dried blood.

"Upstairs," Elias murmured. "I have spent years preparing this for you."

He led her to a heavy oak door at the end of the north wing. When he pushed it open, the modern world died.

Cat stepped inside and stopped. The breath left her lungs in a sharp, painful hiss. There was no electric light here. Instead, beeswax candles flickered in wrought-iron sconces. The bed was a massive four-poster with heavy velvet drapes the color of a bruised plum. A writing desk sat by the window, topped with parchment, a quill, and a familiar brass surveyor’s transit.

It was an exact replica of her room from the 1612 sketches. Even the scent—dried lavender and old paper—was identical to the "glitches" in her mind.

"You’re obsessed," Cat whispered, her fingers trembling as she touched the edge of the velvet. "This isn't a room. It's a museum. You’ve kept me in a jar for four hundred years."

Elias stepped behind her, his shadow swallowing hers against the candlelight. "I have kept the memory of you safe. Now, I simply intend to fill the space."

He leaned down, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. "Do you remember the desk, Catherine? You used to sit there while I worked, tracing the ley lines I’d found, telling me which ones felt 'wrong.' You were my compass then. You are my compass now."

Cat turned in his arms, her eyes wide. The psychological weight of the room was suffocating, yet the primal pull toward him was reaching a fever pitch. "I’m not her yet," she defied him, her voice a low rasp. "I don't remember the lines. I don't remember the quill."

"Then let me remind you of the man," Elias growled.

The Threshold of Hunger

The transition from the room to his body was a blur of motion. Elias didn't just kiss her this time; he claimed her. He backed her against the heavy oak door, the thud echoing through the silent manor.

His hands were everywhere—mapping her waist, her hips, the swell of her breasts through the thin denim jacket. He ripped the garment from her shoulders with a strength that was terrifying and dropped it to the floor.

"Elias," she gasped, her head falling back against the wood.

He didn't answer with words. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her fear and her burgeoning desire. His tongue traced the line of her throat, lingering over the pulsing vein. Cat’s knees went weak; she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him into the cradle of her thighs.

The friction of his expensive wool trousers against her bare skin made her cry out. He groaned, a deep, vibrating sound that she felt in her very marrow. He carried her to the bed, the velvet swallowing them both as he pinned her down.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, his hazel eyes burning with a dark, predatory fire. "Tell me you don't want this monster in your bed, and I will walk out that door."

Cat looked up at him—at the man who had waited centuries for her, the man who had murdered for her, the man whose hands were currently trembling with the effort of not devouring her whole. She reached up, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw before sliding into his dark hair.

"Don't you dare leave," she whispered.

Elias snapped. He stripped her with a frantic, desperate reverence, his mouth following the path of bared skin. When he finally entered her, it wasn't just a physical act; it was the closing of a circle.

The spice was thick with the scent of ancient woodsmoke. He moved with a slow, agonizing possessiveness, his eyes never leaving hers. He wanted her to see him. He wanted her to feel every year of his loneliness in the way he held her.

As they neared the peak, Elias leaned down, his fangs grazing the sensitive skin of her shoulder. He didn't bite deep, but the sharp sting combined with the overwhelming pleasure sent Cat over the edge. She screamed his name—not the name of a stranger, but the name of her protector—as her soul seemed to flicker, for one brief second, into the eyes of the woman from 1612.

A Glimpse of the Enemy

Three hundred miles away, in a sterile, high-tech bunker beneath the Yorkshire moors, a wall of monitors flickered with blue light.

A man sat in a leather chair, his fingers steepled. He was pale, his hair shock-white, his eyes as cold as a winter morning. On the central screen, a grainy thermal feed from a hidden drone showed Thorne Manor. Two heat signatures were merged into one in the north wing.

"He found her," a voice spoke from the shadows behind the chair.

The man, Julian Vane, leader of the modern Syndicate and a direct descendant of the High Magistrate who had ordered Catherine’s execution, smiled thinly. It was a cold, sharp expression that held no warmth.

"He found the vessel," Vane corrected. "The Surveyor has spent four centuries building an empire of gold. He thinks he’s won. He thinks he can hide his little witch in a house of velvet and candles."

Vane leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the screen. Beside the thermal feed was an ancient, yellowed map—the original ley line survey Elias had tried to hide in 1612.

"The blood of the reincarnation is the final key to the gate," Vane whispered, his voice trembling with a dark, fanatical zeal. "Let Thorne have his night of bliss. Let him think she is safe. The smoke is already rising, and this time... I won't just burn the woman. I’ll burn the map, the monster, and the very ground they stand on."

He tapped a key on his console. A red light began to pulse on the map.

"Prepare the retrieval team," Vane commanded. "We move when the moon hits the meridian. I want the girl alive. Thorne... Thorne you may dismantle."