The First Meeting Part 1

Catherine -

The entrance hall stretched before me like something out of a fever dream—marble floors that gleamed like black water, pillars that soared toward a ceiling lost in shadows, and windows that glowed with light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. My footsteps echoed in the vast space, each sound bouncing off stone walls until it became a percussion symphony of solitude.

I set my trunk down carefully, more to buy myself time than out of any real need to rest. The weight of what I'd just done—walking through those impossible gates, entering this place that existed outside normal reality—was beginning to settle over me like a shroud. There was no going back now. Whatever bargain Father had struck, whatever debt I was meant to settle, it would be resolved here.

In this castle that shouldn't exist, with a man I've never met who somehow knows my name.

The thought sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. Because I was certain, with the kind of bone-deep knowledge that defied rational explanation, that he did know my name. Had known it before Father ever spoke it in his presence. Had perhaps been waiting for me specifically, rather than just any young woman desperate enough to honor her family's debts.

Catherine.

The memory of that voice from my dreams made my pulse quicken. Deep and rough, like whiskey aged in oak barrels. A voice that had called to me from shadows for weeks now, growing stronger and more insistent with each passing night.

A voice I was about to hear spoken aloud for the first time.

The silence in the hall was profound but not empty. It felt expectant, as if the very air was holding its breath. Somewhere in the darkness beyond the reach of torchlight, I could sense movement—not the scurrying of mice or the flutter of bats, but something larger. Something that moved with deliberate purpose.

He's watching me, I realized, and the certainty made my skin prickle with awareness. He's been watching since I crossed the threshold.

The knowledge should have terrified me. Should have sent me scrambling back toward those gates, however futile the gesture might prove. Instead, it sent heat coursing through my veins—a response so inappropriate, so inexplicable, that I had to press my hands to my cheeks to hide whatever flush might be visible in the torchlight.

What's wrong with me? I thought desperately. Why am I not afraid?

But I wasn't. Wary, yes. Uncertain, absolutely. But the bone-deep terror I should have been feeling was conspicuously absent, replaced by something that felt dangerously close to anticipation.

Footsteps echoed from the darkness beyond the main staircase—measured, deliberate, the sound of someone who moved with absolute confidence in his domain. They grew closer, accompanied by something else I couldn't quite identify. A whisper of fabric, perhaps, or the soft sound of breathing that seemed deeper than normal human respiration.

I straightened my spine and lifted my chin, drawing on twenty-two years of social training to present a facade of composure I was far from feeling. Whatever else this man might be—mysterious lord, dangerous recluse, something altogether more supernatural—I would meet him with dignity intact.

The footsteps stopped at the edge of the light, and for a moment I saw nothing but shadows that seemed to shift and coalesce like smoke given form. Then he stepped forward, and the breath caught in my throat.

Beautiful.

The word rose unbidden in my mind, followed immediately by a dozen others that felt equally inadequate. Tall, certainly—easily six and a half feet, with shoulders broad enough to block out torchlight. Dark hair that looked like it had been finger-combed at best, framing a face that belonged in Renaissance paintings of fallen angels. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, lips that suggested both sensuality and cruelty in equal measure.

But it was his eyes that held me captive.

Golden. Not brown, not hazel, but genuine gold—the color of honey in sunlight, of autumn leaves at their peak, of predator's eyes reflecting firelight. They fixed on me with an intensity that made my knees weak, as if he could see straight through whatever facades I might try to maintain.

I know you, those eyes seemed to say. I've been waiting for you.

"Miss Montgomery." His voice was exactly as I'd remembered from my dreams—deep, rough, carrying an accent I couldn't quite place. "Welcome to my home."

The words were perfectly polite, exactly what any host might say to a newly arrived guest. But something in his tone made them sound less like greeting and more like claiming.

My home. Not the castle or this place. As if he were establishing ownership not just of the building, but of everything within it.

Including me.

"Lord..." I began, then stopped. Father had never told me his name, had referred to him only as "the lord of the castle" or "our benefactor." In all the careful explanations and half-truths that had preceded this moment, the simple matter of what to call my host had somehow been overlooked.

A smile curved those sensual lips—not cruel, exactly, but carrying an edge of dark amusement that made my pulse skip. "Kieran," he said simply. "Kieran MacAllister. And you are Catherine."

How do you know that? I wanted to ask. How do you know my name when I don't know yours?