Chapter 3: Whispers in the Hall

The hours crawled by after Damon’s departure, measured not by the ticking of a clock but by the slow stretch of silence pressing through the walls. Bliss sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the sheet in restless circles. The memory of his words would not leave her. Bride. West Wing. Trust me. Each one clung to her skin like the scent of smoke after fire, impossible to wash away.

Her throat ached, not only from its silence but from the weight of words locked inside. She longed to scream, to demand, to tear through the stillness with questions. Yet all she could do was breathe and wait for something, anything, to break the monotony.

The door opened quietly. A woman stepped inside carrying a silver tray. She wore a simple uniform, her hair tucked tightly beneath a cap. Her eyes stayed lowered as she crossed the room, the tray balanced with careful hands. She set it on the vanity, still without meeting Bliss’s gaze.

Bliss rose slowly, curiosity outweighing her weariness. She stepped closer, studying the food arranged with delicate precision: bread still warm, a small dish of fruit, and a cup of tea steaming faintly. The aroma was gentle, soothing, yet suspicion coiled within her. Nothing in this house felt free of intent.

She looked at the servant, willing her to meet her eyes. When the woman finally glanced up, her expression flickered with something quickly hidden. Pity, perhaps, or recognition. Bliss raised a hand to her throat, gesturing toward her silence, then tilted her head in question.

The servant hesitated, her lips parting as though she wanted to speak, but then her eyes darted to the door. Fear tightened her face. She shook her head quickly, almost imperceptibly, before lowering her gaze once more.

Bliss’s heart sank. Even here, even in this moment, she was not free. Words were being swallowed long before they could reach her.

The woman gave a quick curtsy, then left without a sound, the door clicking shut behind her. Bliss stared at the tray, appetite dulled by the unease settling in her stomach. Yet her body betrayed her. Hunger gnawed, and when she lifted the bread to her lips, the taste of butter and warmth spread through her like a small mercy. She ate slowly, listening all the while for footsteps in the hall.

After the meal, she wandered the room again, unwilling to stay still. Her hands brushed over the curtains, tracing their heavy folds, and she pulled one back slightly. The window revealed a courtyard below, its stones damp with morning dew. Ivy clung to the walls, twisting upward like green veins. Beyond the courtyard loomed the forest, thick and unwelcoming, the trees pressed together as if guarding secrets of their own.

Her fingers lingered on the glass. Escape felt impossible. The walls of Blackwood Manor were too high, the shadows too deep. And yet, the thought of remaining within them, voiceless and ignorant, was worse.

The handle of the door beckoned. She stood before it, hand trembling just above the metal. Damon had forbidden her to wander. He had spoken of danger. Yet his command only sharpened her curiosity. What lay in the West Wing that must remain hidden?

Her pulse raced as she pressed the handle down. The latch gave way with a soft click. She opened the door slowly, the hall stretching beyond in quiet grandeur. Candles sat in wall sconces though it was daylight, their flames flickering faintly. The corridor smelled faintly of polish and old wood.

She stepped out, the rug beneath her feet muffling her movement. The hall branched left and right, each direction lined with tall doors. Portraits hung along the walls, the faces of strangers watching with solemn eyes. She paused before one, studying the woman painted in muted colors. Dark hair framed a pale face, lips curved in the faintest smile. Something about her seemed familiar, though Bliss could not place it.

A sound drifted down the hall. Whispers. She froze, straining to catch the words. They were too soft, but the cadence suggested urgency. She crept toward the sound, each step measured, her body tense with anticipation.

The voices stopped suddenly. She pressed her back against the wall, heart hammering. A door opened ahead, and two servants emerged, their arms full of linens. They spoke in low tones, their expressions serious. One glanced her way, eyes widening in surprise.

Bliss lifted her chin, trying to mask her unease with a semblance of composure. The servant bowed quickly, murmuring something to the other before both hurried past her, their footsteps fading into the distance.

Her breath slowed. She had not been dragged back to her room. Not yet.

She turned toward the direction they had come from. The hall narrowed, the light dimmer here. The air grew cooler, tinged with a faint mustiness. She knew, without needing Damon’s warning, that this way led to the forbidden wing.

The door at the end of the hall loomed tall and dark, its surface carved with intricate patterns. Her feet carried her closer, though her mind screamed of danger. She lifted her hand, fingertips brushing the wood. Cold seeped into her skin.

A sudden noise behind her made her spin. Damon stood at the far end of the corridor, his figure shadowed, his presence undeniable. His gaze locked on hers, sharp as a blade.

Bliss’s heart thundered. She stepped back from the door, caught in the snare of his stare. His steps echoed as he advanced, slow and deliberate, each one pressing harder on her chest.

When he reached her, he said nothing at first. He simply looked at her, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice quiet but firm, he spoke. “I told you not to wander.”

Her lips parted, but her silence betrayed her again. She lifted her hands, gesturing, trying to say that she only wished to understand. His jaw tightened. He reached for her arm, not with violence but with a grip that left no choice.

“You are not ready to walk these halls alone,” he said. “There are things here that will harm you before you can protect yourself. You must stay where I can keep you safe.”

Safe. Always safe. The word meant nothing now. She pulled her arm back, glaring up at him, her eyes burning with defiance.

For the first time, his composure faltered. He looked at her not as a man in control but as someone who feared losing it. His voice lowered. “Do not test me, Bliss. The West Wing is not for you.”

He guided her back toward her room, his grip firm, his silence louder than any words. The door closed behind them with a finality that left her breathless.

When he released her, she stumbled back, anger flaring in her chest. She stared at him, her silence searing. He stared back, his eyes dark, his shoulders tight with restraint.

Then, without another word, he left.

Bliss sank to the floor, her hands pressed to the cold rug. The image of the carved door lingered in her mind. Whatever lay beyond it was the key to everything.

And she knew, no matter the cost, she would find a way to open it.