Chapter 5: The Locked Garden

Morning returned with a softness that carried no comfort. Bliss stirred slowly from uneasy sleep, the weight of her dream still pressing against her chest. She lay still for several minutes, listening to the silence of the room. No footsteps, no voices, no sound of keys turning in the lock. Only the muted rustle of curtains swaying in air that should have been still.

Her eyes drifted to the dried flower resting on the vanity. Its fragile form seemed almost alive in the morning light, as if mocking her with memories she could not fully recall. She rose from the bed, her movements careful, and carried it to the window. She pressed it against the glass, letting the light filter through its brittle petals. For the briefest moment, an image flickered in her mind: the sound of laughter, the brush of silk against her arm, the weight of a ring on her finger. The memory vanished again, leaving her more unsettled than before.

A knock startled her. She turned quickly, clutching the flower to her chest. The door opened and the same servant entered, balancing another tray of food. Her steps were careful, her head bowed. She set the tray on the vanity, but Bliss caught her wrist before she could retreat.

The servant froze, her eyes widening. Bliss tightened her hold just enough to stop her from leaving, then raised her free hand to her throat and shook her head. She mouthed soundless words, her lips forming questions she could not voice.

The servant’s breath quickened. She looked toward the door, then back at Bliss. Her lips trembled as though she might speak, but fear sealed them. Bliss released her wrist slowly, desperation shining in her eyes.

The woman lingered for a moment, torn between fear and pity. Then, in a voice so soft Bliss almost thought she had imagined it, she whispered, “The garden.”

Her eyes darted to the door again. She curtsied quickly and slipped out, leaving Bliss clutching the single word in her silence.

The garden.

Her heart pounded with sudden urgency. She turned back to the window. The courtyard she had seen yesterday spread below, green and damp, walled on all sides by stone and shadow. If the servant had meant escape, it would not be simple. But if she had meant answers, then the garden might hold them.

The door was locked again when Bliss tried it, her hand rattling the handle in frustration. Damon’s command weighed heavily here. Yet the whisper had not been given for nothing. The garden was meant for her. She only needed to find a way to reach it.

The hours dragged until evening. Damon did not appear that day, though she felt his presence in the silence, as if he lingered behind every wall. Servants came and went, replacing linens, leaving meals, never meeting her gaze. She studied each of them, searching for another sign, but none came.

When the next morning arrived, the lock on the door clicked open. A different servant entered this time, younger, with sharp eyes that seemed less afraid than the others. He carried nothing, only bowed and gestured toward the hallway. Bliss hesitated, suspicion clashing with hope. Slowly, she stepped forward.

The servant led her through the corridor without a word. Portraits loomed above them, their painted eyes following her every step. They descended a staircase lined with polished banisters, the air growing cooler as they went. Bliss’s bare feet brushed against stone floors that carried the chill of the earth itself.

At last they emerged into a small atrium. Glass doors stood open to the courtyard garden, sunlight spilling across the stone threshold. The servant bowed again, then disappeared as quickly as he had come.

Bliss stepped outside, her breath catching. The garden stretched wide within high walls, a tangle of roses and ivy, paths winding between statues weathered with age. The air smelled of damp earth and blossoms. Birds sang faintly in the distance, the first natural sound she had heard since waking in Blackwood Manor.

She walked slowly, her fingers brushing the petals of roses, their softness startling against her skin. For the first time, she felt almost alive. The silence was still there, but here it was less suffocating, filled instead with the hum of nature.

At the center of the garden stood a fountain. Its basin was cracked, the water inside still and green with moss. Bliss knelt beside it, her hand skimming the surface. Something glimmered faintly beneath the water. She reached in, her fingers closing around a cold object. She lifted it free, wiping away the slime.

It was a ring. Gold, thin but elegant, set with a small stone. The sight of it made her chest tighten painfully. She slid it onto her finger without thinking, and the world blurred for an instant.

She saw herself standing in the garden at night, lanterns glowing above, laughter ringing around her. A man’s hand slipping the same ring onto her finger. His voice whispering, “Mine.”

The memory shattered. She gasped, her knees weakening. The ring clung to her finger, refusing to come off.

Footsteps echoed behind her. She turned sharply, clutching her hand to her chest. Damon stood at the edge of the path, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that burned.

“So you found it,” he said quietly.

Her lips parted, but only silence met him. She stepped back, her eyes narrowing with unspoken demand.

He approached slowly, his movements calm but his eyes storming. “That ring belongs to you,” he said. “It always has.”

Her head shook, denial instinctive. She raised her hand as though to tear it off, but it would not budge. Damon reached her side, his hand closing gently but firmly over hers.

“Do not fight it,” he murmured. “It is a part of you. A part of us.”

Her heart pounded. She pulled her hand away, glaring at him with all the fury her silence could carry. He studied her for a long moment, then sighed, a shadow passing across his expression.

“You will hate me for keeping the truth from you,” he said, his voice low. “But hate is better than losing you again.”

He turned abruptly, gesturing for her to follow. Reluctance weighed on her steps, but she obeyed, her eyes darting one last time toward the fountain. The ring burned cold against her skin, its weight heavier than any chain.

As they walked back through the atrium, Damon’s voice cut through the silence once more. “Do not wander here alone again. The garden remembers more than it should, and memory is not always kind.”

The door closed behind them, the garden vanishing from sight, but Bliss carried it with her. The roses, the fountain, the ring, and the memory of belonging to someone she did not know how to trust.

And for the first time, she wondered if Damon was guarding her from the house—or if he was guarding the house from her.