Chapter 3: Don't Touch Me

"Come find me."

The voice faded.

The piano stopped.

And somehow, the silence that followed was worse.

I was still holding Lucien's hand.

Neither of us seemed interested in mentioning it.

Then I remembered that I was angry.

Very angry.

I pulled my hand away.

"Who is she?"

Lucien didn't answer.

"Lucien."

Nothing.

I stepped in front of him.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"That mysterious-rich-man thing."

His eyebrow lifted.

"What mysterious-rich-man thing?"

"You know."

"I don't."

"The brooding. The silence. The looking at me like you know something I don't."

"I do know something you don't."

"Then tell me."

"No."

I stared at him.

He stared back.

"You're unbelievably irritating."

"So I've been told."

"By women?"

"Mostly."

"Of course."

A faint smile touched his mouth.

I hated that I noticed.

I hated even more that it looked good on him.

He turned toward the hallway.

"Go back to bed."

I laughed.

"You cannot be serious."

"I'm completely serious."

"My mother's voice just came out of the walls."

"I know."

"Someone wrote on my mirror."

"I know."

"And you're telling me to go to bed?"

"Yes."

"Are you insane?"

His eyes darkened.

"Careful."

"Or what?"

He took one step toward me.

I refused to move.

He took another.

Now we were too close.

Close enough for me to smell his cologne.

Something dark and clean.

Expensive.

Annoyingly addictive.

His voice lowered.

"Or you'll find out exactly how little patience I have tonight."

My pulse jumped.

I hated my pulse.

Traitor.

I tilted my chin.

"Is that supposed to scare me?"

"No."

His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.

"That's supposed to warn you."

For one ridiculous second, neither of us moved.

Then I smiled.

"You're going to have to do better than that."

His jaw tightened.

"Serena."

"What?"

"You're playing with something you don't understand."

"Then explain it."

"I can't."

"Convenient."

I turned away.

He caught my wrist.

Not hard.

Just enough to stop me.

I looked down at his hand.

Then at him.

"Let go."

He did.

Immediately.

That surprised me.

I rubbed my wrist.

"I don't like being grabbed."

"I know."

"How?"

His expression became unreadable.

"Because you told me."

"I've never told you that."

He said nothing.

There it was again.

That feeling.

That strange certainty that Lucien knew me.

Not about me.

Me.

Like he'd met a version of me I couldn't remember being.

I stepped closer.

"Where did you know my mother?"

He looked toward the window.

"She worked here."

My breath caught.

"Doing what?"

"She wasn't staff."

"Then what?"

He hesitated.

"She was my father's assistant."

I blinked.

"Your father?"

"Gabriel Blackwood."

I knew the name.

Everyone did.

Dead three years.

Businessman.

Philanthropist.

And, according to every newspaper article I'd ever read, an absolute bastard.

"What happened to him?"

Lucien's expression hardened.

"He died."

"I know that."

"Then why ask?"

"Because I want to know how."

He looked at me.

"Heart attack."

"Was it?"

Silence.

I smiled bitterly.

"There it is again."

"What?"

"The part where you don't tell me things."

"You ask dangerous questions."

"Maybe I like dangerous things."

His eyes flickered.

"You shouldn't."

"Maybe I don't care."

"I think you care very much."

Something about his voice made the words feel less like an insult and more like a challenge.

I stepped closer.

"So do you."

His eyes met mine.

"What?"

"Care."

He didn't respond.

I smiled.

"Otherwise you wouldn't still be here."

For the first time, Lucien looked almost amused.

"You have a habit of mistaking attention for affection."

"And you have a habit of avoiding answers."

"Perhaps we're both difficult."

"Perhaps."

He leaned slightly closer.

"Perhaps you're exactly as difficult as I remember."

My smile disappeared.

"Remember?"

He realized his mistake.

Too late.

"Lucien."

He stepped back.

"Go to bed."

"No."

"Serena."

"No."

I crossed my arms.

"I'm done being the only person in this house who apparently doesn't know what's happening."

He stared at me.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

A real laugh.

Short.

Quiet.

Almost disbelieving.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You laughed."

"I did."

"That's creepy."

His mouth curved.

"You've spent the entire night arguing with a man who owns the house you're standing in."

"You've spent the entire night refusing to answer a woman whose mother's voice just came out of a wall."

"Fair."

He walked past me.

I followed.

"Where are you going?"

"To investigate."

"Good."

"No."

I stopped.

"What?"

"You stay here."

I rolled my eyes.

"Absolutely not."

"Serena."

"I'm coming."

"No."

"Yes."

"You're impossible."

"I've been told."

He looked at me.

Then shook his head.

"Fine."

We walked into the corridor.

The lights were back on.

Everything looked normal.

Too normal.

The strange painting was gone.

The west-wing door was back.

I stared at it.

"That wasn't there."

"I know."

"How?"

"I saw it disappear."

I looked at him.

"So you saw the door vanish?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't think to mention that?"

"You were busy screaming."

"I was not screaming."

"You were."

"I was expressing myself."

He almost smiled.

We stopped in front of the door.

Lucien reached for the handle.

I grabbed his arm.

"Wait."

He looked at me.

"What?"

"Maybe we shouldn't."

"Scared?"

I glared at him.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Use that tone."

"What tone?"

"The one men use when they want women to prove they're brave."

He leaned closer.

"And are you?"

"Brave?"

"Yes."

I smiled.

"Enough to open the door."

I reached around him and turned the handle.

The door opened.

Cold air rushed over us.

Beyond it was a long corridor.

Dusty.

Dark.

Old portraits lined the walls.

At the very end stood a single bedroom door.

My stomach tightened.

"That's strange."

"What?"

I pointed.

"Why does that room have my name on it?"

Lucien went completely still.

Above the door was a small brass plaque.

SERENA VALE

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

Neither of us spoke.

Then I noticed something else.

The door was slightly open.

A thin line of warm light spilled across the floor.

And from inside came the sound of someone breathing.

I whispered,

"Someone's in there."

Lucien stepped in front of me.

"Stay behind me."

I rolled my eyes.

"You're really enjoying this hero thing."

"I'm trying to keep you alive."

"Then don't walk so slowly."

He looked over his shoulder.

I smiled sweetly.

"Go."

We moved toward the room.

The closer we got, the louder the breathing became.

Slow.

Steady.

Human.

Lucien pushed the door open.

The room was empty.

Except for a bed.

A desk.

An old wardrobe.

And a photograph sitting in the middle of the desk.

I walked toward it.

Lucien grabbed my shoulder.

"Don't."

I shrugged him off.

"I'm beginning to think every warning you give me is just a reason to do the opposite."

"That's going to get you killed."

"Maybe."

I picked up the photograph.

My fingers went numb.

It showed three people.

A young Gabriel Blackwood.

A woman I recognized immediately.

My mother.

And between them—

a little girl.

About seven years old.

I stared at the child.

Dark hair.

Round cheeks.

A tiny scar above her left eyebrow.

My scar.

I turned the photograph over.

Written on the back were four words.

She was never supposed to leave.

My voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Lucien."

He looked at the photograph.

His face changed.

"What?"

I pointed to the little girl.

"That's me."

He didn't answer.

I looked at him.

"Why am I in a photograph from this house?"

He swallowed.

Then his eyes moved toward the bedroom mirror.

I followed his gaze.

My reflection stared back at me.

Except it wasn't alone.

Standing behind my reflection was a little girl.

Seven years old.

Dark hair.

Round cheeks.

A scar above her eyebrow.

She smiled.

Then she raised one finger to her lips.

And whispered—

"Don't trust him."

I turned around.

There was nobody behind me.

When I looked back at the mirror, the girl was gone.

But Lucien was staring at me.

"What did she say?"

I couldn't speak.

He stepped closer.

"Serena."

I finally looked at him.

And for the first time that night, I wasn't afraid of the house.

I was afraid of him.

Because there was something in his eyes.

Something that told me he already knew what I'd just seen.

"Tell me," I whispered.

His voice was almost inaudible.

"She was right."

My blood ran cold.

"About what?"

Lucien looked at the photograph in my hand.

Then at me.

"About me."