All Chapters of The House of the Damned: Sin & Deceit (A Dark Romance): Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

178 Chapters

DIFFERENT

It was late January when he finally invited me to the estate—not just the gardens where we’d strolled before, but inside the manor itself for the first time. Though I’d been visiting Brocandale’s grounds since autumn, the interior had remained a mystery, something Carlisle had kept separate, private. The house was magnificent in a way that made my bones ache—a place with history, with secrets. It sat at the edge of a dense tree line, wrapped in ivy and shadows. The kind of house that had been standing for generations, that would continue standing long after we were gone.Carlisle led me through its halls with quiet pride, his hand light on the small of my back, guiding me as if I belonged there. As if I were already a part of its story.I ran my fingers along the walls, cool and smooth beneath my touch. The air smelled faintly of aged wood, of beeswax polish, and something just barely sweet—like decaying roses pressed between the pages of an old book. “It’s incredible,” I murmured, an

NOT YET

Georgia -It started as a whisper in the dark.I’d been talking to myself for weeks by then—little muttered nothings crushed between my teeth like pills I couldn’t swallow. Everyone talks to themselves in solitude. It’s what keeps you human. I knew that.But this was different.This voice didn’t belong to me. It lived somewhere between my ribs, in the hollows where my fear had carved out space. Sharper than my thoughts. Cleaner. Like someone had taken all my half-formed impulses and crystallized them into something with edges.“God, you’re pathetic.”The words echoed in the damp cell, and I flinched as if I’d been slapped. My fingers scrabbled against the mildewed stone floor, searching for something to anchor me. But there was nothing. No one. Just me and the dark and this... presence.“This is what you are now? Curled up like a dog, waiting to be fed?”I pressed my forehead against the cold wall, breathing in the scent of wet stone and my own unwashed body. The smell of captivity. O

Ghost

I was asleep when Elena came. Or close enough to it—that half-conscious state where your mind wanders and your body lies heavy, a kind of torpor that comes from malnutrition and hopelessness. I’d been having the same dream I always did: of sunshine and open spaces and the sound of my own laughter. Of freedom.The scrape of the lock jerked me awake. I scrambled back against the wall, heart racing, limbs tensed for flight that was impossible. For a moment, I thought it might be Carlisle, and the fear was so thick it coated my tongue like sour milk.But it was Elena, slipping through the door with a bundle of linens held close to her chest. She wasn’t supposed to be here—not yet—but she’d risked it anyway. That should have told me something was wrong. Elena didn’t take risks.She carried the scent of the world above with her—fresh air and something flowery and clean. It hit me like a drug, and I found myself inhaling deeply, greedily, as if I could hoard the smell for later when I was al

Tangled

Georgia -The human body is a stubborn thing. It clings to life even when the mind has mostly given up. Mine was hanging on by threads frayed thin as spider silk, weakening by the day, and yet refusing to surrender.I stopped feeling hungry somewhere around the second month. The gnawing ache that had kept me awake those first weeks dulled into a peculiar hollowness, as if someone had scooped out my insides with a melon baller and left nothing but air. My body was cannibalizing itself—not in screams, but in the silent, efficient way a house eats its own walls during a famine. The fat went first, then the muscle. In the rusty shard of mirror Carlisle had cruelly hung on the cellar wall—his idea of generosity—I watched my transformation with clinical detachment. My collarbones jutted sharply, casting shadows beneath my skin. My ribs formed a xylophone I could play with my fingertips. My arms had thinned to matchsticks, wrists delicate as bird bones. I was disappearing, ounce by ounce, an

A Long Way Gone

The first time I heard Dr. Clarksdale’s footsteps on the cellar stairs, I thought salvation had come. Someone new—surely they would see what was happening, report it, rescue me.How naïve I had been.Dr. Clarksdale arrived with his leather medical bag and his crisp white coat, the picture of professional authority. His face was stern and pale, with those eyes that never quite warmed when he smiled. His hands were always cold, gloved in false sterility, mapping my deterioration like a surveyor charting land for a grave.“How are we feeling today, Miss. Steele?” he would ask, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of someone who had asked the question a thousand times without caring about the answer once.I quickly learned that Dr. Clarksdale wasn’t my savior. He was just another piece of Carlisle’s machination, another jailer with a different title. His examinations were a farce, a performance designed to legitimize my imprisonment. A way for Carlisle to tell himself—and anyone who m

TWO WEEKS

Two weeks passed in a strange new routine. Elena bathed me each evening, using a bucket of lukewarm water and a cloth that smelled faintly of lavender. The first time, she’d been tentative, almost fearful, as if I might lash out. By the third night, there was something like tenderness in the way she worked the soap through my tangled hair, gently combing out the knots, whispering soft apologies when I winced.The food improved, too. No longer just scraps and stale bread, but actual meals—thin soups with vegetables, small portions of meat, even fruit occasionally. My body responded quickly, desperately absorbing the nutrients. The hollow ache began to recede. My skin lost its waxy pallor. Even my hair seemed to regain some of its luster, though it remained thin in places where it had fallen out.Dr. Clarksdale had delivered on his promise of books—a small stack of carefully vetted volumes: a medical text with all the interesting pages removed, a collection of insipid poetry, and a Bibl

Connections

Adeline -The first time I saw him, he moved through the gilded ballroom like he owned it—because, in a way, he did.I wasn’t supposed to be there that night. Not really. The crystal chandeliers dripped with opulence, casting honeyed light over the kind of crowd that weekended in the Hamptons and summered in the South of France. Old money mingled with new, but the distinction was clear in the way they carried themselves—effortless versus studied, inherited versus earned.I had borrowed the midnight blue gown from my roommate, applied three coats of mascara, and practiced my posture in the mirror until my spine ached. The invitation had come through Vivienne, a casual acquaintance whose cousin knew someone who knew someone. I was a placeholder, filling a seat at a table that would have otherwise remained empty.“Just blend in,” Vivienne had instructed, pressing the embossed invitation into my palm. “And for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone you’re a kindergarten teacher.”I had nodded, sli

Carlisle didn’t pursue—he enveloped.

From the moment he decided I was his, there was no hesitation, no room for doubt. One day, I was simply Adeline, living a quiet life teaching five-year-olds their ABCs, and the next, I was his Adeline.The transition was seamless, intoxicating, as if I had merely stepped into a role that had been waiting for me all along.It started with flowers—not ordinary bouquets, but cascades of rare blooms that filled my tiny apartment with heady fragrance. Then came dinner invitations to restaurants where the menus had no prices, where sommeliers appeared at a nod, where the staff greeted Carlisle by name and treated me with a deference that made my cheeks flush.“You look uncomfortable,” he observed during our third dinner, watching me over the rim of his wine glass.I fidgeted with my napkin, hyperaware of my posture, my table manners, the way my dress—purchased from a department store sale rack—paled in comparison to the designer outfits around us.“I’m not used to this,” I admitted.His smi

The Second Round

The moment I crossed the threshold, the air turned viscous—as if the house had inhaled and held its breath, waiting to see if I’d choke. The foyer soared three stories high, dominated by a chandelier that looked like it had been crafted from frozen tears. The marble floor was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting distorted images of ourselves.The ceilings stretched impossibly high, the walls lined with dark wood and oil paintings that watched me with unreadable eyes. A house like this wasn’t meant to be lived in. It was meant to be endured. No matter how many times I stepped into his home, it never ceased to amaze me.Carlisle’s hand pressed against my back—not guiding, but steering. As if I were a ship and he the current pulling me toward rocks. “You’ll love it here,” he said, and I wanted desperately to believe him.I would love it. I had to. This was my future now.Still, something about the house unsettled me.The silence, for one. A house this size should have been filled with

Hallways and Secrets

Adeline -Later, when Carlisle was called away to take an urgent business call, I wandered the halls alone. The house seemed even larger without him by my side, its vastness suffocating rather than impressive.The floorboards groaned as if bearing a weight I couldn’t see. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and damp stone—a combination that made my stomach twist. Somewhere below, a pipe rattled like a prisoner shaking chains.There were entire sections I had yet to see, locked doors and winding corridors that disappeared into darkness. I trailed my fingers along the wood paneling, feeling the weight of history, of stories untold.I thought of the portrait in the hall. The woman with knowing eyes and xylophone ribs.As I turned a corner, I nearly collided with Elena, the elderly housekeeper who had been with the Brocandale family for decades, if Carlisle was to be believed.“Oh!” She startled, taking a step back. “Miss Adeline, I didn’t expect to find you here.”There was something in h

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