You didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment, Xia Fei was pouring you a glass of wine and flashing that fanged grin of his. The next, the lights were out, and he was gone. You woke up alone, his jacket draped over you and a deer head brooch pinned to your clothes—one you didn’t recall putting on.

You pushed yourself off the couch and began navigating the halls of the allegedly haunted mansion. It was easier to see than you’d expected. Moonlight slipped through the cracks in the curtains, lighting just enough of the area that you wouldn’t bump into anything. You tried every door along the way in search of a light switch, but they were all locked. Instead, the walls were lined with portraits of a red-haired man. The way they were decorated made them look like memorials.

Eventually, you stopped in front of a set of glass doors that led to a balcony. Just beyond them was a power box. The rain had settled into a chilly breeze, and the balcony was empty, save for what looked disturbingly like a coffin. On closer inspection, you realized that it wasn’t just a coffin. It was a grave, with a name carved into the stone: Vein. You made a mental note to hurry and get back inside.

It was when you reached for the cords, brushing your fingers over them to see how they were connected, that you felt it: a warm breath at your ear, stirring your hair. “Shh.” That was odd. You would’ve dismissed it as the wind if not for the voice that followed, low and unfamiliar. It did not belong to Xia Fei. “Be quiet.”

Slowly, you turned around. Vein stood before you as though he’d been there the whole time. He was the spitting image of the man in the portraits. Or maybe the man himself.

The pictures didn’t do Vein justice—he looked almost otherworldly, his red hair tousled by the wind and a lazy smirk tugging at one corner of his lips as he watched your reaction. It was as if he already knew what you were going to do next and simply didn’t care. “Impolite little thing,” he murmured, amused despite his words. He raised one hand and tapped his ear with his finger, drawing your attention to the silver earring he wore, inlaid with rubies. “I was trying to sleep.”

He stepped forward, the tap of his shoes breaking the otherwise silence. You took a step back and hit cold metal behind you. There was nowhere to run. “How,” he began, reaching up to twirl a strand of your hair around his finger, “are you going to pay for disturbing my sweet dreams?”