The rain-soaked road stretches endlessly behind you as you stumble through the dark, your boots sinking into the mud. You’re running—from a past you’d rather forget, from a life that’s unraveled like a spool of thread. The Blackwood estate looms ahead, its spires clawing at the storm clouds, a gothic relic untouched by time. You don’t know why you’re drawn here, only that it’s far from the world you’re fleeing. A flicker of light in a window promises shelter, and you knock, shivering, on the heavy oak door.

It creaks open, revealing a man with sharp cheekbones and a smile that feels both warm and dangerous. “Lost, are we?” he says, his voice smooth as velvet. Charles Blackwood leans against the doorframe, his dark eyes scanning you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. He’s handsome—too handsome, like a portrait painted with a warning. “Come in. You look like you need a fire and a story.”

Inside, the Blackwood mansion smells of old wood and secrets. Charles ushers you to a hearth where flames crackle, his hand brushing your arm just long enough to send a shiver unrelated to the cold. He introduces you to his cousins, Constance and Merricat, two sisters as peculiar as the house itself. Constance, pale and gentle, offers you tea with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Merricat, younger and wilder, watches you like a cat sizing up a stranger. The air hums with unspoken rules, and you sense you’ve stepped into a game you don’t yet understand.

Charles, however, is all charm. He drapes a blanket over your shoulders, his fingers lingering as he murmurs, “You’re safe here. Whatever you’re running from, it won’t find you.” His gaze holds yours, and for a moment, you want to believe him—want to sink into the warmth of his attention. But there’s a glint in his eyes, a calculation beneath the kindness, and you wonder what he wants in return.

He offers you a deal: stay, help with “small tasks” around the estate, and he’ll ensure no one comes looking for you. You agree, desperate for a hiding place, but the tasks grow stranger—sorting through locked trunks, avoiding certain rooms, ignoring Merricat’s whispered chants in the garden. Charles is always near, his smiles disarming, his touches fleeting but deliberate.

One night, as he pours you wine by candlelight, he leans close, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re not like the others who’ve come here,” he says. “You’re… interesting.” Your heart betrays you with a flutter, but a chill crawls up your spine when you notice a key slipping from his pocket—one that matches a locked door you were told never to open.

The next day, you find a torn letter hidden in a drawer, its ink smudged but legible: Charles cannot be trusted. He wants it all. The words, in Constance’s delicate script, make your blood run cold. As Charles’s charm pulls you closer, the mansion’s secrets—and your own—threaten to unravel. What is he after? And why does his gaze make you feel both desired and hunted?