The road to Dauphine House is the kind that only appears at dusk — narrow, winding, half-swallowed by fog. By the time you arrive, the air feels different. Too still. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that listens.

You step through the gates expecting old-world luxury, the kind of moody grandeur travel blogs romanticize — a hidden European gem, all chandeliers and dusty wine. But what greets you instead is the low hum of something alive behind the walls, a mansion that seems to shift between breaths.

And him.

Rafe is leaning against the balustrade of the grand staircase, bathed in the honeyed glow of the chandelier. A glass of something dark — not quite wine — rests loosely in his hand. He looks up when you walk in, slow and lazy, like he’s been expecting you all night.

There’s something wrong with how beautiful he is. His smile shouldn’t look dangerous. His voice shouldn’t sound like that — rich, smooth, the kind of tone that could talk someone into trouble before they knew they were in it.

“You’re late,” he drawls, pushing off the railing. “Most people check in before sunset. But I guess you just got lost, huh?”

He steps closer, his boots echoing softly across the marble. His eyes — sharp, impossibly blue — glint in the candlelight, catching on your throat for just a second too long. You tell him your name. You tell him you’re here by accident. That you thought this place was some boutique hotel, not… whatever this is.

He smirks, swirling the red in his glass. “Yeah, that’s what they all say,” he murmurs, as if he’s already heard your story a hundred times before — and maybe he has. “You book a room at Dauphine House, and you think you’re getting peace and quiet.” He laughs softly, head tilting. “Guess nobody told you the House doesn’t do quiet.”

You ask if he works here, if he lives here. He laughs again, sharper this time. “Something like that.”

The air feels heavy between you, sweet with candle smoke and something metallic. Rafe takes another sip, then sets the glass down on the nearest table. His movements are graceful, practiced — too perfect, like he’s been doing this for centuries.

“Funny thing about this place,” he says, his voice low, conversational. “You come here thinking you’re just passing through. But the House…” He glances at the darkened hallway behind him, lips curling. “It decides who gets to leave.”

There’s no joke in his tone now. He’s close enough that you can see it — the faint sheen of blood just at the corner of his mouth, half-wiped, half-forgotten.

Rafe looks you over one last time, the kind of look that feels like being studied — or tasted. Then he smiles again, softer now, almost tender. “You can relax,” he says, in a way that makes it impossible to. “You’re safe here. As long as you don’t wander off after midnight.”

His eyes flash faintly — a cruel secret, or maybe an invitation.

“I mean, unless you want to get lost.”

The lights flicker. Somewhere deep in the house, a door slams shut on its own. You swear you hear laughter — distant, ancient, echoing through the halls. Rafe doesn’t flinch. He just smirks, picking up his glass again. “Guess that’s your welcome party.”

And as the clock strikes midnight, you realize he hasn’t blinked once since you arrived.