The next evening, a black envelope arrived on Elena's windowsill, sealed with crimson wax. She had not told anyone about the stranger, yet someone—he—knew where she lived.
Her breath caught at the sight of it. The envelope gleamed like spilled ink in the fading light, the wax seal pressed with an unfamiliar crest: a thorned rose encircling a crescent moon.
Her fingers hesitated before breaking the seal, as though once she opened it, the world she knew would tilt irrevocably into another. The letter inside was written in elegant, deliberate script:
Come to the Blackthorne Estate. Midnight. Wear red.
No name. No signature. None was needed.
Elena's hands shook as she read it again and again. Every rational thought told her to burn it, to pretend it had never reached her. But her body remembered—the searing cold of his touch, the low timbre of his voice curling like smoke inside her chest, the dangerous hunger in his eyes.
That hunger had terrified her. It should have been enough to keep her away. And yet, as the evening deepened, she found herself standing before her wardrobe, fingers grazing fabrics until she pulled free a crimson gown she had never dared to wear. The color clung to her body like a sin confessed.
By midnight, she stood before wrought-iron gates, their sharp spires like blackened teeth biting into the night sky. Mist clung to the ground, winding around her ankles as though trying to draw her back.
The Blackthorne Estate loomed beyond the gates—a mansion of stone and shadow, its windows dark save for a single light glowing faintly in the highest tower.
Her pulse thundered as she pressed a trembling hand to the gate. It creaked open, not by her doing but as if some unseen will had anticipated her arrival. The sound echoed like a warning—or an invitation.
She walked the path slowly, her heels crunching on gravel, each step a betrayal of the fear she should have heeded. The gown whispered against her skin, the red fabric daring the darkness to notice her.
And it did.
He was waiting at the top of the stairs. The stranger. The one whose name she still did not know. Tonight, he was dressed in black velvet, his hair falling in dark waves, his face illuminated by the silver wash of the moon. His eyes caught hers instantly, and she felt stripped bare beneath their gaze.
"Elena," he said, and the sound of her name on his tongue was almost a caress.
"You…" Her voice faltered. She swallowed hard. "Why me? Why invite me here?"
Instead of answering, he descended the steps with unhurried grace. When he reached her, he let his gaze sweep over her crimson gown. The corner of his mouth curved in something between approval and hunger.
"You came," he murmured, lifting her hand to his lips. His kiss was cool, lingering against her skin. "I wondered if desire would outweigh your fear. It seems I was right."
Elena shivered, not from the night air, but from the way her body leaned toward him, as though caught in his orbit. "I shouldn't be here."
"No," he agreed softly, his thumb brushing across her knuckles. "You shouldn't. And yet… you are."
Her breath trembled. "What do you want from me?"
His eyes burned, dark and endless, and for a heartbeat she thought she saw restraint—an aching, dangerous restraint. "Everything I cannot have."
The words struck her like a blade and a promise all at once. Forbidden. Irresistible.
And still, when he offered his arm, she took it.
Together, they crossed the threshold of the Blackthorne Estate, where the night itself seemed to hold its breath.