God forbid Father has anything out of place beneath his feet.
The floor is laid in a black-and-white chequered pattern, permanently polished, reflecting the bright light without softening it. My heels clack with every step I take, echoing through the empty space. Instead of standard lights, lanterns hang from the centre of the ceiling, evenly spaced. They run on electricity now, but the feature dates back generations, long before Father took control. The scale of the inside matches the outside, designed to remind anyone who passes through that this is a place built for permanence, not comfort.
I take a right just before the brown wooden door. It looks like it belongs in a church, one of the few places in this mansion that isn’t perfect. Splinters and cracks eat into the wood as if whatever is beneath it is trying to claw its way out. I draw in a breath and press against the heavy door, forcing it open. The sound of it echoes too loudly, bouncing off the walls along with my footsteps as I make my way down the grey concrete steps. It opens into the crypt.
Into a nightmare once upon a time, I didn’t even realise I was living in.
The room opens into a forest of stone columns and low arches. The ceiling presses close despite its width, each ribbed curve catching the light unevenly. The walls are rough with damp and age, the air cool enough to bite, and a shiver racks through my body. It’s not just the temperature that feels cold down here. It’s the architecture, the history, the secrets buried into it. The only light comes from candles, but it doesn’t reach every corner, leaving the far edges swallowed in shadow.
Even now, I register it clinically; worn limestone cover the floors as the weight of the building presses down on us. It’s quiet in the way only underground places are, a silence that hums rather than settles. Set into that silence are the coffins. They sit in rows beneath the arches, heavy wooden lids warped with age, iron handles rusted dark. Beyond them, stone tombs are built into the walls, their surfaces scarred and flaking.
If what Father said is to be believed, these are all the ancestors of The Company that came before us. A place steeped in honour, apparently, but to me… all I see is horror.
The old wooden crucifix stands in the centre. My back aches at the ghosts of the splinters my younger body endured, the smell of earth and rot catching in my throat. I learned early that this room wasn’t built for the freedom of the dead, but for the control of the living.
Every month I was reminded how small I was, how easy I could disappear. Even now, my body remembers before my mind does as my muscles tighten and my heart rate spikes. Sweat beads along my skin even in the cold. This is what my life has always been.
To stay still. To be quiet. To endure.
And it started in this very room.
The door creaks open and I spin around. No matter how many years it has been since the ceremonies, I will never forget. Relief loosens something in my chest when I see Roman walking towards me and for the first time, I realise how safe I feel around him.
“What’s wrong?” he says, stepping towards me, his fists clenching like he can fight off something he can’t see.
“N… nothing.” I stutter, thrown by how quickly he picks up on it. Does he really pay that much attention to me?
“You’re lying.” He looks me over again. “Your left hand is twitching, I can see your pulse through your neck, and…” He steps closer, heat rolling off him as he reaches up, swipes his fingers across my forehead, then brings them to his mouth. “You’re sweating.”
“Did you just lick my sweat?” I say, exasperated, convinced my brain is malfunctioning from the stress of being in this room.
“Yeah. So?” Roman replies, like that’s a normal thing to do.
“You can’t… lick my sweat, Roman. What is wrong with you?”
“Every single part of you, I own, Fae. What part of that are you struggling to understand?”
I stay silent, because what am I supposed to say to that? This weird new game of his is already wearing thin. The back and forth over the last day has drained me. Roman takes my silence for something it isn’t as he keeps going.
“When I fuck you, I’m going to lick and suck so many different parts of your body that sweat is the least of your concern. Now… stop deflecting. What is wrong?”
Wait… what? He actually wants me like that? This isn’t just another game?
I’m not someone people want. I’m the one they use. I’m the one whose mum left her and whose Father despises me.
That can’t be right. I thought he was playing with me…
“Little one… I’m waiting.”
He palms the back of my neck, his thumb pushing my chin up towards his face. It is the second time I have seen softness in his eyes in recent days and I don’t really know what to do with it. Could he really mean what he says? Could he really… want me? What am I even supposed to say to that? How could he possibly understand what is wrong with me?
I doubt his father told him exactly what the secret society entails, but he will find out soon enough. When he does, will he still want me? Will I want him when I realise he is just as twisted as all the other men who came before him? Maybe it is better I know now.
As I go to open my mouth, the door slams open. Father, Dr. Fisher, Roman’s father, and Mr Sullivan walk in.
“Children,” Father exclaims, spreading his hands wide like we are an offering. “I hear you did a job well done.”
“It was successful, yes, Mr. Ackworth,” Roman states, shifting slightly so he stands in front of me.