I didn’t sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, the House spoke. Not in words, but in heat, in sounds, in scent. The moans drifting through the velvet walls weren’t simply noise anymore—they throbbed inside me like second heartbeats. My skin prickled, alive with awareness I had never felt before.
The sheets beneath me were damp with sweat and something slicker, more shameful. I tossed and turned, pressing my thighs together, trying to ignore the ache that only grew sharper with each muffled cry of ecstasy in the halls.
By the time dawn’s pale light touched the curtains, my body was already humming like a live wire.
The House was quiet in the morning, though not peaceful. It felt like the stillness after a storm—the air heavy with something lingering, charged.
I pulled on a simple dress,
