The brothel breathed at night.
Candles burned low in iron sconces, their shadows dripping across velvet wallpaper and polished mahogany. Perfume lingered in the air like memory—amber, rose, sweat, wine. The women had all retired, their rooms shut and silent. Only the new mistress walked the halls.
Her heels clicked softly on the carpeted floor, echoing in a rhythm that wasn’t entirely her own. The House wanted her awake, wanted her roaming. Ever since she had fed for the first time—God, that taste still burned on her tongue—something had shifted. Her hunger was sharper, but so was her sense of power.
She stopped before the mirror in the main parlor. Gilt frame, tall enough to show her entire body. The girl who stared back wasn’t the virgin who had walked in weeks ago. Her skin glowed fa
