DYING FOR YOUR TOUCH

Chapter 3: The Cold Room

The velvet chaise lounge in the center of the master suite felt less like luxury and more like an altar. Seraphina sat with her spine locked straight, her palms pressed flat against the dark fabric to stop the tremor in her fingers. She didn’t look at the high arched windows, and she didn’t look at the massive four-poster bed that looked entirely too large for one person. Her internal monologue was a frantic, ticking clock, counting down the seconds since the heavy oak doors downstairs had clicked shut, sealing her inside this massive stone mausoleum. She had signed the contract. She had given up her freedom for ninety days of guaranteed comfort, but the sheer, oppressive silence of the Vance estate was already siphoning the air from her lungs.

"You are breathing too fast, Seraphina," a cool, smooth voice cutting through the dimness made her flinch.

Valerius stood by the fireplace, his silhouette tall and imposing against the low amber glow of the dying embers. He hadn't changed out of his white dress shirt, but the top two buttons were undone, revealing the pale, flawless skin of his throat. He wasn't looking at her; his gaze was fixed on a crystal decanter filled with a thick, dark crimson liquid resting on the sideboard.

"My heart is defective, Valerius," she shot back, her voice tight, defying the heavy ache building beneath her ribs. "Fast breathing is part of the package. You read my medical file. You knew what you were buying."

Valerius turned slowly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, freezing intensity that made her pulse stutter. "I bought a legal shield, not a liability. If your human heart quits before the ninety days are up, the board invalidates the inheritance. You need to remain functional."

"Functional," she whispered, a bitter laugh scratching at her throat. "Is that what I am to you? A machine with a broken battery?"

"Yes," he said coldly, crossing the room with that silent, terrifying speed that always made her feel like a bird trapped in a cage. He stopped just inches from the chaise lounge, towering over her, his immense shadow blocking out what little light remained in the room. "And as long as you are under my roof, you will follow the parameters of our agreement. Your father’s debts have been cleared. Your friend Lysandra is being... monitored. Your only job is to live."

"Monitored?" Seraphina stood up, ignoring the sudden wave of dizziness that threatened to drop her back onto the cushions. She stepped closer to him, her small frame completely eclipsed by his. "What does that mean? Where is Lysandra? She was supposed to wait in the car."

"Evander is handling her," Valerius replied, his face a hard, unreadable mask. "My brother has his own methods of ensuring discretion. She will not interfere with our timeline."

*Evander.* The memory of the younger, wilder brother with the predatory crimson eyes flashed through Seraphina’s mind, sending a cold spike of adrenaline through her veins. Lysandra was fierce, but she was entirely human. If Evander was the monster the city rumors claimed him to be, her friend was in unimaginable danger.

"Call him off, Valerius," Seraphina demanded, her fingers reaching out to grip the fabric of his shirt, her knuckles turning white. "Lysandra doesn't know anything. She’s just trying to protect me. If your brother touches her, our deal is off."

Valerius looked down at her hands resting against his chest. For a split second, his jaw tightened, the skin over his cheekbones flushing with a sudden, dark heat. He didn't pull away, but his voice dropped an octave, becoming a low, dangerous vibration that resonated directly in her ears. "You do not dictate terms to me, Seraphina. The contract is signed. Your life belongs to this house now."

"Then treat me like a wife, not a prisoner," she challenged, her gaze locked onto his black pupils. "The board is watching you. If they see a husband who locks his bride in a cold room and hides his family in the dark, they will see right through this facade. You need me to look happy. You need me to look pampered."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the faint, metallic tang that seemed to cling to the very air of the mansion, making her head spin. Valerius raised a hand, his long, pale fingers hovering just above her cheekbone. His skin radiated a freezing baseline, a stark contrast to the feverish heat burning in her own cheeks. He didn't touch her, but the proximity alone was enough to make her breath hitch.

"You want a show, Seraphina?" he murmured, his gaze dropping to her parting lips. "You want the city to believe I am thoroughly ruined by your touch?"

"I want what I paid for," she whispered back, refusing to back down from the absolute dominance in his posture. "Three months of a real life."

Valerius dropped his hand, turning his back to her as he walked back toward the fireplace. "Tomorrow, the public performance begins. A stylist will arrive at dawn. You will be dressed in things that cost more than your father’s apartment building. We will attend the gala at the opera house. The world will see exactly how much I cherish my dying bride."

"And tonight?"

"Tonight, you sleep," he said coldly, not looking back. "The lower levels are locked. Do not attempt to find your friend. If you step outside this room after midnight, I cannot guarantee your safety from the things that hunt in these halls."

He strode out of the master suite without another word, the heavy double doors clicking shut behind him with a definitive, echoing boom.

Seraphina collapsed back onto the chaise lounge, her knees shaking violently as the adrenaline finally left her system. Her internal monologue was a chaotic storm of fear and a strange, unbidden trace of excitement. Valerius was a monster, a cold, calculating tyrant who viewed her as a business asset. Yet, when he had looked down at her, when his hand had hovered near her skin, her failing heart hadn't stuttered from illness. It had hammered from pure, unadulterated tension. She was safe for now, but she was completely isolated in a house built on secrets and blood.

She lay down on the massive bed hours later, the silk sheets feeling cold against her skin. Every sound in the ancient mansion seemed amplified in the dark—the creaking of the floorboards, the howling of the wind against the stone masonry, the distant, rhythmic thudding that sounded entirely too much like a heavy heartbeat deep beneath the floor.

She drifted into a restless, feverish sleep, her dreams filled with crimson eyes and breaking silver blades.

A sudden, sharp metallic scrape woke her instantly.

Seraphina snapped her eyes open, her heart leaping into her throat as she sat up in the pitch blackness of the room. The fire had completely died, leaving the space in freezing, absolute shadow. She held her breath, listening intently over the sound of the rain lashing against the glass.

There it was again. A low, rhythmic scratching sound coming from directly beneath the bed.

She slid off the mattress, her bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor as she crept toward the heavy velvet drapes, pulling them back just enough to let the faint, watery moonlight illuminate the floorboards. The scratching stopped. Silence blanketed the room once more, heavy and suffocating, until a thick, dark liquid began to seep out from beneath the mahogany bed frame. It wasn't water. It was thick, viscous, and carried a sharp, unmistakable scent of copper that made her stomach violently turn.

Seraphina dropped to her knees, her trembling fingers gripping the edge of the silk dust ruffle. She lifted the heavy fabric, peering into the deep shadows beneath the mattress, expecting to find an animal or a broken pipe.

Instead, two pale, blood-stained hands shot out from the darkness, gripping her wrists with a freezing, bone-crushing strength. A face lunged forward into the moonlight—it was Lysandra, her fierce eyes completely wide with horror, her lips covered in fresh crimson as she gasped for air. But before Seraphina could let out a scream, a massive, clawed hand reached out from the abyss behind her best friend, wrapping tightly around Lysandra's throat and dragging her back into the dark floorboards with a violent, sickening crack.