Page 17 of Wolfsbane Hall
The twins couldn’t be more different. While Everett was fashioned from energy and charisma, Dean was forged from mystery, dark temptation, and pure protectiveness—or possessiveness. He was also heartbreak in human form. One was light, and one was dark, but both were equally fucked up.
“She’s my friend, Dean. Lighten up.” Everett rolled his eyes.
“Friend, right…” Dean glanced at him, completely unconvinced. “Yet she asked you to leave.”
She hadn’t. Not in those words, but Celestine wouldn’t correct him because she did want all of them gone. The Specter didn’t appear when guests were near, and he was the only person who could calm her down after a murder night. And although she was angry with the Specter, she wanted his comfort more. She wanted the after-show version of him—the warm, almost loving one.
“Alright, fine,” Everett said. “But join us if you get bored with this brooding flat tire.” He motioned to his twin as he fell out of the doorway, Babette and his other girls trying to keep him upright as they walked—stumbled—away.
A stilted silence swarmed the room. All the jubilant energy was sucked out by their exit, leaving only the king of brooding behind, radiating a sweetly-toxic energy like belladonna. The berries were heavenly in their poison. A kiss of death, and so was Dean.
He held a single red rose in his gloved hands.
A gift.
This was his routine. Nightly, he visited her and silently placed a rose on the bedside table, their eyes meeting in the mirror on her wall, the tension crackling between them like embers escaping a fireplace. Hot but dangerous, if they landed in the wrong spot. Tonight was no different.
Celestine sucked in a breath. It was utterly unfortunatethat she always wanted men who would never want her back. Dean was only the messenger. The rose was the Specter’s gift, but sometimes Celestine liked to pretend Dean-the-Brooding-Bad-Boy wanted to give it himself.
But that would never happen.
Celestine’s eyes traced the rose petals as she tried to maintain her composure. Her one goal with men was never to show them how much they affected her. It gave them too much power. And Dean always conjured unwanted feelings within her—a mixture of excitement, fear, and utter frustration.
“You know, one of these days, you’ll speak to me when you check in on me.” Celestine clutched her hands in her lap with a sugar-bright smile dusting her face.
Dean lifted an eyebrow, which said,Now, where would the fun be in that?
Every night, they played this game. He refused to speak, and she tried to coax him into breaking—to give her at least one word.
“You don’t have to look so pained when you visit me.” She motioned with her head to the flower and was met with another irritating brow lift, which seemed to sayyes and no.
Right.
Dean always won this game.
Every muscle in her body tensed as he patted the comforter inches from her knee, his hands still gloved. It was unclear whether the gesture was intended to be comforting or just a means of saying goodnight. Either way, Dean exited without another word.
Celestine cupped her head in her hands, hating the feelings stirring in her belly. Poor, broken girls did not get rich, powerful men, and she needed to remind herself of that.
Yet, as she lifted her eyes to the rose, her core tightened,and stillness stroked through the empty room. She bit her lip, and it took her a moment to realize she was no longer shaking. Despite his silence, Dean was also part of her cure. Anxiety no longer clung to her back, at least not now. The man’s mere irritating presence was the boon she needed.
Strange…
Celestine released a staggering breath, thinking about those implications, and her eyes locked on the book that lay next to the rose.Murder on the Orient Express. Her favorite.
She liked the twist—that everyone was responsible. What did that say about her?
Surrounding Celestine’s bed was a trove of books. Her entire room was more of a small library than a bedroom. The walls were covered with tomes. Even her armchair and bed frame formed bookshelves.
Above all else, Celestine loved reading. She enjoyed getting lost in stories and daydreaming about different worlds and lives. While she cherished all books, mysteries were her favorites. She owned Agatha Christie’s complete collection—all first editions, all leather-bound. The Specter spared no expense for her hobby; if she desired a book, it would appear bound in brown paper on her bed.
“Are you here?” Celestine asked the emptiness.
“Yes.” His voice was soft and smooth like liquid fire, and it came from a spot at the end of her bed as if a ghost lingered there.
After the show, the Specter dispensed with all his theatrics, almost as if he wanted to be a true genuine person. No façade or masks.
Just him.
