Page 45 of Bound By Crimson
The moment she arrived, the music had stopped.
Above the fireplace hung a massive oil painting—ancient, unsettling. Gothic creatures curled into the corners of the canvas, their eyes following her, too lifelike.
And at the center—
The bed.
Massive.
Dark mahogany carved with leering gargoyles.
Sheets of black satin, rumpled and scattered with more roses—like someone had torn through a garden in the throes of passion.
Her breath stilled.
She stepped farther in, barely aware of her own movement.
And then she saw him.
He stood just beyond the glass doors, out on the terrace, shrouded in moonlight and mist.
Facing her.
Watching.
Those same intense eyes.
They locked onto her like a wolf claiming its prey—silent, predatory, certain.
She froze.
Her breath caught.
The confidence she’d worn like armor began to crack, doubt bleeding through.
What am I doing?
She didn’t know if she should speak.
If she should move.
If she should run.
Her fingers twitched at her sides.
But she couldn’t.
He opened the glass door and stepped inside.
Effortless.
Commanding.
Each step toward her felt like a tide pulling her under.
She didn’t breathe—couldn’t.
He stopped inches from her, his presence towering, magnetic.
