Page 99 of Bound By Crimson
It sounded old. Heavy. Belonging to this place, this cold stone house with its iron gates and crumbling grandeur.
She swallowed, the realization settling slowly.
She hadn’t even known his real name.
And if she didn’t know that...
Did she really know him at all?
After Kai finished greeting his mother, he turned to Lyric.
“Mother, this is Lyric.”
Mrs. Thornwick stared at Lyric for an uncomfortably long time.
Lyric stepped forward, hand outstretched, ready to say, “Nice to meet you.”
But Mrs. Thornwick looked down at Lyric’s hand and didn’t move.
She then looked up into Lyric’s eyes and replied, “Lyric…. Is that short for something?”
“No Ma’am,” Lyric said, suddenly feeling ashamed. “It’s just Lyric.”
“Hmph…just Lyric…” Mrs. Thornwick scoffed as she turned away.
Mrs. Thornwick folded her hands tighter across her waist and lifted her chin even higher.
“This house,” she announced, her voice carrying through the great hall, “was built by my great-great-grandfather, Malachai Thornwick the Second, in 1839. Every stone, every beam, laid with his own vision in mind. Thornwick is a house of tradition—and tradition is what preserves its soul.”
Her gaze sharpened as she flicked a glance between Lyric and Kai.
“Under this roof, we honor those traditions. Which means”—a small, cutting smile— “as you are not married, you will be given separate rooms.”
She turned her head slightly without looking away.
“Charles, be a dear and show them to their rooms.”
Rooms.
Plural.
Lyric blinked, confused, but Kai said nothing.
Charles retrieved their suitcases and began ascending the staircase, his steps slow and deliberate.
The house creaked with every footfall, as though stirring reluctantly from a long sleep.
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They followed him up the grand sweeping staircase, the carved woodwork, dark and polished to a dull shine.
A faded red runner stretched up the middle, worn thin by generations of footsteps.
The scent of old wood, lavender, and something fainter—dust, maybe—clung to the air.
The light filtering through the leaded glass windows was dim and fractured, leaving the halls painted in dusky patches.
Portraits lined the walls—stiff men in dark coats and severe women in high collars—their glassy eyes seeming to follow Lyric as she passed.
