6. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The door closes behind me with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the heavy silence of the room. I lean back against it for a moment, letting out a slow breath. The guest room is extravagant—absurdly so. It's far larger than my last apartment in the city, with floor-to-ceiling windows shrouded in heavy, velvet curtains.

Light spills across the polished wood floors, casting long, soft shadows that seem to shift and stretch as I move. The bed looms in the center of the room, draped in dark, luxurious sheets like a temptation I'm not ready to face, and a deep burgundy comforter looks plush enough to swallow me whole.

The knot in my stomach tightens.

It's all dark elegance, yet nothing about it is safe or inviting, as if designed to make me feel small.

I swallow against the dryness in my throat and push off the door, taking a few slow steps into the room. The silence is choking, oppressive, like the very air of the house is pressing down on me, trying to get inside my skin. My boots are too loud against the floors, the soft creak of the old boards underfoot like bones snapping in a forgotten tomb.

Sweat beads at my hairline, and I rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the tension tightening there, and wander toward the windows, pulling back one of the thick curtains a few inches. The night outside is a dark, impenetrable void. No stars. No moon. Just a thick haze of fog rolling past the glass pane, as though the house is floating in some liminal space, cut off from the rest of the world.

I let the curtain fall back into place, then catch a glimpse of myself in the antique mirror hanging on the wall above the stone fireplace dominating one wall. The face staring back at me is familiar, but there's something off. Same tousled brown hair, same sharp jawline, same lips that are perhaps a bit too full for a man's face.

But my eyes . . . there's something different in them tonight.

It's like I'm looking at a version of myself that's been . . . altered. Stripped of something fundamental, as if I'm fucking see-through, and the guy in the mirror knows it.

Is this what Adrian sees when he looks at me? This raw, exposed version of myself that I've spent years trying to hide?

After placing my duffel bag on the mattress, I take off my jacket and toss it onto the bed. Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I tap on one of my favorite social media apps. Maybe watching some stupid reels will ease my nerves, ground me in something normal and mundane.

But it doesn't load.

"Of course. No fucking reception."

I walk around the room, angling the phone to try and catch a signal. What the hell does Adrian expect me to do when we aren't fucking?

After tossing my phone onto the bed next to my jacket, I make my way into the en suite bathroom and splash cold water on my face, hoping to wash away the unease. I grip the edges of the marble sink as the droplets fall, trying to steady myself.

But it doesn't help.

This weekend is supposed to be an adventure, a new thrill. But this house feels too alive, too aware, and from the moment I arrived, everything in me is screaming to leave.

Except I won't.

And I don't even know if it's because I want to stay—because I want to see where this leads—or because I'm too fucking stubborn to back out now.

I wipe my face and toss the towel aside, then head toward the bedroom door. I turn the handle and step into the hallway.

The corridor is long, dimly lit by sconces that flicker like candle flames, casting strange shadows along the walls, shadows that shift as I move, lengthening and twisting in ways that make my skin crawl. Each step I take brings a soft creak from the wooden floors, the sound lingering in the air.

By the time I reach the grand staircase, my muscles are coiled tight.

Why the hell am I so on edge?

I exhale, my shoulders relaxing a bit, when I spot Adrian at the bottom, casually leaning against the banister. His posture is relaxed, and yet . . . there's something about the way he's standing—so still, so composed.

Almost predatory.

Fuck, this house is messing with me. Could be the fact this isn't my house. My domain where I'm in control.

Get your shit together, pussy.

I shove my hands into my pockets, brows furrowing. "Left my mask in the room. Should I go get it?"

"No need."

My eyes narrow. "Yet, you're wearing yours."

Adrian's gaze remains locked on mine as I descend the staircase, and when I reach the bottom, his lips curve into that same knowing smile, as if he's already ten steps ahead of me, already knows how this is going to end. "Remember, Jasper. This weekend is about letting go."

I huff, squaring my shoulders. "So you keep saying."

"Are you ready for that?"

Am I?

I don't know.

But I nod anyway, because that's why I'm here, isn't it?

"Then let's begin."