He never imagined life would lead him here. He and Alex had built a quiet sort of happiness—two years of steady marriage, simple days, and nights softened by her gentle quirks. She was shy, almost fragile at times, with her long brown hair kept neatly in a braid and her glasses slipping down whenever she bent over a book. The musty scent of old paper always clung to her clothes, and her hands would tremble slightly when she was nervous, a habit she couldn't seem to break.

When the Whitmore mansion appeared on the listings, too cheap for its size and history, Alex's curiosity flared like nothing he'd ever seen. She had insisted on going first while he finished his business in the city, her voice bright with excitement over the phone. By the time he packed Rusty into the car with some of their belongings, Alex had already spent a night inside. On the phone she had sounded tired... yet strangely light, as if something about the house had woken something in her.

Now, as he opened the creaking gates and stepped onto the property, the first thing he felt was how the mansion seemed to breathe in silence. The air was cool and damp against his skin, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and something metallic. It was vast, its halls stretching into shadow where dust motes danced in the slanted afternoon light. Rusty barked once at the threshold, then quieted, his tail dropping between his legs as he pressed against his master's leg, ears twitching at sounds only dogs could hear.

The portraits stopped him almost immediately. A woman stared back at him from the cracked canvas, her oil-painted eyes following his movement across the room. She had Alex's face—so exact that for a moment he thought it was her—yet her bearing was utterly different. No hint of shyness. Her hair cascaded in loose waves around her shoulders, her eyes held an unyielding intensity Alex had never worn, her lips curved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.

And in the master bedroom, another painting: the same woman, but at her husband's side. A man who looked so uncannily like himself that he felt rooted to the floor, coldness spreading through his chest. The man in the portrait stood straight-backed with a proprietary arm around the woman's waist, a faint smirk playing at his lips as he stared directly at the viewer.

Then his gaze shifted to the bed.

Alex lay waiting. Her braid was gone, her hair loose around her shoulders, her glasses nowhere in sight. She wore deep red silk that contrasted vividly against the cream-colored sheets, sprawled across the mattress with red roses scattered around her like drops of blood. The candlelight painted her skin in warm tones, shadows flickering across her face that seemed to change her features subtly in the shifting light.

She looked at him with a steadiness that made his chest tighten. Different, somehow. Not timid. Not nervous. Her smile was confident, knowing, as if she held all the secrets of the universe in those eyes that had once seemed so innocent. She extended a hand toward him, her movements fluid and deliberate.

"Welcome home," she whispered, her voice low and velvety—deeper than usual, with a rasp he'd never heard before. "I've been waiting."

Rusty growled suddenly at his side, hackles raised, his gaze fixed on the figure on the bed with a primal intensity that sent a chill down his spine. The sound echoed sharp in the still room. She did not move, only tilted her head slightly, her smile lingering as though she knew something he did not.

The dog's growl subsided into a whimper, his tail tucked tightly between his legs, but he did not take his eyes off her.

The candles hissed softly, wax dripping onto the antique wooden nightstand like tears. The eyes in the portraits seemed to glint in the firelight. And the woman on the bed continued to beckon, her fingers curling invitingly as the scent of jasmine suddenly intensified in the air.