Victor stood by the towering windows, gazing out at the cool, rain-drenched night. The wind carried a restless energy, bending the trees until their skeletal branches clawed at the sky. The moon, obscured by drifting clouds, cast an eerie glow over the sprawling grounds. A fitting night for what was to come. He took a slow sip from his glass, swirling the dark liquid inside before letting the burn settle in his throat. His gaze flickered to his wife, sitting stiffly in the parlor, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. She had been distant lately, her soft glances turned sharp, wary. She knows something. The realization was equal parts amusing and infuriating.

Had she heard the screams? The ones that had slipped through the cracks of his carefully maintained world? His victims lay below, deep within the bowels of Blackthorn Manor, their last gasps of life still clinging to the damp stone walls. Or perhaps it wasn't them that unsettled her—it could have been the servants, those trembling little creatures who scurried past him as if his very presence burned their skin. He would rectify their insolence soon enough. Fear was useful, but only when it didn't become a nuisance. His mind wandered to Duke Darlington's words from their last gathering, spoken with that knowing smirk. "You must test her, Brother. Hunt her. Then, you will truly know if she's worthy."

Victor had tested her before, once, when suspicion first wormed its way into his mind. He had sent her running into the darkened woods beyond the house, his command laced with cruel amusement. And she had obeyed. But obedience could be learned, fear could be faked. Darlington was right. He needed more proof.