Rage

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Steele

W ithout clocks—which he noticed were missing from the manor along with the mirrors—he had no concept of time but would wager nearly an hour passed before someone brought him lunch.

There was a tap on the door, but there was no evidence of who had knocked. He opened the door to a tray of stew and bread paired with a pewter mug filled with ale.

He’d inhaled the soup and swallowed the bread in one bite, and when the ale was gone, it magickally refilled itself.

He napped until dinner, then ate alone at the table fit for a castle, returning to his room for more ale.

Days—nay weeks—have passed like this, where nothing has changed.

He’d nearly been killed multiple times by different things in the manor and on the grounds.

The sentient shadows that linger in the dark corners will likely claim his sanity first. They strike when the lights are dim, suffocating, or slashing with razor-like tendrils.

The furniture is haunted. Chairs, armoires, or chandeliers spring to life when least expected, trapping or crushing anything too close.

The grand staircase subtly shifts its steps, leading him into traps or void-like falls into darkness if he isn’t too careful. Every time it happens, he wakes in bed like it was all a dream.

Portraits on the walls seem to follow him, and when provoked—or ignored too long, the figures inside claw their way into reality to attack.

Occasionally, entire rooms shift into dangerous spaces—the sitting room becomes an inferno, and a hallway grows barbed branches with a hunger for flesh.

On the grounds, thorned vines and flowering plants lure him with sweet scents and promises of freedom before snapping shut like jaws. The gardens are ever-changing, trapping him in endless loops or leading him into traps—bottomless pits, spiked hedges, or drowning bogs. Specific patches of ground liquefy without warning, pulling him into suffocating mud or icy water, and the stone gargoyles or animal figures seemingly come to life at night.

The manor shifts walls and floors, trapping him in shrinking spaces or rooms that become a place of nightmares, with ghostly apparitions of people he once loved and lost and some he’s never seen or doesn’t know.

He hasn’t seen or heard from the beast since he’s been here, though he seems to think she haunts the paintings. Sometimes, he swears she’s behind him, and then there’s no one there.

There was the one time in the middle of the night he saw her roaming the grounds from his window, Edmund on her tail, so he snuck over to her wing.

It was terrifying.

Everything in her bedchamber was clawed to bits, and large gouges scarred every surface made of wood.

He never wants to venture to that side ever again.

Today, lunch consists of cheese and crackers, and he finishes it off with five to six refills of ale before he sets out on his daily exploring.

As dangerous as the manor is and unreliable with staying the same, it’s the only thing he’s found to keep him occupied and not anxiety-ridden about spending the rest of his life here.

Maybe he should have accepted his death.

Satisfied for now—and a little buzzed—he leaves the tray on the right side of the door and stalks off down the dark hallway.

So far, in his exploring and near-death experiences, he’s found multiple bedrooms, nooks and crannies with reading chairs and tables, countless bathrooms, two storage cubbies, six stately sitting rooms, and a massive library fit for a king.

Reading is one of his favorite pastimes, and so today, he climbs the ladder to the second level and picks one. Tome in hand, he sits in the chair next to the fire and opens the book.

Books are magickal things. Black ink on dead trees spins wild hallucinations in their holders' minds.

Steele flips another page, engrossed in the tale. The warmth of the fire at his side pairs perfectly with the faint buzz of ale still coursing through him. The book in his hand—a weathered classic whose pages feel like silk beneath his fingers—pulls him deeper into its world. He runs his thumbs over a passage, marveling again at how ink on paper could create entire universes.

Books are magick.

The snap of wood in the hearth startles him, and he glances up, only to find he’s no longer alone.

She stands in the doorway, one shoulder pressing into the frame. The firelight softens her beastly form, making the glint of her golden eyes less predatory and more contemplative. She doesn’t speak; she just watches him, her presence both imposing and oddly comforting.

“You like books?” she asks or states, her tone is unreadable.

Steele sits up straighter, instinctively bristling at being caught in a rare moment of peace.

“I do,” he says simply, closing the book but keeping a finger in its spine. “They’re one of the few places a man like me can escape.”

There’s a twitch to her lips—not quite a smile, but not entirely devoid of amusement. She steps into the room, her clawed feet making little noise on the polished floor. “Escape from what?”

Thick, bushy brows raise to his hairline. “From people like you.”

There’s a flicker in her expression—hurt? No, it’s too brief to be certain. “And yet, here you are,” she replies, moving closer. “In my library. Reading my books.”

Glancing down at the large book in his lap, he strokes its worn cover. “They’re the only things here that don’t seem to want to kill me.”

The laugh she cradles is low and bitter. “You assume much, warrior. Not everything in this manor is your enemy.”

He tilts his head, studying her. “Are you saying you’re not my enemy?”

The claws at her side twitch, and for a moment, she looks away as if she doesn’t trust herself to answer. Instead, she changes the subject. “You’ve chosen that one.”

Following her gaze to the book, he says, “A classic,” trying to sound nonchalant.

“It was one of her favorites,” she murmurs, almost too softly.

Steele stiffens. “The woman in the painting?”

She nods, her gaze distant, as if caught between memory and regret. “She believed books held answers even when the world didn’t. I think that’s why she…why I…” She stops, her voice catching,

“You miss her,” he says, surprising even himself with the gentleness in his tone.

Her head snaps toward him, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t presume to know me.”

Raising his hands in mock surrender, he leans back in his chair. “I’m not. But I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

The room grows quieter, and the fire’s crackle fills the space between them. She studies him for a long moment, her beastly features softening, the sharp edges dulled by something he can’t quite name.

“And what did you do with that loss?” she asks, her voice like a ribbon of silk, soft to the touch, but if you turn it on its side, it’ll slice you to the bone.

He swallows hard, gripping the book tighter. “I carried it. Still do. Some weights never leave. They’re like boulders that stack inside you, making moving hard.”

For the first time, her condemning gaze doesn’t pierce him. Instead, it rests on him, heavy with an understanding that unnerves him like a kick to the ribs—winding him. Chest deflating.

“You surprise me,” she says finally.

“And you terrify me,” he admits.

Her lips curve—an almost smile, fleeting but real. “Good.”

But as she turns to leave, he calls after her. “Does that mean you’re not my enemy?”

She pauses in the doorway, her clawed hand on the frame. Her answer, when it comes, is cryptic and laced with something unspoken. “You’ll have to decide that for yourself.”

“Reverie,” he calls the name he’d heard a portrait whisper late one night while exploring.

When she turns again, her dark blue eyes narrow as though he’s stepping close to an edge he shouldn’t linger near.

A low growl creeps up her throat, “Tread carefully, man.”

“Steele,” he tells her and waits for her to allow him to continue. “What happened to you?”

Before he knows what happened, she’s upon him, holding him aloft by her claws, the sharp talons stabbing him in the neck. “Don’t. Ever. Ask. That. Again.”

Breath flees his lungs, and he waits for death to claim him. Her breath is hot on his cheek, and her blue eyes are even with his.

And yet, inside those rage-filled eyes, he sees that woman in the portrait, cowering inside the beast who’s claimed her life.

What curse would lock a beautiful woman such as she inside a ravenous beast?