CHAPTER FIVE
The moment I awoke, the air in the room felt different, charged with something I couldn’t place. A warmth washed over me, one that wasn’t of the room or fire. It was more… intimate, enveloping, and I immediately felt the pull of it like something unseen had wrapped its arms around me.
A strange, intoxicating scent lingered in the air… vanilla, smoke, and something rich, spicy. It sent a shiver down my spine, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I felt my magic stir faintly, almost as if warning me of a presence, but it didn’t feel frightening… it felt… excited?
Slowly, I blinked my eyes open. The room was dark, save for the dwindling firelight, but that warmth, the presence, was still there. I turned my head to the foot of my bed…
There he was. The man. The one from the painting.
He stood, casually leaning against one of the ornate bedposts, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His posture was relaxed, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
He didn’t look like a ghost at all. He was corporeal, more real than I could have imagined.
His figure was tall, muscular, and that grin of his…
it was slow, deliberate, like he knew something that I didn’t, something only he was allowed to know.
His eyes, those dark, endless eyes, were fixed on me, an intensity in them that made my heart race and my breath hitch in my throat.
His scent seemed to emanate from him, strangely comforting and equally unsettling.
”You summoned me?” He said casually, his voice low, smooth, and rich like a velvet whisper that brushed against my skin.
I had to force myself to sit up. My heart was thudding wildly in my chest, and a part of me wondered if I was still dreaming, or perhaps this was some sort of delirium brought on by the exhaustion from using too much of my magic.
But everything about him felt too real, too tangible.
I reached for the edge of the bed, steadying myself.
I glanced at my doorway, noting the pristine line of salt still intact and let out a breath. At least he could mean me no harm .
”Who… who are you?” I stammered, my voice coming out more breathless than I’d intended, betraying my nervous curiosity.
He pushed himself off of the post, standing to his full height.
Even in the dim light, I could see the sharp lines of his jaw, the hard cut of his features, the faint glow of something ancient in the way he held himself.
He was even more handsome than the painting, even more commanding.
There was something dangerous in his beauty, something that made my pulse race even faster and my thoughts scatter.
His grin deepened as he took a step closer, the room seeming to shrink with his presence.
”Lucien Wescraven, Duke of Ravenspire,” he said, bowing slightly before locking his gaze back on me with a mixture of amusement and something darker. “And you are?”
”Mia. Mia Arden.” My voice faltered for a second. The heat in the room seemed to intensify, and the shadows around him deepened, making him seem too real, too present. “You’re the man from the portrait?”
His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes softened just a touch as he tilted his head. “The very same.”
The Duke of Ravenspire.
It wasn’t possible. The story was true. The childhood fairytale my grandmother had told me at bedtime resurfaced, a riddle. I desperately searched my mind, pulling the words from my muffled memory.
The Duke of Ravenspire betrayed a heart, forevermore trapped in art.
Bind him tight, where he shall stay, until a heart guides his way…
I opened my mouth, but no words came. My mind was swirling, unable to settle on any one thought, any one question.
Could he be the same Duke of Ravenspire?
I’d always thought it had been just another one of my grandmother’s quirky tales…
but here he was. The man who had been cursed to a painting for betraying a heart. Who’s heart? I wondered.
Did I dare ask? Before I could think it through, the words spewed from my lips, curiosity taking over.
”You were cursed? The Duke of Ravenspire betrayed a heart, forevermore trapped in art.” I recited the riddle for him, searching his face for any recognition. His expression remained neutral though his brows rose just a fraction before smoothing again.
His gaze never wavered from mine, and I found myself struggling to keep my composure. The room felt so small with him in it, more intimate, like the very walls were closing in to make space for him and his presence alone.
He straightened slightly, his eyes still fixed on me with a burning intensity. “Betrayed a heart?” He frowned as if genuinely confused. “Is that my crime, Miss Arden? ”
I shook my head slowly, frowning back at him. “You don’t remember your crime, sir?”
”The only thing I remember is my name.” He paused, looking me over in a slow deliberate way that heated my core. “And your voice, pulling me from the depths of a heinous void. Why is that? Why did you free me?”
The question was simple, but the way he said it made it feel more like an accusation, as if I had unwittingly set something into motion… something that had been dormant for far too long.
I blinked, startled by the weight of his question. What was I supposed to say? That I’d been drawn to him by some force I couldn’t understand? That I could feel a deep stirring connection to him through my magic? Instead, I took a deep breath, shrugging once more.
”I’m a necromancer,” I began instead, my voice steady despite the swirling uncertainty in my chest. “I was hired by the current owner of Ravenspire, Lady Hathaway. She wanted me to cleanse the castle, rid it of the spirits who are… trapped here. That includes you.” I added the last part carefully, not wanting to offend, but knowing it was true.
Lucien’s eyes sparked with intrigue, but there was no immediate response.
He hummed under his breath, a sound that was part thoughtful, part curious, as if weighing my words.
His dark eyes studied me closely, lingering on my every movement as if gauging my sincerity…
or perhaps just enjoying the effect he had on me.
”You came to rid the castle of ghosts…” he murmured, his voice trailing off with a certain amusement. He shifted his weight, as if becoming more comfortable in his own skin. “Fascinating.”
He tilted his head again, observing me with intense curiosity. “So you are a witch?”
I narrowed my eyes slightly. “Not exactly, no”
His brows rose, waiting for me to elaborate. I let out a breath of annoyance.
”I am not a witch, not really. I do not brew potions, or chant spells, or delve out curses, your grace.
I consort with the dead. I can call them forward, lead their souls, and sense their intentions.
My particular magic is… taxing. It can be dangerous and if used for anything other than good, it can be devastating.
”I see,” he said, dark eyes narrowing slightly as if he didn’t quite see the difference still.
“And you, your grace? Can you remember anything else? You truly have no memory of your curse?” I mused, wanting nothing more than to change the subject.
He didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he turned his head slightly, brow furrowing in a way that made him look as though he was trying to recall something long-forgotten.
His eyes drifted to the floor for a moment, as if the answers he sought were hiding just beneath the surface.
Then, with a slow, almost reluctant sigh, he met my eyes again.
”I…” he began, trailing off as though he had forgotten how to form words. “I can’t remember.”
He stepped closer to the bed, his movement fluid, almost predatory in its grace. “Perhaps your little riddle is true. Perhaps I betrayed a heart.”
There was a strange, uncomfortable pause that followed, a crackling energy filling the space between us, and I could almost feel the weight of his words pressing down on me. My magic wanted to burst forward and touch him.
Treacherous. I pushed it as deep into my core as it would go.
”Yet, somehow, you managed to release me from my prison.” His eyes narrowed slightly, suspiciously, and I swallowed the knot forming in my throat.
“What about your life before the curse. Do you have any memories of that?” I questioned, ignoring his obvious distrust. I didn’t need to defend myself to him… he was the one who had been cursed after all.
He shook his head, the motion brief, but sharp, as if he were trying to dismiss the confusion clouding his thoughts.
”No. It’s as though it's been erased. Like a dream slipping away upon waking.” He looked at me again, something lingering in his eyes, the faintest trace of something… perhaps pain.
The words seemed to hang in the air, weighty and final.
The realization that Lucien, himself, had no memory of why he had been cursed to the painting made my heart ache for him in a way I hadn’t expected.
I couldn’t explain it, but it made me more determined to uncover the truth, about him, the curse, the castle itself.
Regardless of the reason he had been cursed.
I shifted closer to the edge of the bed, unable to stop myself from leaning toward him, my gaze fixated on his every movement.
The way he stood there, so utterly real, so solid, almost made me forget that he was not a flesh and bone man standing before me.
His chest rose and fell with each breath, a subtle play of the muscles beneath his dark clothing.
He watched me edge closer, curiosity gnawing at me.
I’d never encountered a ghost like this before…
one so fully corporeal, one whose presence seemed to vibrate with the heat of life.
I reached out cautiously, my fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against his arm, my magic reaching, desperate for it.