Chapter 5
ROWAN
Sleep isn’t supposed to come easy after learning you can suck the magic out of supernatural beings and turn them human. But apparently, my brain decided existential crises could wait until morning.
I wake tangled in sheets softer than anything that has ever touched my skin, the faint scent of cedar and frost curling in the air. For a moment, I almost forget where I am, then the memories slide back in.
Dinner. Malrik. His words.
You unmake magic.
I can turn the supernatural human.
My stomach flips. I press my palms to my eyes and groan.
I swing my legs out of bed, the cool floor biting against my bare feet. Everything in this room feels too pristine, too intentional. The faint silver veins that pulse along the black stone walls are slower this morning, almost sleepy, like the whole place breathes with me.
“Good morning, co-kidnapper,” I mutter, my voice rough. “Wish I could say I’m happy to see you, but you’d probably know that’s a lie, so why bother?”
No answer.
When I glance around, something new catches my eye. Yesterday, the left section of the room was just stone. Now, there’s a wardrobe—mirrored and gleaming, etched with faint swirling patterns that move if I stare too long.
“Of course,” I say, dragging myself toward it. “The house redecorates. Great.”
Back on the right side, next to the partition, there’s even a shower waiting for me with frosted glass. “Cute. You’re trying to make me think I still have privacy in this creepy castle.”
After a warm wash and rinse, I investigate my clothing options.
The handles on the wardrobe are cold under my fingers, but the doors open without resistance.
Inside are dozens of outfits. Gowns in black, gray, and forest green.
Leggings and shirts, soft as newborn skin.
The sight hits me like a slap of unreality.
These are mine. Custom-made for a person who doesn’t even know what she is anymore.
And then there’s the vanity that has definitely grown from last night. There’s more of everything. Brushes. Makeup. Perfumes. All of it neatly arranged. It’s domestic in a way that makes me shudder.
“Ugh,” I whisper with an eye roll. “He’s trying to turn me into a kept woman.”
Still, I can’t help running my fingers over the smooth metal of the table. Every object seems to be in tune with my pulse. It’s almost beautiful, but absolutely wrong.
My reflection in the mirror looks back at me, eyes shadowed and mouth tight.
But what catches my attention most is the kaleidoscope of colors looking back at me.
Cade had mentioned something about my eyes changing colors after I shifted the first time, and I’d seen hints of what he’d meant in the following days, but nothing like this.
This is almost too freaky.
Who is this woman looking back at me?
I killed someone with a touch. Well, and a broken chair leg. I drained their natural existence right out of them without meaning to. Hell, I nearly did the same to Liz during training, and I had no idea until Malrik spelled it out over dinner like he was reading the menu.
I take a step back from the mirror. “Nope. I don’t like this. I need to get out of here. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be. Answers be damned.”
The wardrobe doors creak softly, as if offended.
“No.” I cross my arms, hoping the exit will appear again.
Instead, my legs start to shake, and energy that’s not my own invades my body.
I shake out my arms, almost dancing, like I can physically rid myself of this intrusion. “Get the hell out of me!”
There’s a growl in my chest, and I freeze. Wolf?
This would all be better if I didn’t feel so alone.
Except I get no reply.
Though that doesn’t completely dash my hope. Maybe that was at least a sign that she’s still here.
Even better, the ick I felt along my skin is gone, but I’m still pissed about the invasion.
“Don’t do that again.” I hold my towel tighter around me and shake my finger at the wall like it’s a child.
I’m going crazy like Iris, but whatever.
“Stay for them. Stay for answers.”
The words come as the faintest whisper. Holy shit, can the house actually talk?
I wait for more, but there’s nothing. In reality, I know I’m not prepared to get myself out of this place as I am now.
I can’t even shift. Though that doesn’t mean I’m going to quit trying.
Even now, I yearn for the beast within, but there’s not a single tingle over my skin when I try to call on her presence.
“Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll stay. For now. But outside of being told I’m a murderer, I’d better get some real answers and quick.”
The wardrobe shakes briefly, and an outfit falls to the floor. Right. We’re doing this.
I pull on dark leggings and a fitted, light-cream tank top with wide straps. One that feels made for movement, not ceremony. The fabric is light and cool against my skin, tailored to perfection.
I go to the vanity and reach for the hairbrush. Once I’ve secured the golden-brown locks into a ponytail, I stand in front of the door. “Can I leave now?”
The faintest tremor ripples through the air, and a second later, the door slides open, smooth and silent, revealing the hallway beyond.
A pulse of silver light traces along the threshold, beckoning me forward.
I stare at it for a long moment, my heart hammering. “Let me guess,” I mutter. “I’m supposed to follow the creepy mood lighting again?”
The light beats again—twice this time. Definitely deliberate.
“Of course. The haunted house has a personality.”
Still, when I step through the doorway, I can’t help feeling a strange mix of awe and dread. The air on the other side is cooler, scented faintly of rain and ice. The walls are brighter today, the veins of light running through them steady and rhythmic.
It’s beautiful, in the same way a sleeping predator is—still, elegant, and utterly dangerous.
The door closes behind me without a sound.
“Okay, Keep,” I say under my breath. “Show me where I’m required today.”
The floor glows faintly beneath my bare feet—why haven’t I been given shoes yet?—each step lighting the path forward. The castle hums in approval.
I follow. Because apparently, saying no stopped being an option the second I woke up in this place.
If I ever get out of here, I’m going to have a whole new appreciation for my life.
The light on the floor moves ahead of me, slipping down the corridor and bending around corners before I even take a step. I follow because why not at this point. What else am I supposed to do—sit in my room and wait for Stockholm Syndrome to kick in?
The hallway is different today. Last night, it was all sharp angles and cold stone, like a dungeon pretending to be civilized. Now, the walls shimmer with silver that moves just beneath the surface. The air around me breathes low and steady, vibrating through my bones.
Every sound is amplified within the cavernous space. The pad of my feet, the whisper of my breath, the quiet pulse that isn’t mine alone. There’s also a new scent I can’t quite place in the air: something old and wild, like lightning caught in glass.
The floor slopes downward the longer I walk, though it’s so gradual it takes me a moment to notice. The temperature drops with each step, giving off the kind of chill that doesn’t touch your skin—it settles in your chest instead.
I run my fingers along the wall as I go. The stone is smooth, surprisingly warm, and alive. It feels like a heartbeat trapped beneath the surface, like I’m walking through the veins of something sentient.
“Disturbing,” I whisper.
The torches flicker like a reply.
“Not everything’s about you,” I tell the wall.
It flashes again.
I stop dead, scowling. “You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”
The light pulses two times. Smartass. But also, not normal that I’m beginning to feel like I can actually communicate with the walls.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, keep laughing. You’re not the only one with trust issues.”
The air tightens slightly, almost like a sulk.
I sigh. “My bad. I hurt the house’s feelings.”
The path turns sharply left, and when I step through the archway, the floor evens out again. The hum quiets and the air softens, warming once more.
And suddenly, I’m not in a hallway anymore.
The space that opens before me isn’t a room so much as an underground cathedral.
The ceiling stretches impossibly high, carved into a perfect dome of obsidian, streaked with what I can only call silver lightning strikes so bright they could almost be white.
The walls are lined with weapon racks—swords, spears, staffs, and blades of every shape imaginable. Some look ancient, others more modern.
The floor gleams underfoot, a mosaic of black stone etched with intricate designs that pulse softly with each of my heartbeats. The whole place smells faintly of metal, and underneath that—blood. Not fresh, but not forgotten either.
I don’t notice him at first. Malrik stands in the center of the room, beside a section of mats, as if he’s always been there, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.
He’s traded his usual tailored coat for something more utilitarian: a black, fitted shirt and dark trousers tucked neatly into soft leather boots.
The fabric gleams faintly in the light, not silk, but something close—comfortable, flexible, expensive in a way that feels wrong for a place like this.
The only color in him is his eyes—storm-gray today. Watching and calculating.
And I can’t deny, he’s handsome, but in that silver fox way. Like I’m not attracted to him whatsoever—the thought alone makes me nauseous—but I’m also woman enough to admit he’s striking. For someone else.
“Good morning,” he says without moving from his post.
“Define ‘good,’” I mutter, dragging my feet toward him. “If you mean the kind where the house bullies you into leaving your room for reasons other than escaping this place, then sure.”
He shifts his feet, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You’re adapting.”
“I’m surviving.”
“Semantics.”
Once I’m close enough, I notice how the soft light catches against the silver in his hair. He seems exactly the same as last night—composed and deliberate, like someone who’s never known chaos.
“I assume you slept well,” he says, studying me too close for comfort.
“Apparently,” I say. “I didn’t have any nightmares, shockingly, if that’s what you’re asking. No surprise visits from the ghost of bad decisions.”
His mouth curves a fraction more. “Not yet.”
There’s that word again—yet. He uses it frequently.
Malrik gestures toward the onyx mat next to him. The not-really-lightning-or-so-I-hope from above brightens in invitation, highlighting the space. “You should learn to use your gift with intention, not fear. Fear leads to loss of control. And when you lose that, everything suffers.”
I cross my arms. “And what exactly do you expect me to do? Start unmaking the room?”
“If that’s what it takes,” he says smoothly. “The Keep will adjust.”
I glance at the pulsing designs beneath our feet. “Oh, I bet it will.”
Malrik’s voice softens, but it doesn’t lose that undertone of authority. “The Keep responds to those who hold command within its walls. You walk freely here because I’ve allowed it. But make no mistake, Rowan—this place belongs to me.”
His words settle like cold iron in my chest. Though he’s wrong. I’m not free. I might be without someone guarding me, but I haven’t, nor will I ever take that as being “free” while I’m here.
“Understood. You’re the boss, Boss,” I say lightly, because if I don’t make a joke, I might actually scream.
“Good. Then you accept the terms.” He steps closer, until I can smell that strange mix of rain and smoke that clings to him. “Now show me what you remember from your first encounter.”
I raise a brow. “You mean when I accidentally killed a guy, and then you stole his body? Oh sure, let’s relive that. Sounds like a healthy way to start the day. You’re a terrible therapist.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. He just gestures again. “I need you to focus, Rowan. The difference between chaos and creation is discipline. You need to master the latter.”
“I prefer chaos,” I mutter. “It builds character.”
Malrik steps into my personal space, towering over me with the look of a disappointed father on his face.
“I understand you need your coping mechanisms. In fact, I understand you better than you’ve yet to realize, but I won’t tolerate a constant barrage of disrespect in my home. Do I make myself clear?”
The air between us is charged and icy, chilling against my skin. Even without my wolf in me, I want to challenge him. I want to fight my way out of here and reclaim my freedom, even if it ends with my destruction. I don’t want to give in.
Yet…
There’s a teeny, tiny nudge within me as I stare this monster down that tells me to cooperate. That obeying Malrik is my key to getting out of here. Especially since he controls this very alive house.
So, instead of acting out like I want, I lean into the fear of giving in to this man. Of knowing I made a grave mistake in taking his hand without a fight, but also in believing he was likely the reason I was put into that position in the first place.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last twenty-four hours of being here, it’s that Malrik Vane isn’t to be taken lightly.
He might be calm and collected, but he’s not being played.
He’s the master, and I just have to figure out which moves are going to allow a pawn like me to win at this game.
“Crystal clear,” I finally answer, meeting his gaze with a strength I’ll need to draw on for as long as it takes. “Let’s get started.”