Entwined

Opulence

Today is a special day. The day. I'm always so hyped up about it, even Hugo, may he rest in peace, used to get jealous—though he could never really do anything about it. I text my wolfie, and we agree to meet at our usual spot. It's date night—well, every day is, but today is extra special. It's our friendship anniversary. He insists it should be on my birthday, but I convinced him to change the date.

I slip into my little black dress, embroidered with small, fake diamonds. It's off-the-shoulder and hugs my breasts beautifully. It's quite short, but I love showing off my legs—they're one of my best assets. I pair the look with discreet diamond earrings that Silas once gifted me and black high heels with a sparkly bow. I couldn't find a necklace that worked, so I decided to go without. My long hair cooperated for once, falling in flawless waves, and I managed to pull off a siren look with my makeup.

Silas is waiting for me, leaning against his car. Flawless as always. His freshly shaved jaw, an elegant dark suit, and silver accessories make him look effortlessly captivating. The darkness of the night accentuates his features—some people chase the golden hour, but the moonlight suits him best.

"If God hadn't matched me with you, I'd have worshiped Satan," I flirt.

He straightens to his full height and strides over to me, one hand around my waist, the other gently grasping my chin. "Why worship Satan when you have me?" he flirts back.

My laugh is silenced by his lips on mine, taking me on a claiming journey. My second love language, after touch, is kissing, and I take full advantage every time.

One of the things most people see as a flaw is my favorite of all—I love Silas's ego. He can be narcissistic and egocentric, but it adds to his charm. He's unapologetically himself.

Well, I love Silas. I want to devour him.

We get in the car, Arctic Monkeys playing softly. The road is quiet, and Silas's right hand is wandering over me, making me giggle and bite at it.

I'm surprised when we leave town, rolling onto the highway. My eyebrows knit together as I stare out the window.

"Where are we going?" I ask, confused.

"You'll see. Patience, wolfie." Silas squeezes my thigh, smiling.

"Do I know this place?" I ask again.

His smile widens. "No. Not many people know it exists."

"Isn't that bad for business?" I ask innocently, biting his hand as he pinches my nipple.

"Nah. Quite the contrary," he replies, pulling his hand free from my teeth.

We playfully nip and pinch at each other until we arrive at a hidden mansion, concealed within the woods and shrouded by the night. It looks like a haunted house, the kind of place they'd film *The Conjuring 7* in.

The nature around it is dead, trees stripped of their leaves, no flowers in sight. The windows are tall and narrow, reaching upward in pointed arches. Their stony frames are divided by tracery that forms vine-like shapes, and the stained glass depicts religious scenes in muted colors.

The intricate wrought-iron gate opens with a loud creak, sending a chill through my spirit. The car creeps toward the mansion's main door, where a tall, lean man with a pale complexion awaits us. His face is angular, almost statuesque, with jet-black hair slicked back perfectly. He wears a fitted black frock coat with subtle silver embroidery and velvet lapels. Beneath his stiff, high collar is a white cravat tied with meticulous precision. A pocket watch chain gleams from his waistcoat. His hands, gloved in soft black leather, move with controlled grace, and his posture is impeccable. His deep-set, penetrating eyes seem to look right through you, observing everything with detached precision. He's the valet.

I stand at the entrance, mouth slightly agape, taking in the breathtaking contrast between the dead exterior and the building's preserved beauty inside.

It looks like a fresh corpse—cold and lifeless on the outside, yet hints of its former beauty remain, while the interior is still richly detailed and alive.

A firm arm wraps around my waist, and warm lips press against the crook of my neck.

"Come on. Let's get inside," Silas says.

"What in the Annabelle..." I gasp.

"Not quite Annabelle, but better," Silas responds.

The interior is a dramatic contrast of black lacquered wood and rich crimson velvet. Thick drapes hang from the ceiling, embroidered with gold that twinkles subtly in the dim light. Chandeliers, like clusters of dark crystals, dangle above, their flickering candles casting dancing shadows on the walls. The air smells of old wood, incense, and a faint metallic hint—perhaps blood. I take my time, admiring each painting and statue, tracing the intricate details with my fingers. I breathe in the macabre and divine essence of them all.

"I knew you'd love it," Silas whispers in my ear.

I turn to face him. "Love it? Love it? I fucking adore it!" I exclaim.

He smiles and tugs me toward a spiral staircase. The sound of my heels clapping against the stone echoes through the empty building.

I glance around, searching for anyone or anything other than us and the valet.

Nothing.

At the top of the stairs, another tall, slim man greets us, holding a shining silver tray with a unique-looking key. Silas takes it, and we proceed down a narrow, dimly lit corridor lined with numbered doors. Ours is number 7.

I expected a room, but what I see is something entirely different.

It's a private theater booth.

A long burgundy sofa stretches out before me, with a low table holding a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and two matte black metal wine glasses adorned with twisted patterns. We sit on the sofa, Silas's hand resting on my lap.

"What is this place?" I ask.

"Think of it as a Moulin Rouge with a Gothic twist," Silas replies.

He pours us each a glass of wine, and I take a sip, my eyes fixed on the heavy curtains at the stage. Moments later, they part, and performers take the stage. They move with ghostly grace, their costumes a blend of Victorian and cabaret—corsets, lace, and top hats adorned with dark feathers. The music is a melancholic waltz, heavy with echoes of a distant, tragic past. One dancer catches my eye, her almost-naked body adorned with Victorian accessories. Her eyes lock onto Silas and never leave him. As she plays hide and seek with her ivory skin and black feathers, I can't help but think she would look better in red.

"Ease up. You're so tense," Silas teases.

"I wouldn't be if murder was legal," I reply.

His hand, which had been resting on my lap, moves along my thigh, trying to soothe the growing anger inside me.

"She's quite the professional. Black suits her," Silas mocks.

"Red would suit her more," I retort.

He chuckles. "Jealousy suits you," he smirks.

"Don't test me. I'll gouge your eyes out if you keep looking at her," I declare.

He laughs, his head falling back. I'm dead serious. I won't tolerate him cheating on me, even with just a look.

"Don't worry, wolfie. Only you hold my interest," Silas says, leaning in for a kiss.

I bite him until I taste copper, and he retaliates by pinching my clit. The pain and pleasure explode simultaneously, turning me on.

"In the mood for a quickie?" I ask, half-demanding.

Silas is about to respond when the music stops and someone steps onto the stage. The room's atmosphere shifts, cold and eerie, capturing our attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am Edward. Well....Let's just put it as simple as it can....I am your link to the other side. Today, I'll choose one person. One and only one lucky or not so lucky to come on stage and experience a reunion with a dearly beloved."