Dusk Till Dawn

12

Disclaimer: This chapter contains explicit scenes and mature content that may not be suitable for all readers. Reader discretion is advised.

Freya

The hallways seem endless tonight. Every corner of the mansion whispers secrets I've never quite understood, stories I was never told but can feel lingering in the air. I let my feet carry me, not really paying attention to where I'm going. The mansion is alive in its own way, though there are moments where it feels suffocating, as if the walls are closing in on me.

Eventually, I find myself in a part of the house I don't visit often. It's quieter here, removed from the main quarters, and the air smells different—fresher. The door at the end of the hall catches my eye. It's slightly ajar, and a faint breeze slips through the crack, carrying with it a sweet, floral scent.

Curiosity pulls me closer, and before I know it, I'm stepping outside.

The garden.

I haven't been here in so long. Not since I was a child. I step down the stone path, surrounded by towering bushes, and then I see them—the roses. Red. Endless rows of them, glowing under the soft moonlight. They stretch out before me, their deep crimson petals delicate and flawless.

I move closer, kneeling beside one of the bushes to inspect them more closely. The roses are perfect—too perfect. I raise my hand to touch one, expecting to feel the sting of a thorn beneath my fingers, but... nothing.

"Signora?" A deep voice interrupts my thoughts, startling me. I stand quickly, turning to face an older man with weathered hands and a gentle smile. One of the gardeners. He's holding a pair of shears, his work-worn apron dusted with soil. "I didn't mean to scare you."

I smile back, relaxing a little. "No, it's fine. I was just... admiring the roses. They're beautiful."

He nods, his gaze following mine to the blooms. "They are. Been tending them for years now. You have a good eye, signora."

I blush a little at the compliment. "I don't know much about flowers, but these... they feel special."

"They are," he says, bending down to inspect one of the bushes, his movements careful and deliberate. "Signor Marcus had this garden built for Signora Helen, you know."

I blink, surprised. "For Zia Helen?"

The gardener smiles, straightening up. "Oh yes. Every rose here, he had planted for her. She loved red roses, but she always said the thorns ruined their beauty." He pauses, holding one of the flowers gently between his fingers. "So, we remove the thorns. Every single one."

I stare at him, stunned. "You take off all the thorns?"

"That's right. Signor didn't want her to be pricked by them. He said beauty should never come with pain—not for her, at least."

I feel my heart tug at the thought. The garden, filled with nothing but flawless red roses—no thorns, no danger, just pure beauty. It's a symbol of his love for her, something silent and powerful, like so many things in this family.

I reach out and touch the petals of one of the roses, this time with a little more care, knowing now what they represent. "It's beautiful," I whisper, almost to myself.

The gardener nods. "Signora Helen used to come here often when she visits. Sometimes she just sits and watches them for hours. It brings her peace."

I can understand why. There's something calming about this place. It's like time slows down, and the weight of the world doesn't feel so heavy out here.