Warm Blood

Chapter 10: Possessive Master

The clouds had thickened into a bruised, swollen purple by the time Angela returned to the manor. Dusk had come early, its somber veil draping the jagged stone facade in slow-moving, ink-black shadows. The air outside carried the sharp, metallic scent of impending rain and ancient, cold stone; the mist clung to her wool shawl like a ghost reluctant to let go, dampening her skin with a chill that seemed to seep beneath her marrow.

She stepped quietly through the heavy oak doors, the massive hinges groaning with a familiar, weary protest. Brushing droplets of moisture from her tangled hair, she found the entrance hall greeted her in a suffocating silence—too still, too watchful, as if the very walls were leaning into eavesdropping. The faint, rhythmic creak of the grand staircase and the soft, hollow echo of her heels on the marble were the only sounds, amplified by the oppressive height of the ceiling.

She stepped quietly through the heavy oak doors, brushing droplets from her hair. The entrance hall greeted her in silence—too still, too watchful. The faint creak of the staircase and the soft echo of her heels were the only sounds.

Somewhere deep in the bowels of the house, a grandfather clock ticked with a heavy, leaden thud. One... then again, marking the time like a heartbeat in a sleeping giant.

As she turned into the long, candle-shadowed corridor, a voice cut through the quiet, sharp as a blade on silk.

"Where have you been, Angela?"

Angela froze, her breath hitching in her throat. Her hand instinctively tightened around the damp fabric of her shawl.

Jeremy stood near the drawing-room doorway, his frame tall and rigid, half-lit by the flickering orange glow of a single, dying lamp. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing the tension in his forearms, and his posture was unnaturally straight—as if his composure hung by a single, frayed thread. The smell of cedar and old parchment clung to him, mixing with the damp air she had brought inside.

His eyes, once the vibrant color of a sunlit forest, looked darker now—almost black under the dim light, burning with a restless, subterranean heat. "The sun set an hour ago," he added, his voice dropping an octave.

Angela hesitated, forcing her voice to remain steady. "I told Lisa I was taking a short stroll. The library was stifling, and I just needed some air. Surely you can understand that."

"Outside? Alone? In the dark?" His tone was low and sharp, a quiet thunder brewing beneath each carefully measured word. "You think you can just wander wherever you please without a thought for the dangers this estate harbors? This isn't a city park, Angela. The woods here have teeth."

Her brows knitted in defiance. "I wasn't gone long, and I stayed to the path. And last I checked, fresh air isn't forbidden by the terms of my employment. I am your tutor, Jeremy, not a cloistered nun."

He took a slow, predatory step forward, the faint lamplight catching a hard, glittering spark in his gaze. "The path? Is that where you met him? You were seen talking to someone near the boundary line."

Her pulse faltered, a cold dread pooling in her stomach. "What do you mean? I... I encountered a gentleman."

"That man," he said, his voice turning ice-cold, vibrating with a suppressed fury. "Vincent Denbrough. Don't deny it. I know his scent—I mean, I know his reputation."

Angela's eyes widened as realization hit her. "He approached me, Jeremy. I didn't go looking for him! He seemed perfectly polite, if a bit eccentric. And besides, he said you were friends once. Close friends."

Jeremy's jaw tightened so hard a muscle pulsed in his cheek. "That was a long time ago. A lifetime ago. He is a leach, a man who thrives on the secrets of others. I don't want him near this property, and I certainly don't want him speaking to you."