A haunted house. A cursed poet.
A girl who refuses to play by the rules.

George

I know what they say about me. That I’m a monster. A curse. That I collect women like some men collect rare books—pressing them between the pages of my memory until the ink fades and all that’s left is the scent of regret.

But tonight, the Villa is restless. The storm’s crawling up the lake, thunder shaking the glass, and I can feel the old magic humming under my skin. It’s hungry. So am I.

She steps into my house like she’s at home. No fear, no trembling, just that bored, half-lidded look women get when they’re about to ruin you for sport. Mira. She’s not dressed for a masquerade—she’s dressed for war. Black dress, red mouth, eyes that say she’s seen worse than me and survived.

I want to taste her secrets. I want to drag every lie out of her with my teeth. I want to see if she’ll break, or if she’ll make me beg for mercy first.

I want to remember her. God help me, I want to remember.