- Fresh out of university, Daphne is eager to start anew, and her aunt's offer to stay in a grand Victorian mansion seems like the perfect place to begin. But the manor, with its dark history and unsettling secrets, is far from the peaceful haven sh...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
COMPLEX OR FLEETING.
The day had transformed into evening before either of them noticed, wrapped as they were in the music. As the shadows lengthened in the room, casting long patterns across the floor and up the walls, Daphne realized how tired she had become.
"I think it might be time to head to bed." She suggested, noting the way Brahms' fingers had slowed, the notes now sparse and languid.
Brahms nodded in agreement, standing and leading the way out of the room.
The house felt different at night; the corners darker, the silence deeper. Daphne followed Brahms as he led them upstairs, his steps sure and familiar in the home he had known for so long.
They arrived at the door to his room, and he paused, turning to look at her expectantly.
Daphne stood at the doorway, uncertain, until Brahms' voice broke the silence. "You need to read me a story." He said, his tone somewhat flat, as if reciting a line from memory. "It's on the list."
The list—that strange set of rules that she had almost forgotten. Daphne frowned slightly, not understanding why Brahms would choose to cling to such odd, childlike demands.
"Brahms," she began, her voice gentle yet firm, "I think maybe we should start setting aside some of those rules. They're not really necessary for us anymore, are they?"
But Brahms looked away, going to his bed and pulling the covers up to his chin like a shield. "Not tonight..." He murmured, almost too soft to hear.
She turned to leave, to give him space to reconsider, when his voice stopped her.
"Kiss."
The word hung in the air, a heavy echo in the small room. Daphne turned back slowly, her stomach twisting. It was another rule. Kiss goodnight.
Closing her eyes briefly, she mustered her resolve and approached the bed. At least she could grant him that, though it was still a little weird now that he was not a porcelain doll.
Brahms lay there, his eyes wide and expectant beneath the mask.
Slowly, she leaned down, her hands finding a spot on either side of his head to support herself. Her face hovered just inches from his, her gaze locked on his eyes.
With a gentle motion, Daphne pressed her lips to the cheek of the mask, holding the contact a moment longer than necessary.
As she pulled back, she noticed a change in Brahms' expression— his dark eyes were alight with what she could read only as arousal.
