THE ROOM BEHIND THE PORTRAIT
Ava Bellamy arrived at F Manor in a rainstorm, carrying one suitcase, a restoration contract, and the last debt her aunt had left her.
The house rose from the cliffs like a black tooth.
Roman Vale opened the door before she knocked.He was beautiful in the dangerous way of a locked room: severe suit, unreadable eyes, one hand braced against the door as if he could bar her out or pull her in.
“You’re late,” he said.“The contract says you need a restorer.”
“It says I need someone who can survive the house.”
Ava stepped over the threshold. The door locked behind her.A brass key lay on the marble floor, bright against the dust.
Ava bent to pick it up. Roman caught her wrist—not hard, but not gently either.“That room is sealed.”
“Then why is the key waiting for me?”
His thumb moved once across her pulse. The old portrait above the staircase turned its painted head toward them.
Roman released her.Behind the portrait, a latch clicked.
Ava looked up. The painted woman was crying.
In a voice that sounded like her own, the portrait whispered, “Ava, don’t let him touch you.”
