De La Rosa Manor is quiet and dark when Marco drops us off at the front entrance. My wife peers up at the mansion with what I can only guess are equal parts apprehension and curiosity. The exterior is constructed from stone in a gothic revival architectural style. Carved buttresses, Palladian windows, ornate gables, and rambling vines of ivy lavish the historic structure she will come to know as her own personal prison.

An almost ever-present fog seems to lurk around the property, lending to the mystery of the area. Small groups of terrified tourists often peer through the gates outside while their guides whisper hushed rumors of the hauntings that occur here. But the only ghosts Ivy will need to concern herself with are those of my father and brother, calling out from beyond the grave for her Moreno blood.

She swallows and clutches the torn shreds of her dress to her body as her toes dig into the earth. It’s these tiny signs of protest I study with interest. Though the air is sticky tonight, there’s a noticeable chill moving through her as goose bumps break out along her skin.

Some traditions have no merit in The Society, but it is a selfish need that leads me to scoop her up into my arms and carry her across the lawn. She is still without shoes, and I want her soft for me. The scars I leave will be with careful deliberation, and it would be careless of me to let her injure her feet already. There is still much to be done tonight, and I won’t waste my time tending to wounds so easily prevented.

She glances up at me with wide, confused eyes as I carry her up the stairs and across the threshold. Uncertainty clouds her features as the heavy door slams shut behind us, sealing her in with the monster she didn’t want me to be.

“I’m capable of walking,” she says, but her voice lacks the conviction to fight.

She is tired after the day’s events, a fact made obvious by the heaviness of her eyes. It’s already past three in the morning. But I have no doubt she will revive when a cascade of adrenaline and cortisol flood her body. Fear has a way of waking up even those near death.

I continue up the grand stairs to the second level, carrying her down the corridor with an efficiency she doesn’t seem to appreciate. From my arms, she’s craning her neck, trying to take in the details of her surroundings. An opportunity I steal from her without regret.