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I walked back toward the kitchen. Maybe it was a good thing I couldn’t get into the study. I noticed a light from beneath a closed door I hadn’t yet opened. Knocking once, I waited, but when no one answered, I opened it. It creaked, and my heart raced, unsure what I’d find, equal parts nervous to run into Raphael as I was to run into a ghost.
But neither greeted me. Instead, I stood looking down a stone staircase, the scent and chill telling me this was the cellar.
“Hello? Is anyone down there?”
No answer. I took two steps down, then another two until I could peek into the cool, dank space. It was large and well lit, with stone walls that looked like they were older than the house itself.
My ballet slippers made no sound. I counted as I descended fourteen stairs total. I looked around, wrapping my arms around myself at the sudden chill. Along the walls stood covered pieces of what I assumed was old furniture or equipment. Some of the covers had been pulled back recently. I could tell from the dust someone had been here not too long ago. At the center of the room stood a pillar. Drawn to it, I crossed the floor. It was old, like everything else here, the wood intricately carved, even if it was decaying a little. It was sturdy and probably beautiful once. It had been dug deep into the ground, and when I looked up, I knew exactly what it was used for. The chill I’d felt earlier now trailed an icy finger up along my spine and settled at the back of my neck.
Iron chains hung from above. Bracelets with locks stood open.
The image of Raphael’s back flashed before my eyes. I shook my head.
No. Not what you think. Not possible.
The sound of footsteps startled me, and I jumped, noticing for the first time an almost cave-like opening in the far wall, realizing that was where the scent of damp earth came from. Panicked, I wanted to run, every horror movie I’d ever watched playing before my eyes. But terror paralyzed my legs, and I stood glued to the spot, watching, my hands at my throat, my mouth open, holding my breath.
Would I scream? Would any sound come at all if I tried? Or would fear render me mute?
The sound came closer, and a moment later, Raphael appeared at the mouth of the tunnel. I cried out, and he stopped short, his wet shirt and hair clinging to him.
“Sofia?”
I covered my face, only then realizing how tense I’d been, how afraid. It made me laugh a strange, almost manic sound. “I thought…” I drew in a shaky breath and wiped my eyes. Why was I crying? Why now?
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.
“I thought you were one.”
He stepped into the light. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were red from cold, the scent of the tunnel clinging to him.
“No ghost.”
His gaze fell to the pillar, and when he moved deeper into the room, I had the feeling he took care to leave a wide berth between it and himself.
“What are you doing here?”
I shook my head. “I was just looking around the house and saw the light on.”
“You shouldn’t be down here.”
He stepped closer. I smelled alcohol on his breath.
“Where did you come from?”
He pointed behind him. “The tunnel leads to the chapel.”
“You went to the chapel? Now? It’s nighttime, and it’s raining.”
He walked to a table, his back to me when he replied.
“I haven’t seen my mother’s grave in six years.”
“Oh, God.” I went to him, raising my hand to his shoulder but stopping short of touching him. “I’m sorry.” I noticed the flask he’d tucked into his back jeans pocket.
Raphael pulled back one of the sheets but drew it closed again. When he turned to me, I saw how his eyes had darkened, how intensely his gaze bounced from corner to corner, landing inevitably back on that pillar.
“You don’t belong down here, Sofia.”
His voice dark and low, he took a step toward me. I took one back. His wet, cold hand wrapped around my arm and stopped my progress. He stalked closer, his damp body almost touching mine. He searched my face, my mouth, my neck, the swell of my breasts as I drew heavy, shuddering breaths. His gaze returned to mine, and we stayed like that, eyes locked, for an eternity. His shirt wet my dress. The hand that held my arm lowered to my wrist, and his other one wrapped around behind me to my waist, then higher, between my shoulder blades, icy on the back of my neck, cradling my head. Without a word, he leaned down and cool, wet lips covered mine.
I gasped, but he swallowed the sound, his hand at the back of my skull holding me in place as his lips moved over mine, slow and soft, tasting me. When his tongue probed, I opened, and he slid inside. I tilted my head, and he pressed against me. When he did, I felt him, his hardness, at my belly.
