Chapter 2: The Scent of Rot

The library doors hummed, sealed by the estate’s grid.

Damian didn't look at the doors.

He kept his gaze locked on the service corridor where the Imposter had vanished.

"Search the perimeter," he said.

His voice remained calm.

Too calm.

His security detail moved as one, silent shadows against the velvet drapes.

I remained in the void, tethered to the nerves of the woman running through the walls.

She was hyperventilating.

Her heart rhythm—my heart rhythm—clattered like a broken engine.

She scrambled through the dark hallway.

She ducked into the master library.

She locked the door behind her.

She slumped against the mahogany wood, chest heaving.

"It's just a test," she whispered to the empty room.

She reached for a vanity mirror on the wall.

She stared at her reflection.

She touched my cheek.

She didn't know I was watching from the back of her eyes.

She didn't know I was laughing.

The library door clicked.

The lock turned, not with a key, but with a master code.

Damian walked in.

He didn't run.

He didn't shout.

He simply existed in the space, his presence filling every corner.

"Isabella," he said.

She jumped.

She scrambled toward the desk, putting the heavy oak between them.

"Damian, please," she said.

"The blood test was a glitch," she added.

"Aris made a mistake."

Damian stopped.

He picked up a heavy, leather-bound volume from the shelf.

He turned it over in his hands.

"The year we met," he said.

He didn't look at her.

"What color was the dress you wore in Paris?"

She paled.

"Blue," she said.

Damian dropped the book.

It thudded against the rug.

"It was white," he said.

He took a step toward the desk.

"You wore white lace and you tripped on the cobblestones."

He stood over her now.

He leaned across the desk, his shadow swallowing her.

"I caught you," he whispered.

"Do you remember the feeling of my hands?"

She recoiled.

She pressed her back against the bookshelves.

"I was nervous," she said.

"It's been a long time."

Damian didn't move.

He stood so close that the heat from his skin radiated into her.

He reached out.

He gripped the lapels of her gown.

He pulled her toward him.

He inhaled deeply, right against her neck.

He froze.

He pulled back, his eyes narrowing into slits.

"Rot," he murmured.

He touched his own nose, his face twisted in disgust.

"You smell like her skin," he said.

"But underneath..."

He grabbed her chin, forced her to look at him.

"You smell like decay."

He shoved her back.

She fell into the chair behind her.

She sobbed.

It was a wet, ugly sound.

I felt the salt of the tears.

I felt the way her throat tightened.

She was losing it.

"I’m Isabella," she cried.

"I’m your wife!"

Damian circled the chair.

He ran a hand along the backrest.

"My wife is cold," he said.

"My wife is sharp."

He tapped a finger against the back of her neck.

"You are soft."

"You are clumsy."

"You are a sickness."

He stopped behind her.

He placed his hands on her shoulders.

His fingers pressed into the muscle.

He didn't move them.

"Tell me," he whispered.

He leaned down again, his lips touching the shell of her ear.

"What is the name of the girl we buried in the garden?"

She stiffened.

She went completely rigid.

She didn't know.

She didn't have the memory.

I did.

I knew the name of the girl.

I knew the sound the shovel made in the dirt.

I knew the exact depth of the hole.

I watched her struggle to find a name in the archives of my mind.

She couldn't.

"I... I don't remember," she sobbed.

Damian’s grip tightened.

He leaned his forehead against hers.

"I know," he said.

"You have no idea."

He stood up.

He pulled a small, silver recorder from his pocket.

He pressed a button.

A voice filled the room.

It was a recording from three years ago.

"Damian," the recording said.

"If I ever stop remembering, kill me."

The recording stopped.

Damian looked at the woman in my body.

He looked at her with a terrifying, hollow finality.

"You aren't her," he said.

He leaned down, his eyes boring into hers.

"Who are you?"

She shook her head.

"I’m—"

"Who are you?" he roared.

The desk vibrated.

She curled into a ball.

She held her head in her hands.

She screamed.

It was the scream of a prey animal caught in a trap.

Damian watched her.

He didn't offer comfort.

He didn't offer mercy.

He stood in the center of the library, the master of the house, the hunter of the soul.

He waited for the truth.

I watched from the dark.

I watched him break her.

And I felt the lock in the cage rattle.

I reached for the tongue.

I reached for the throat.

She opened her mouth to plead again.

I cut her off.

I forced the muscles of her jaw to clamp shut.

She couldn't speak.

She couldn't lie.

She could only tremble.

Damian tilted his head.

He saw the change.

He saw the stillness behind her eyes.

"Isabella?" he whispered.

He didn't wait for her to answer.

He reached out, his hand trembling, and touched the side of her face.

"Is that you?"

She shook her head, tears streaming down.

But the eyes were mine.

The eyes were cold.

The eyes were staring straight through him.

He pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned.

"God," he whispered.

He backed away, his gaze never leaving her.

"What did you do?"

He turned and bolted for the door.

He didn't leave the room.

He stood by the threshold.

He called Aris.

"Bring the gear," he said.

"Bring everything."

He looked back at the woman in the chair.

"We're going to pull her out."

He stared at the empty air in front of him.

He stared at me.

"I'm coming for you," he said.

He didn't look at the Imposter anymore.

He looked at the ghost in the machine.

And the hunt had just begun.