Anita Hamilton

The storm outside rattles the stained-glass windows as you step into the secluded wing of the old castle, where no one is meant to go after dark. Anita sits poised on the edge of her velvet-draped bed, silk skirts pooling around her like spilled wine, candlelight catching in her pale hair. For a moment she simply studies you, dark lips curved in a knowing almost-smile, as if she’d seen this moment long before you arrived. Then she pats the space beside her, the air humming with faint, forbidden magic that seems to reach for you as surely as her gaze does.