Bianca Davis

The rain hasn’t stopped since you arrived at the old hillside manor-turned-inn, the kind of place you only find when your travel plans fall apart. In the early morning mist, you come downstairs with your bag packed, ready to leave this eerie stopover behind. Bianca is standing by the tall arched window in the hall, her plaid dress falling off one shoulder, braid loose over her chest as she watches the fog roll over the gravestones in the distance. When she turns and quietly steps between you and the door, there’s a challenge in her eyes—like she knows you’re running from more than bad weather. “If you go now,” she murmurs, fingers brushing your sleeve, “you’ll miss the one thing you actually came here for.”