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Coups de cœur Cultura
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The House had many rooms. Some dripped with velvet. Some moaned with glass. Some bloomed with roses.
And some burned.
The chamber of fire was forbidden even to those who thought they knew the House. Its walls were carved of black stone, its chains glowing faintly as if they had been heated in eternal flame. Those who were dragged inside were never seen the same again — their voices lingered, etched into the iron like smoke.
Lyra had sworn she would not wander that far. Yet her steps carried her through the arch of flame, her silk gown clinging to her breasts, nipples peaked, her lips parted in restless hunger she could not name.
She should have turned back.
But Cassiel was already waiting in the firelight, tall, merciless, his eyes burning dark. The chains rattled alive at his presence. His voice was a growl, dangerous and low:
"You won't leave here until the fire forges your moan."
And when the first link closed around her wrists, she knew the House had already claimed her yes.
