☆ADONIS☆
My eyes flickered open as I hastily scanned my surroundings. A faint scent of lavender and roses filled my nostrils, and the bed beneath me felt strangely soft—too soft. I slowly tried to recollect my memories, but my head was pounding heavily. My gaze swept from the ceiling, adorned with a golden chandelier, to the vanity table, then to the velvet red door, and finally rested on a pair of eyes staring directly at me.
"What in the world?!" I yelled as I instinctively yanked off the half-naked woman straddling me.
Sitting up, my senses sharpened, and I suddenly realized I was entirely naked. I quickly covered my body with the duvet and glanced at the three women before me, each clad in red lace lingerie that barely concealed their sensitive areas. They were beautiful—so stunning that I began to question my own sanity.
If I could recall, I had just walked in on Kyle and Carrie, and before I had time to respond, Kyle had shoved me. Had I died? Was this merely a dream? My eyes flicked to the women again. Were they some demonesses in hell? Had I somehow ended up in hell? Why would I even deserve such a fate? I hadn't murdered anyone!
The women whispered among themselves, their words barely audible until one stepped forward. Slowly and seductively, she let her long black hair down, tousling it to enhance her allure. My gaze caught a lip tattoo on her thigh, and bitterness washed over me as I noticed the same markings on the others.
Nightingales: frail yet dangerous workers of seduction. They will delicately devour their prey with bloody passion.
An excerpt from Delilah's Inn flashed through my head. I refused to accept whatever my mind was conjuring or the unsettling truth lying before me. If Nightingales were indeed here, then I must be in the most unexpected place in the world—one I doubted even existed. I quickly concluded that I was just dreaming and needed to wake up. Perhaps I was in a hospital or something; after all, this book was the last thing I had read, so maybe I was hallucinating.
As I wrestled with my thoughts, a warm arm wrapped itself around me, and instinctively, I kicked the woman in the face. I sprang to my feet, clutching the duvet around my lower body. My pulse raced as the woman screamed, clutching her nose with blood trickling from one nostril. The other two rushed to her side, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of guilt.
"I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to," I stammered, stepping away from the bed as she began to sob. What had I gotten myself into? More importantly, where was I?
"Are you out of your mind?" one of them challenged, her voice sharpened with indignation.
"Out of my mind?" I echoed incredulously.
"Yes! What, did Mummy not teach you to respect women, you piece of scum?" She fired back, igniting a fresh surge of rage within me.
"You've got to be kidding me. You stripped me naked, kept touching me, and now you want to lecture me about respect?" I snapped. Whatever this was—a dream or a nightmare—it was high time to wake up.
She gasped, a storm of emotions flashing across her face as she fumbled for words for a moment. Finally, she found the confidence to retort, "Oh please, as if you didn't enjoy it."
"It was remarkably disgusting," I responded sharply, and she huffed in disbelief.
"You—"
"Enough." A voice, calm yet radiating authority, sliced through the air just as the door swung open.
I felt my knees buckle, an unexplainable heat coursing through my veins. In that moment, it was as if the room contained only her—the woman who commanded attention without raising her voice—Veronica Gordon.
Suddenly, I concluded that I must be dreaming.
"Veronica Gordon?" I asked, glancing up as she stepped fully inside, raising a questioning brow. She didn't answer but instead stared at me, her gaze tracing down my form still wrapped in the duvet. She looked away immediately, and at that moment, I experienced a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. Here I was, entirely exposed in front of a literary icon.
The Nightingales quickly adjusted their positions, their heads bowed in submission.
For a brief moment, I forgot the high stakes around us, my eyes scrutinizing her from head to toe. Her waist-length, straight jet-black hair fell elegantly around her delicate face. Her features were accentuated with dark makeup and a deep shade of red lipstick, while her radiant green eyes exuded pure elegance. She wore a long, fitted black dress that hugged her curvaceous frame, complemented by her iconic Louboutins, each adorned with a gold charm of her initials, "VG," on the heels.
She was breathtaking—an exquisite embodiment of beauty that suggested God had been showing off when he created her.
As I brought my gaze back to her face, I noticed her forehead was slightly creased, and she stared at me intently. My heart skipped a beat as our eyes met. I could tell she was trying to read me; I wondered if she were displeased by the thoughts swirling in my mind. She rendered me speechless; my thoughts were all I had to cling to.
Veronica turned to the Nightingales. "Pathetic. All of you," she said sharply.
The Nightingale whose nose I had inadvertently broken started to respond, "We're sorry. It's not our fault; he didn't want—"
Before she could finish, Veronica shot her a withering glare, and the girl's tongue shot out of her mouth, freezing in mid-air as tears brimmed in her eyes.
A chill ran down my spine.
"I do not need your excuses," Veronica snapped, her calm tone betraying an undercurrent of frustration.
I gulped. What had I gotten myself into?
"You failed. It's plain and simple. And can you stop looking at me like that, Adonis?"
I blinked. She knew my name. A rush of inexplicable excitement coursed through me at the thought, alongside a sense of foreboding. The Veronica I had always read about would likely have torn my eyes out before I had a chance to adjust to her presence. I must admit, I felt honored.
"Of course... I'm sorry," I began.
Slowly, she walked toward me with an elegant precision that left me in awe. This woman was perfection personified. If this was still a dream, my mind was crafting an image far beyond what I had imagined while reading Delilah's Inn.
My insides warmed as she stopped in front of me, folding her arms and gazing deeply into my eyes. She didn't seem happy, yet she didn't appear sad, either.
"You can go. Get Zephyr on your way," she instructed, her eyes still locked on me as the Nightingales made their exit. I felt a pang of sympathy for the girl nursing a broken nose and a frozen expression. It was painful to acknowledge that Veronica wasn't known for her mercy; the nightingale could stay that way forever.
I began to piece together the reality surrounding me: the Nightingales were former guests turned into seduction workers. Mistresses of deceitful men were murdered, now forced to ensnare other men in their deadly web.
This was how they operated. If this was indeed their method of trapping men, they might need some improvement. But why was I here? I had been the one cheated on.
Returning my gaze to Veronica, I noticed her fists were clenched, and her expression had shifted to one of stern determination.
"Look, I'm sorry if—"
"Stop talking," she interrupted, rubbing her forehead with a sigh. She appeared stressed, her eyes closing momentarily as if she were nursing a headache.
Foolishly, I reached out for her hand. "Are you alright?" I asked softly.
Her body stiffened at my touch, her expression shifting to one of surprise as I felt her fingers tremble beneath my grasp. Her eyes widened, and I thought this might be the part of the dream that twisted into a nightmare until a man clad in a suit entered the room.
My lips trembled as recognition struck me—he was the man from the bus. A chill coursed through my veins.