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may never forgive me for what they're doing to you, but I hope someday you will understand why it's necessary.  
    I know there's a chance I won't make it to see your thirtieth birthday. A man in my position always has to consider these things. So I made my orders to Mr. Charles and the others. I made it very clear that on that day, they were to take the very best of the girls who came to them, and give her to you.  
    I made them promise a thousand times over. But I know they will do it. They're hardly superstitious men, but their fear of me stretches beyond the grave.
    I know you'll never forgive me. I know that's impossible. But understand this is a token of my respect, of my eternal gratitude for your service.

    - H

    Heart thumping fast, I shoved the letter back into the fireplace, blowing softly on the flames to stoke them higher. Finally, the edge of the paper caught and began to burn. By the time he got back, it would be a pile of ash.
    Tate. So that was his name. I turned it over in my head, silently rolling it on my tongue. Tate. He was human after all. He had a name. I would have to be careful not to call him that, or he'd wonder how I found out.  
    A token.  
    That's all I was. A gift, a tribute, for this man who obviously had deep connections to Stoker, no matter what his opinion of them. I'd tumbled straight from the frying pan into the fire, and I had no idea how to get myself out.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Open Doors

    I sat by the fireplace for a long time. A harsh, metallic noise made me jump, until I realized it was just the sound of water rushing through old pipes. I hadn't heard that in a long time.
    Curious, I stood up and began to follow the noise. I took the stairs slowly, feeling the rich, polished wood beneath my feet. The banister was the same deep brown, as were most of the walls. The panels were intricately carved, and unmarred by a single speck of dust. Did Tate spend his days with a rag in hand, polishing his entire house?
    I almost wanted to laugh.
    Remarkably, the floors didn't creak beneath me as I reached the top of the stairs and began my journey down the dim hallway. Right away, I noticed one of the doors was open.
    It was just a crack, but it was enough to make me curious. Tate didn't strike me as someone who would be so careless. Of course, the rest of the house was like a fortress - maybe he thought it didn't matter.  
    Still. It was strange.
    I told myself I would quickly walk past the room, just enough to get a glimpse of what was inside. But when I reached the warm slice of light that cut through the gloom of the endless hall, my feet stilled.
    Keeping my body out of the light, as much as I could, I peered through the crack. There wasn't much to be seen from this angle, except the corner of an ancient four-poster bed, and -  
    A mirror.
    My heart was thumping very fast. I licked my lips, staring at the reflection of the other side of the room. Yet another door was ajar - this one, with steam pouring out of it.  
    Two open doors. It couldn't be carelessness, or a coincidence. There must be a reason.
    Suddenly, the sound of the water cut off. My breath caught in my throat, but I didn't dare move. No matter how solid the floor was, no matter how silently Tate could walk, I was sure I'd give myself away.
    I stayed frozen, my eyes fixed on the mirror.
    The bathroom door swung open, and Tate emerged, in a cloud of steam. The mirror quickly began to fog. I could make out the shape of his body, but nothing more. He was holding a towel, ruffling it through his hair with a rough impatience.  
    I wanted the steam to clear. I wanted to see all of him.
    The realization came on me suddenly, gripping tight, not letting go. You're sick, Autumn. He's some kind of sadist. Or a psychopath. Or...
    But my body ignored the protests of my mind, a slow burn of want creeping under my skin. For the first time in my life, I understood the desire to touch someone else's body. To be touched by them.
    The main door