The hallway to Room 403 was narrow, like the tongue of a whisper, padded in red velvet wallpaper that had once been luxurious but now bore the scratches of time. Naomi Claire rolled her suitcase along the creaky wooden floor, its wheels catching on every groove like they didn't want her to arrive.
She didn't blame them.
She didn't want to arrive either.
Naomi stood in front of the door and exhaled, fingers resting on the tarnished brass handle. The air carried the scent of aged cologne, antique wood, and something floral—something not hers. It clung to the hall like a secret.
Click.
The door gave way with an old groan, revealing a room steeped in shadow, filtered only by the deep garnet light streaming through sheer curtains. It was small—barely wide enough for a bed, a desk, and her easel. But the walls were blank, hungry, and Naomi could already imagine her art screaming across them.
She didn't unpack. Instead, she lit a clove cigarette, took the first drag, and lay on the bed without removing her boots. The ceiling fan spun in lazy circles, mirroring the slow drag of thoughts in her skull.
Then came the sound again.
From the wall.
Soft… rhythmic… feminine.
At first, it was subtle. A muted gasp. The creak of a headboard. Then a low hum—like a song made of heat and need.
Naomi closed her eyes, body still, heart not.
She wasn't a voyeur. Not in the traditional sense. But this was different. This wasn't peeking behind curtains.
This was the curtain inviting her in.
She placed a hand on the wall. The moan on the other side deepened. Then—silence. A breathless pause.
And then…
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Knuckles. From the other side.
Naomi's breath caught in her throat.
"Come in," said a voice.
Except it didn't come through the door.
It came through the wall.
---
The next night, she found an envelope slipped under her door. Crimson wax. No name. No stamp. Just a key.
Room 405.
Naomi didn't hesitate—not because she was reckless, but because curiosity had always been her most dangerous addiction. She wore her favorite black camisole, the one with the plunging lace that revealed too much collarbone and just enough regret. Her fingertips trembled around the brass key as she turned it.
Room 405 smelled like firewood and orchids. Candlelight bled across the walls, and the shadows moved like they had something to say.
Vera Nyx stood by the window, back turned, wearing a blood-red robe that clung to her hips like sin. Her short raven hair shimmered in the low light, and the nape of her neck—the most vulnerable part of her—was bare, inviting, forbidden.
"You came," she said, voice like dark velvet.
"I heard you," Naomi replied.
Vera turned, slowly, revealing eyes that drank in light and returned desire. Her lips were the color of pomegranate and shaped like a poem that had been whispered against skin too many times.
"No," Vera said, walking forward with slow, confident steps. "You didn't just hear me."
She stopped just close enough that Naomi could feel the heat radiating off her body.
"You felt me."
Then she kissed her.
No permission, no prelude—just lips against lips like silk being torn. Naomi responded instantly, the cigarette she smoked earlier still lingering on her tongue, now blending with Vera's taste of wine and honey. Vera's hands slid into Naomi's hair, pulling just hard enough to draw a moan from her throat.
The robe slipped from Vera's shoulder. Naomi kissed the exposed skin, teeth grazing, breath teasing.
"Are you afraid?" Vera asked, eyes half-lidded.
Naomi bit her lip.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Good."
---
The bed in Room 405 was four-poster, draped in wine-colored sheets and scented with something ancient. Naomi was naked beneath Vera's touch, each fingertip a confession, each kiss a memory being rewritten.
Vera bound her wrists in silk—not tightly, just enough to remind her she was giving in. Naomi arched, gasped, trembled. She wasn't used to being touched like this—like her skin had stories that someone was finally willing to read aloud.
She felt herself unravel.
Not just in body, but in purpose. In ego.
When Vera's mouth explored lower, slower, deeper—Naomi forgot the name of the city she'd fled, the reasons she'd stopped painting, the face of the ex who said she'd never be enough.
Because in Room 405, Naomi wasn't an artist, or a woman, or a survivor.
She was only hers.
And Vera made her feel like being possessed was holy.
---
By dawn, Naomi lay on her side in a tangle of sheets and sin, watching the candle burn out beside Vera's sleeping form.
On the nightstand sat a small, black envelope.
Inside was a silver card.
Embossed on it:
The Velvet Order
Where secrets bloom and silence binds.
Beneath it, handwritten in red ink:
"You're not just a guest anymore, Naomi.
You're the newest exhibit."