I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
That’s the first thought, crystalline and stupid, as if disbelief could erase what’s happening in the next room. Cian’s knees press against the red velvet cushion—lush, expensive, positioned at exactly the right height for comfortable viewing—and his eye stays fixed to the peephole even though every instinct screams to pull away. This was supposed to be simple. Madame Bronwyn’s instructions had been clear: clean the Panopticon after hours, restock the cushions, check that all viewing portals are properly sealed when not in use.
”I can't believe what I'm seeing.
She hadn’t mentioned how the velvet would feel under his knees, so soft it seemed to welcome him down into kneeling position. Hadn’t mentioned how the brass rim of the peephole would be warm, as if recently pressed against someone else’s face. Definitely hadn’t mentioned that some rooms might still be occupied at this hour, or that the enchantments keeping the viewed unaware of their observer would make him invisible even if he made a sound. And she certainly, absolutely, hadn’t mentioned that the scene playing out beyond the wall would feature someone he recognized. Someone who shouldn’t be in Netherlust at all. Someone whose presence here, doing that, with them, would shatter more than just his own innocence about what this place really was…
