Chapter 2

Rory's

The door closes behind her with a click so soft it shouldn't feel this loud.

And just like that, my mother leaves. No explanations. Just a farewell smile as if she's dropped me off for summer camp and not delivered me into a house of strangers.

I stand rooted to the floor, suddenly hyperaware that I'm alone... with them.

The two of them. Twins. Identical in bone, in eyes, in everything except the way they carry the space around them.

Jaxon, the one with the smirk and the scar is leaning slightly against the doorframe, arms folded. Damien stands straighter, more composed, like he's made of stone. His eyes, colder than the rest of him, barely flick to me before drifting away.

I swallow. Is dangerous handsomeness a peculiar thing amongst werewolves?

Because now that I'm seeing them both clearly, the resemblance is impossible to ignore. The broad shoulders, the razor-cut features, the kind of eyes that don't blink unless they need to. The man at the funeral, their father, I guess had the same kind of presence. Heavy. Inescapable.

It's nothing like the stories I've heard. Nothing like the monsters with snouts and claws and wild, red eyes.

Werewolves aren't monsters. They're men who wear danger like cologne.

I'm so caught in my spiral that I don't even realize I've been staring until Jaxon grins again.

"Take a picture," he says smoothly, "it'll last longer."

I blink and snap out of it. "What?"

He pushes off the wall with fluid confidence and steps forward. "Welcome to the house, little artist." His voice is teasing but it carries an edge like he's playing, but not really.

"I'm Jaxon, in case you didn't figure that out mid-sketch. And that quiet storm over there—" he gestures lazily toward Damien, who doesn't acknowledge us, "—is my brother. Damien."

"I didn't ask," I mutter, hugging my sketchpad to my chest.

"Well," he says, "you don't have to. I'm offering. Consider me your friendly neighborhood tour guide. You can beckon me if you need anything. And I do mean... anything."

He adds a wink that makes my skin crawl and shiver all at once. It's infuriating. He has no right to look at me like that. Like he knows something I don't.

"I don't want to be here," I say, letting the words spill out before I can think better of it. "And I definitely don't need your help."

He raises both eyebrows. "Suit yourself."

And just like that, he turns and walks away, not a care in the world. But not before flashing one last wink over his shoulder.

Damien stays a beat longer. His eyes flick to me, just once. Then he's gone too.

And I'm left standing there, breathing shallow, wondering what the hell I've been thrown into.

Hours later, when it was time for dinner,. I skip it on purpose. I lose track of time watching the woods from my window, sketching nothing and everything shapes, lines, impressions of a house that doesn't feel real.

This place... it hums. Not like a house with walls and pipes and electrical wiring.

It's well after dark when I leave the room. I need water, or air, or some sense of freedom. I tell myself I'll find the kitchen later.

What I find instead is silence deep and stretched across the passage like a sleeping beast.

The chandelier casts shadows against the walls. The scent of polished leather and burnt wood floats in the air. I follow the sound of distant voices.

At first, I think I'm imagining them. But then I hear a sound , steel. A clang. A sound wet and sharp.

I freeze at the bottom of a stairwell and follow the noise instead of turning away. I don't know why. I shouldn't but I do.

There's a hallway I didn't notice before. Narrow. Lit by a single light. I follow it, every step against the black floor echoing like a threat. The voices get louder.

"... I warned you," someone growls. "You cross him again, and it won't be your fingers."

"Please...please—" the begging voice is trembling, male, broken.

I turn the corner and see it. A large room, part of the east wing maybe, with stone floors and dark paneling. There are three men inside. Two are holding someone against a long oak table. The third... he's the one with the blade.

And he brings it down. Hard. The scream rips through me.

I stumble backward and crash into something behind me, a vase, a cabinet, I don't know. It crashes to the ground.

Silence. Then footsteps. Fast. They heard me. "Shit," I whisper, and I run.

The hallway closes in. I don't know where I'm going, I just move, dodging through corridors, skidding around corners, my heart pounding like it's trying to break free of my ribs.

Then I see him, Damien. He's standing at the top of a split staircase, his arms crossed, like he's been expecting me.

"Hey!" I shout breathlessly. "Someone's...down there...they—cut his hand—"

"They saw you?" He cut me off.

"Yes—I—"

He exhales sharply and steps forward, not rushing but purposeful. "Follow me. Now."

I don't think. I just do. We move fast, but not loud. He doesn't ask questions. Doesn't yell. Just leads me down a different corridor, through a hidden passage I didn't even know existed. Finally, he opens a door and gestures me inside.

It's a storage room. Clean. Cold. Full of boxes and dust. He shuts the door behind us. I lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

"What the hell is this place?" I ask.

He doesn't answer right away. His expression stays unreadable. That stillness again, he carries it like armor.

"You were told not to go wandering," he says.

"No one told me that."

He gives a short, humorless sound. "You should've assumed."

I frown. "You're not even going to ask if I'm okay?"

"You're fine. Just scared." His eyes land on mine. "You weren't the one bleeding on the table."

His lack of empathy shocks me, but in a weird way, it grounds me too. "Who was he?"

"A traitor."

"What did he do?"

Damien looks away, like I'm boring him. "You ask too many questions."

"I just saw someone lose his fingers!"

"And yet here you are, still alive. You should count yourself lucky."

Something cold coils in my stomach. I want to scream at him. Shake him. Ask how he can be so detached. But I can't stop shaking. I press a hand to my chest and feel my heartbeat trying to escape.

I whisper, "I didn't sign up for this."

"No one asked you to."

His voice is quiet but sharp enough to cut. Then, just under his breath, I hear him mutter:

"Humans and being nosey."

It hits me harder than it should.

I don't know what stings more, being lumped in like I don't matter, or the reminder that to him, I'm not really one of them. I'm not part of this world. I'm just the daughter of a dead man. Dropped in like a coin in the wrong slot.

My jaw tightens. "You could try being human once in a while. It won't kill you."

His eyes flash for a second, something dangerous and unreadable glinting through them.

Then, he turns and opens the door again. "Stay out of the east wing. That's not a suggestion, it's a warning."

He walks away without another glance. And I stay behind, wrapped in arms around myself like they're the only shield I have left.