Chapter 3 The Untamed Son

Ivy

"Are you lost, or is this the part where you tell me you're looking for the library?"

The voice was rough, cutting through the heavy hum of the morning, and it made me jump so hard I nearly tripped over a stray wrench. I didn’t think anyone would be out here this early. I stood in the doorway of the garage, my fingers gripping the cold metal of the frame, and looked at the man who hadn't even bothered to look at me yet.

"I... I heard a noise," I said, my voice sounding thin and small. "I didn't mean to intrude, I was just walking."

"People don't just walk in this house," he said, finally straightening up and tossing a heavy tool onto the workbench with a loud clank. "They scheme. They hide. They wait. But they don't just walk."

He turned around, and the first thing I noticed wasn't his face, but the tattoos that crawled up his neck and down his shirtless arms, dark ink against skin that was slick with sweat and grease. He was young, maybe only a few years older than me, but he had the kind of eyes that made me feel like I was standing under a spotlight.

"So you’re the new wife," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I'm... yes. Zara," I said, the name feeling like a stone in my mouth. Heavy.

I hated saying it. Every time I claimed to be my sister, it felt like I was erasing the only parts of myself I had left.

"You don't look like a Zara," Lucian said, wiping his hands on a black rag, his eyes traveling over my face with a stillness that was terrifying. "My father usually goes for women who know how to stand up straight. You look like you're waiting for someone to hit you."

"That's a charming thing to say to a stranger," I whispered, trying to find some of the fire Zara used to have.

"We aren't strangers," he said, stepping closer, the smell of gasoline and cold air following him. "We're family now, aren't we? That’s what the paperwork says. My father’s very good at acquiring things. Houses, cars, companies... and now, a replacement for the empty seat at the table."

"It wasn't like that," I lied. It was exactly like that. 

"I'm Lucian," he said, not offering a hand, just standing there like a wall I couldn't climb. "In case he forgot to mention me."

I didn't wait for him to say anything else. I turned and ran back toward the main house, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had spent my whole life being invisible, and in five minutes, Lucian Hale had looked at me more closely than anyone ever had. He didn't see Ivy, but he saw that something was wrong.

The breakfast table was a long, cold stretch of mahogany. Alistair was already seated at the head of it, dressed in a sharp suit that looked too big for his frame.

"There she is," Alistair said, smiling as I walked in. "Did you sleep well, my dear?"

"Yes, thank you," I said, sitting down and keeping my eyes on the porcelain plate in front of me. I thought of my mother, back home in her darkened bedroom, wondering if she even knew I was gone.

"I saw Lucian in the garage," I said softly.

Alistair’s smile didn’t move, but his eyes dimmed. At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Lucian walked in. He had put on a shirt, but he hadn't washed the grease off his knuckles. He sat down opposite me without a word.

"Lucian, I see you've met Zara," Alistair said, his voice level. "My wife."

"We met," Lucian said, picking up a piece of toast and looking at it like it was garbage. "Earlier. She was wandering around the outbuildings. Looking for something, I assume."

"I was just walking," I said quickly, my voice jumping. "I heard a noise. I wasn't..."

"You wouldn't know the half of it," Lucian interrupted, looking directly at his father. The air in the room suddenly felt very thin. "One year, Father. It’s been exactly one year since Mother died. And you’ve already found a replacement."

"That is enough, Lucian," Alistair said. His voice was quiet, but there was a sharp edge to it.

"Is it?" Lucian asked, leaning forward. "Because it doesn't feel like enough. It feels like you're in a hurry. You’re acting like a man who’s afraid he’s going to run out of time to play house."

"Lucian, leave the table," Alistair said. I noticed his hand on the table. It was shaking. Just a little. 

"Gladly," Lucian said, standing up so fast his chair scraped against the floor.

He looked at me one last time. There was no hatred in his gaze, but there was a terrifying kind of curiosity. 

"Enjoy your breakfast," he said. "Try not to choke on the pretense."

He walked out, and a few seconds later, the roar of a motorcycle tore through the morning silence, fading away as he sped down the long driveway.

Alistair sighed and lifted his teacup. His hand was shaking worse now.

I sat there, frozen, thinking about the mess I was in. Alistair was dying, his son hated him, and I was trapped in the middle of their war wearing a name that didn't belong to me.

I wanted to be invisible. But Lucian had looked at me like I was the only solid thing in the room.

Alistair set his cup down. The rattling stopped. He looked at me with a calm, terrifying certainty.

"Don't mind him, Zara," he said quietly, his voice back to its smooth, controlled tone. "He’s young. He’s angry. But he’ll settle. Everyone in this house settles, eventually."

The way he said it sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the drafty room. It sounded like a promise. It sounded like a prison sentence. He wasn't just talking about his son; he was talking about me.