TRIPLE CLAIM: The Stepbrother's Secret Luna

The black sedan didn't even wait for me to clear the door. It screeched away, leaving me standing in the gravel of Thorne Manor with nothing but a beat-up suitcase and a cold chill crawling up my spine. My mother’s funeral was yesterday. Today, I was at the gates of this prison because some high-priced lawyer told me it was my only option.

The house was massive, a dark monolith against the grey sky. I took a breath, trying to steady my hands, and pushed the heavy iron gate.

"You're late. And you're wasting air."

I jumped. A man was standing in the doorway, framed by the massive arch of the entrance. Caspian Thorne. He was dressed in a suit that cost more than my life, his face as cold as a graveyard monument.

"I didn't have a choice on the timing," I muttered, lugging my bag forward.

"I don't care about excuses," he snapped. "You’re an obligation, Lyra. Not a guest. Do not think for a second that this roof entitles you to anything other than a floor to sleep on."

He didn't even wait for me to reach the steps. He just turned his back, expecting me to trail behind like a stray dog. I walked inside, the polished marble floor gleaming beneath my worn-out boots. It felt wrong, like I was staining the place just by breathing.

"It’s polite to announce yourself," he said, not looking back. "Or did your mother fail to teach you basic manners along with whatever pathetic inheritance you think you're owed?"

"My mother is dead," I shot back, my voice shaking. "And I was told to come straight here. That’s it."

Caspian stopped, spinning around so fast the air seemed to snap. He walked right into my personal space. "The clause was activated. That’s all. You’re a temporary fix for a problem I haven't decided how to bury yet. You will be unseen. You will be unheard. And you will never, ever call yourself a Thorne."

He grabbed my arm—his grip was like steel—and yanked me toward a dark, narrow hallway off the main foyer.

"I can walk myself," I growled, pulling back.

"Servants' quarters," he pointed to the shadows of the corridor. "Go. Now."

"Well, look what the cat dragged in. The street rat finally showed up."

The voice dripped with poison. Seraphina Thorne stood at the top of the staircase, draped in a silver dress that shimmered like moonlight. Kael stood behind her, leaning against the railing with a bored smirk.

Seraphina descended, her wine glass held like a weapon. "Caspian, why is she still in the foyer? She’s ruining the aesthetic."

"She’s heading to the basement now," Caspian said, not even glancing at me.

Seraphina stopped an inch from my face. She smelled like expensive perfume and pure malice. "Did you think wearing black would make us pity you? It just highlights how cheap you look."

"I’m not looking for your pity," I said, meeting her eyes.

Her smile vanished. In one fluid motion, she tilted her hand. The red wine splashed over my face and soaked the front of my black dress. It burned, sticky and cold, dripping onto the pristine floor.

"Oops," she laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. "Try not to stain the rug, rat. It’s worth more than your entire bloodline."

I wiped the wine from my eyes, my blood boiling. I looked at Caspian, waiting for him to say something. He just watched me like he was studying a bug under a microscope.

Kael stepped down, his eyes lingering on the wine stain. "That’s enough, Seraphina."

She huffed, annoyed. Kael walked up to me. I braced myself for another insult, but he just reached out and brushed a drop of wine off my collar with his thumb.

"We can treat her like dirt," Kael said to the room, his voice dropping to a low, possessive rumble. "But she’s our dirt. Nobody else touches her."

It wasn't a defense. It was a claim. He leaned in, his nose brushing my hair. He sniffed, his eyes narrowing. "You smell like burnt silver. That’s disgusting."

"Go," Caspian barked, pointing again. "Before I change my mind about letting you stay."

I didn't argue. I turned and sprinted toward the service hall, my heart hammering against my ribs. I found a tiny, cramped room with a cot that looked like it had been discarded from a dumpster. I needed to wash this wine off.

The shared washroom was at the end of the hall. I pushed the door open, steam billowing out.

I stopped dead.

Rune Thorne was standing there, a towel loosely draped over his hips, water beads running down the thick muscles of his chest. He looked like he had been chiseled out of granite. He didn't cover himself, and he didn't look away. He just stared at me, his eyes dark and heavy.

"You're in the wrong place," he said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle my teeth.

"I—I'm sorry," I stammered, backing toward the door.

He didn't move. He took a step forward, blocking my exit. His eyes dropped to my stained dress. "Why are you covered in wine?"

"It’s nothing," I said, trying to squeeze past him.

He grabbed my wrist, his skin burning hot against mine. "Who did it?"

"It doesn't matter, Rune. Let me go."

"Everything in this house matters to me," he growled. "Was it Seraphina?"

I stayed silent, my pulse jumping in my throat.

"It was," he said, his expression darkening. "And Caspian let it happen?"

"I don't need you to fight my battles," I snapped, pulling my arm away.

He blocked the doorway again, his shoulder leaning against the frame, effectively trapping me. "You’re not fighting battles here, Lyra. You’re trying to survive. Why are you here? The truth. Don't lie to me."

"The lawyer sent me. I have nowhere else to go."

"That’s not an answer," he said, closing the distance between us. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating off him. "What are you? Why does the house feel different now that you’re inside it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Liar," he whispered.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of the wine stain on my shoulder. His touch made my skin crawl and tingle at the same time. "You smell it, don't you? That metallic, bitter scent. Like something is frying beneath your skin."

I looked up at him, truly confused. "I don't know what you mean."

"Burnt silver," he said, his eyes drilling into mine. "People only smell like that when they’re hiding something dangerous. Something that doesn't belong in a normal world."

"I'm just me," I whispered.

"No," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate level. "You’re a fuse, and someone in this family lit you the moment you walked through that gate."

I opened my mouth to argue, but the lights overhead flickered. Once. Twice. Then, the room plunged into total darkness.

Rune didn't hesitate. He grabbed my waist and pulled me back against his chest, one hand over my mouth.

"Don't breathe," he hissed into my ear.

Outside the bathroom door, there was a heavy, wet thud. It sounded like something large hitting the wall. Then, the sound of nails—or claws—scraping slowly down the wood of the door.

My heart was beating so hard I thought it would burst.

"Rune?" I whimpered against his palm.

"Quiet," he breathed, his muscles tense as iron.

The handle began to turn. It wasn't the smooth, mechanical click of a door handle; it was slow, rhythmic, and intentional. The wood began to splinter under the pressure.

I looked up, my eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering from the hallway. Through the crack in the door, I saw a pair of eyes reflecting back at us. They weren't human. They were glowing, yellow, and hungry.

Rune’s grip on me tightened until it hurt. "That's not a Thorne," he whispered, his voice trembling for the first time. "And it’s definitely not a servant."

The door groaned, the wood snapping as whatever was on the other side shoved its way in. I realized then that I hadn't been brought here for safety. I had been brought here as bait.

And the trap was finally closing.