Archie doesn’t answer, obviously, but he does something even weirder. He hisses. Full-on, tiny predator hissing, his little fangs bared as he locks onto the manor with a look I’ve never seen from him.
Someone’s clearly not happy.
That alone is enough to spike my heart rate. Most days, he has the survival instincts of a golden retriever—bold, nosy, and allergic to common sense.
But now? He looks like he expects the manor itself to bite back.
“Same,” I mutter, shoving the car into park. The breeze carries jasmine, pine, and something smokier, sweet against the acid twist in my gut.
I exhale slowly, gripping the steering wheel a second longer like it might anchor me to reality.
It’s just a building. We won’t even be here that long.
“In and out,” I tell Archie. “Just like we talked about.”
He scampers up my arm, nudging my cheek with his cold nose in an oddly tender gesture for a creature who recently tried to crawl inside a vending machine to get away from me.
“Thanks for the moral support, little dude.” I blow out a harsh breath and step out of the car. “Let’s get this over with.”
The paved walkway radiates heat beneath my boots as I face the manor. The towering structure stretches up as if it’s trying to swallow the sky, the last slivers of sunlight bleeding away beyond the treetops.
The wind dies, the air stills, and somewhere within the shadows of the forest to my right, faint and unsettling, I swear I hear laughter.
Archie tucks himself closer to my neck, burrowing until he’s half-hidden in the strands of my golden-brown hair. His tiny claws grip tighter than usual.
I reach up to peel him off, intending to put him safely back inside the car, but before I can, the front door creaks open with the kind of theatrical timing only this place could pull off.
A young woman steps onto the porch, all easy charm and effortless beauty. Honey-dark hair braided over one shoulder, hazel eyes glinting in the glow behind her.
“Welcome, Rowan. I’m Liz. Liz Briggs.” Her voice is warm, practiced, unsettlingly chipper. “Please, come inside. Your grandmother is so excited to see you.”
I scoff under my breath. “Yeah, I bet she is. Years of scheming finally paid off.”
Liz’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s somethingsharp in her eyes, like she heard me and found it amusing.
I tighten my jaw, straighten my shoulders, and force my legs to move. The smooth path ahead leads to the wide, ornate doors of NightShade Manor, and every step I take feels heavier than the last.
Inside is just as grand, just as unsettling: vaulted ceilings, polished stone, antique furniture. And at the far end of the hall, sharp as her pink blazer, stands the woman Mom warned me about, and that I haven’t seen since I was a young child.
Iris Prescott.
Silver hair pinned in an elegant knot. Blue eyes, sharp enough to cut. She radiates command—her smile tight as she assesses me like property.
“Rowan. You’re even lovelier than I imagined.” Iris’s voice is smooth as silk, lined with that unmistakable tone of someone who always expects to be obeyed. Her sharp blue eyes rake over me like I’m something she’s sizing up for auction, lingering just a second too long on the ferret clinging to my shoulder. “You have no idea what it means to me that you’ve finally come home.”
Home?
I almost laugh, but what’s the point? She can play the doting matriarch all she wants. As long as she signs the paperwork I mailed her weeks ago, I’ll let her think this whole moment means something.
Then, I’m getting the hell out of here.
She moves toward me, arms already stretching open like this is some sweet family reunion. My first instinct isto take a step back. My second? Slap myself for not already being halfway back to Montana.
But I force myself to stay still, to smile, and to be civil. I need to find a way to fake whatever version of “normal” she’ll find the least offensive.
At least until I get what I came here for.
When she hugs me, it’s like being embraced by a particularly stylish statue. Cold, unyielding, and not nearly as pleasant as the vanilla-lavender perfume she seems to be bathed in.
