I place my palm on the railing, letting the smooth, finished surface glide under my hand as we descend to the bottom floor. Sadly, the worry consuming my being doesn’t rub off onto the varnish.
“My great-grandfather started the first plot of apple trees on Lindenvale Hill in 1910. His sons carried on the orchard, creating new plots to expand the business over time. The house started as a one-story home on the hill, but my grandfather made renovations. And then when widespread distribution started, and we became one of the country’s leading apple producers, my dad gutted everything and built everything you see now.”
“And the cottage out back?” I ask.
A chuckle slips through Cameron’s tone. “My parents built that for Colten since he’ll never leave. Eventually, Colt will officially inherit Lindenvale Orchard,” his voice deepens, “and everything that comes with it. The cabin, as we call it, was built for him so he could still live on the property but not have to live with my parents. Well, when they were here anyway.”
We reach the last set of stairs, which open into the grand foyer with the wood coat rack and storage bench against the wall. An extensive set of windows faces the patio with a gray furniture set and hanging pots of ferns and flowers. The few steps lead to a sidewalk with lush greenery, which leads to a circular driveway I can’t see from my window that faces the front lawn.
He steps down onto the main floor, taking a left as the foyer expands into a massive living room. My head falls back to scan the ceilings with plasterwork and gold accents. The windowsallow bright natural light to filter in, reflecting off the walls painted a muted forest green instead of gray.
At the back of the room, a vast fireplace large enough to crawl in has engravings on the mantel and a television. A decorative rug sits on the dark, polished hardwood floor, with brown furniture set around a large wooden coffee table front and center.
This house is striking and intimidating. But what’s even more daunting isn’t Colten, Brennan, or Jess lounging on the couches. Not even close. It’s the boy with his head down, playing with a Nintendo Switch on a chair in the corner, and the beautiful little girl sitting on Colten’s lap with her head on his chest and her eyes trained on me.
SIXTEEN | COLTEN
It’s been over a minute, and nobody has said a goddamn word—just heavy breaths, eyes darting back and forth, and the voice of a crow outside somewhere on the patio roof.
Taryn stands rigid at the foyer’s threshold, where it turns into the living room. She’s dressed in tight black yoga pants that mold to her curves and a tan Nirvana tank top, her eyes wide. I don’t think she’s blinked. If I focus hard enough, I can feel her rapid heartbeat vibrating the floor, the soles of my shoes soaking up the brisk drumming.
I enjoy it far too much.
She huffs out a frustrated breath. “What the fu—”
I shoot her a judgmental glare, her lips slamming together quickly. Her large chestnut eyes roll with her irritation.
“Taryn, this is Tristan and Elena,” Cameron introduces, gesturing to Tristan, immersed in his game in the corner on the chair, and Elena, who is on my lap, shyly gripping my T-shirt in her fists.
They don’t get introduced to many people. Sure, they attend school and have activities, but we primarily keep to ourselves upon the hill. This is the first time anyone else has been living in this house.
It may take an adjustment period. For all of us.
Taryn knits her arms together, her bare foot tapping on the floor lit with a ray of sunlight from the windows. She’s spewing with anger, unable to contain it as her eyes dart back and forth between them.
It might be a long adjustment period.
“Cameron, can I talk to you outside?” she grits through her teeth.
Fuck no.
“You can talk here,” I say flatly, pulling a growl from her throat. I almost smile.
“Okay. Fine. So, you kid—”
I cock my head, pinning her with a stare. “Watch it,” I seethe.
Elena stirs on my chest at my angered tone, strands of her soft, naturally curly hair tickling my neck. Her eyes haven’t left Taryn’s once. Tristan, on the other hand, couldn’t care less.
Taryn purses her full pink lips, lips I watched wrap around Cameron’s and Brennan’s cocks a few nights ago like a good little whore taking her punishment.
I swear I could smell her arousal wafting through the trees, the scent turning me around and rooting me in the shadows with Rossco while I watched them.
Watched her.
And I shouldn’t have.
I’m not a voyeur. I don’t find any amount of pleasure in observing. I would rather be the one touching. Fucking. Owning their body because I crave that control, and that’s what gets me off.
