33. Julian
33
JULIAN
M axwell’s breathing is uneven, skin flushed, chest still slick with blood and sweat. The initials carved over his heart are raw and angry—mine and his, etched like a vow.
He looks… content. Or as close to it as Max can get.
I grab a clean towel from the drawer in the corner of his office and kneel beside him, pressing it gently to the wound. He hisses through his teeth but doesn’t stop me.
With one hand still holding the cloth in place, I reach for the first-aid kit stashed beneath the desk, popping it open to find gauze and medical tape.
“ You’re gonna scar this time,” I murmur.
He smirks. “ Good .”
I shake my head, a breath of a laugh slipping free despite myself.
I was watching him earlier, sitting in the back surveillance room, flipping through the camera feeds out of habit more than anything. And there he was, slouched in his chair, Vico in one hand, a knife in the other, staring at that old portrait like he wanted to set the whole place on fire.
He doesn’t say when he needs help. He doesn’t know how.
But I know. I always do.
“ Get another shirt,” I tell him. “ We’re leaving soon.”
Max blinks. “ Where ?”
I stand, wiping my hands and tossing the bloodied towel in the bin. “ To see her.”
His expression hardens instantly. He doesn’t ask who I mean.
“ Why now?”
“ Because it’s time.”
He hesitates, just for a beat, then sighs and nods, pushing himself up off the desk.
We leave the office together, and on the way, we stop by the house.
Theodore is already waiting by the front door, Isabel next to him. She has her arms crossed, hair pulled back, that same fire in her eyes that’s always there when she’s trying to look like she doesn’t care.
Theodore gives me a knowing glance as we approach. “ You ready?” he asks.
I nod once.
Isabel raises a brow, looking between the three of us. “ Where exactly are we going?”
“ To visit the dead.”
* * *
An hour and a half later, we arrive in Hollow Pine , a quiet, almost-forgotten cottage town just outside the reach of Ebonridge’s decay. It’s the kind of place people come to when they’re trying to pretend the world isn’t falling apart. Neatly lined trees. Gravel roads. Birds that don’t seem afraid of people.
It’s peaceful, deceptively so.
We pull up to the house—a sprawling vacation-style home nestled at the edge of the woods. It’s not as big as the Whitmore estate, but it still has that same untouched, too-clean kind of grandeur, like no one lives here, but someone wants you to think they do.
I roll the car to a stop and cut off the engine.
Isabel opens the door, one foot hitting the gravel before she pauses. I can see the stiffness in her body, the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes scan the windows like she’s expecting the house to stare back.
Theodore gets out first, and Maxwell follows. He slams his door shut and stalks ahead, but Isabel stays put.
I lean in from the driver’s seat, my hand reaching for hers before she can pull away.
“ Hey ,” I whisper. “ It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
She glances at me, unsure, her lips parting just slightly.
“ Corazón ,” I murmur again, the word softer this time, “you’re not alone.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, eyes flicking to the house again.
Then , she nods, just once, and finally steps out of the car.
We step up to the house, the wooden steps creaking beneath our feet. Isabel lingers between me and Theodore , her brows furrowed, her steps cautious.
“ Whose place is this?” she whispers, eyes flicking toward the windows again.
No one answers.
She tries again, voice sharper now. “ Julian . Seriously .”
Still , I say nothing, because there’s no easy way to explain what’s waiting on the other side of that door.
The wind picks up around us, rustling the trees, and just as Maxwell lifts his hand to knock, the door swings open.
Isabel stiffens beside me, and her breath hitches.
Standing in the doorway is a woman dressed in a pressed cream blouse, a dark skirt that falls just below her knees, and heels too elegant for gravel. Her hair is styled, makeup pristine, like she’s moments away from stepping out for afternoon tea with someone important.
Isabel inhales sharply and blanches. She recognizes her.
Theodore is the one who speaks. “ Hello , Mother .”
For a moment, our adoptive parent doesn’t move. Then , she shifts to the side, her posture perfect, her chin tilted with just enough grace to remind us she’s still in control.
“ Come in,” she says.
The living room smells like lemon polish and faint lavender, the kind of scent that clings to furniture and skin. Everything is tidy. The couches haven’t been disturbed, and the tea set on the tray hasn’t been touched. It feels like it has been staged.
She leads us to the guest room—a polished little parlor with high-backed chairs and thin lace curtains that let in just enough light to wash the walls in gray.
We sit.
Isabel is beside me, her spine rigid. She leans in close. “ What are we doing here?”
I keep my eyes ahead and answer quietly, “ You’ll see.”
Our mother—because she’ll always insist on the title, no matter what we’ve become—crosses one leg over the other and folds her hands in her lap.
“ To what do I owe the pleasure of this unannounced visit?” she asks, her tone almost amused.
Theodore rests his arm along the back of the couch. “ We wanted to check in, see how you’re doing.”
She lifts one perfectly sculpted brow. “ How I’m doing?”
Maxwell lets out a dry laugh under his breath.
Our mother doesn’t even look at him.
“ It’s been over six months,” she says coolly. “ And now, suddenly, you all decide to drop by. With a guest, no less.”
Her gaze slides to Isabel and lingers. Not long enough to be rude, but long enough to be noticed.
“ Why now?”
The question hangs in the air, and none of us answer. Not yet.
We didn’t come here for pleasantries.
We came for the truth.