Chapter 2 #2
Lucien’s hand shifts at my waist, steadying me when the truck takes a gentle turn. “Let them talk,” he says, voice velvet-smooth and entirely too close to my ear. “It keeps them busy.”
My throat does something traitorous at the casual intimacy of his tone.
I focus determinedly on the window instead, because looking at him is dangerous territory.
Looking at any of them feels like playing with fire when I’m already overwhelmed and off-balance.
This whole day has been a series of increasingly reckless decisions, and I refuse to add ‘catch feelings in a tow truck’ to the growing list of poor life choices.
The truck turns again, away from the bustling town center and its watchful eyes. The streets narrow slightly but maintain their pristine charm, lined with houses that look like they’ve never known a single weed or unpaid utility bill.
Then, up ahead, the air shifts. It’s subtle, like the parting of an invisible veil, a change in pressure that I feel more than see. The road curves and reveals something that makes my heart stop entirely.
Thorne Manor.
I know it without questioning, the same way I knew the red river was important.
This massive Victorian mansion sits back from the street behind what was once probably a manicured yard but now resembles a beautiful disaster.
The house itself is grand even in its obvious neglect, with tall windows that catch the light like watchful eyes and a wraparound porch that speaks of lazy summer evenings and sweet tea.
The bones are still magnificent. The architecture is solid, proud, built to last centuries. Everything else tells a story of abandonment.
The paint has dulled to a tired gray-blue that might have once been vibrant.
Several shutters hang at defeated angles, like they’ve given up trying to stay properly aligned.
Ivy climbs the side of the house like it’s trying to reclaim the building for nature, spreading across the walls in thick, determined vines.
Wild grass shoots through cracks in the front walkway, stubborn and surprisingly beautiful. The porch steps are weathered gray, worn smooth by decades of use followed by years of neglect. The whole house looks like it’s been holding on for dear life, waiting for someone to come home.
My breath catches, sharp and sudden. No one speaks for a long moment. The silence says enough.
Maceo slows the truck, pulling up along the curb like he’s done this before, like this isn’t some momentous dramatic arrival that’s about to change everything.
My eyes stay locked on the house, taking in every detail.
“How long,” I manage, voice quieter than I intended, “has it been like this? Where’s the upkeep? Did nobody think to. . .fix it? This place is a cornerstone. . .important, right?” Two years shouldn’t cause this much damage. Not unless something more than time is responsible.
Maceo looks toward the house, then back to the road. His jaw shifts beneath his skin in a way that suggests he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Not our call,” he says finally.
Ezra’s voice comes from beside me, calm and precise. “Lenora didn’t want anyone touching it.”
My head snaps toward him so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. “My aunt.”
Ezra gives a small, careful nod.
“She’s the mayor,” I say, half remembering fragments of conversations, half piecing together implications. My mother never said much about her older sister. The silence used to confuse me as a child, the way Aunt Lenora was mentioned in passing but never discussed.
As an adult, I recognize it for what it was, a deliberate choice.
Lucien hums softly, a sound that could be agreement or something more complicated. “Lenora runs Ruby Springs the way she likes,” he says with diplomatic understatement.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s accurate,” Ezra replies without hesitation.
Maceo parks the truck with practiced ease. The engine idles, a low rumble beneath the heavy silence that follows.
My stomach twists into knots. My grandmother’s name has been on legal documents and birthday cards and occasional awkward phone calls my entire life, but she always felt more like an idea than a person. Her house has existed in my imagination for so long that I forgot it could be real, solid, mine.
The door handle is only a few feet away. All I have to do is get out of the truck and walk toward my inheritance.
My body refuses to move. My mind scrambles, suddenly hyperaware that I am soaking wet, emotionally exhausted, and standing at the edge of a life I never planned for and have no idea how to navigate.
Lucien’s hand shifts again at my waist, not pushing or pulling, not trying to influence my decision. Just keeping me in the present moment.
“You’re quiet,” he observes.
“I’m thinking,” I answer, then realize that sounds too serious, too vulnerable. “It’s what I do when I’m trying not to panic in public.”
Maceo’s grin softens around the edges, becoming something warmer and more genuine. “You’ll be alright.”
Ezra studies me. “We didn’t think you were coming.”
That lands like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of confusion through my already churning thoughts.
“What do you mean,” I ask slowly, “you didn’t think I was coming?”
Ezra looks away toward the house, like the answer is written somewhere in the peeling paint and crooked shutters. “The council was told no one would claim it.”
“The council,” I repeat, bewildered. “There’s a council?”
Lucien’s laugh is quiet and tinged with old amusement. “There’s always a council.”
Maceo’s hand taps the steering wheel once, a sharp sound in the quiet cab. “Lenora told people you weren’t interested.”
My mouth opens, closes, then opens again as the implications sink in. You’ve got to be kidding me.
“She told people I wasn’t interested,” I repeat slowly, tasting the anger as it builds in my chest. “She told people that I wouldn’t claim my grandmother’s house or the shop.”
Ezra looks back at me, “Yes.”
I swallow hard, processing this information alongside everything else that’s happened today.
My mother and father never talked about Ruby Springs like it was a place they wanted to go back to, even when my mom described it like something out of a dream.
My mother specifically never spoke about our family in detail, especially not her older sister.
When my grandmother passed away two years ago, it took months for the lawyers to track me down, which seemed strange but not impossible in our age of digital chaos.
Now I’m beginning to wonder if that delay was entirely accidental.
Now I’m standing at the gates of my inheritance, and the first thing I learn is that my aunt has been making decisions on my behalf while I was living my perfectly normal humdrum life in New York.
A sharp laugh escapes me, startled and half-hysterical.
“That is remarkably bold.”
Maceo’s smile turns wolfish, showing teeth. “Lenora is many things.”
“That’s a diplomatic way to put it,” Lucien murmurs, and there’s something in his tone that suggests a much longer story.
I look at Maceo, something occurring to me. “So, you all just patrol the roads in a tow truck? Looking for stranded strangers?”
Maceo lifts one broad shoulder like it’s no big deal. “We keep the roads clear. People wander too close sometimes.”
“People,” I echo, skeptical.
“Non-magicals,” Ezra supplies with clinical precision.
A thought nudges at the edge of my mind, puzzle pieces clicking together.
“Ruby Springs is warded so heavily that Google Maps continues to malfunction,” I say slowly, understanding dawning.
Maceo’s grin widens with obvious satisfaction. “Something like that.”
My eyes drop to my dead phone, still clutched uselessly in my hand.
“Of course,” I mutter. “Of course, the one time I actually need technology to function, I get taken out by magical gentrification.”
Lucien’s laugh brushes against my ear, warm and low and doing absolutely inappropriate things to my nervous system.
That laugh does something dangerous to my equilibrium.
I shift uncomfortably, trying to ignore the fact that I’m sitting on him, trying to ignore the fact that he feels like solid heat beneath my entire body.
My wet dress clings in all the wrong places.
His clothes should be soaked through by now, but he doesn’t seem to care, which is suspiciously attractive behavior.
“Alright.” I push myself into motion before I can overthink it further. “I need to get into my house before I start spiraling in public. It’s now or never,” I mutter, sliding off Lucien’s lap fast enough to regain at least a shred of dignity.
Lucien’s hand lifts away from my waist slowly, like he’s reluctantly letting me go. My boots hit the pavement with a squelch that completely ruins any hope of a graceful exit.
My cheeks warm, and I try desperately to ignore my body’s immediate protest at the loss of contact.
The moment my feet hit solid ground, reality slams into me with renewed force. I’m standing in front of Thorne Manor with no functioning car, no functioning phone, and no idea what I’m about to find inside that house.
Maceo pushes open his door and climbs out with fluid grace. Ezra follows, moving with quiet efficiency. Lucien steps out last, unfolding from the cab like a man who has never known discomfort or inconvenience a day in his life.
All three of them stand near me in a loose semicircle, and my body clocks it without permission: three large men, three steady presences, three completely different kinds of attention all focused on me.
I’m not used to this, not even remotely.
Maceo moves toward the back of the truck with purpose. “You got anything you need out of your car before I take it to my shop?”
Gratitude hits me so sharply it makes my throat sting. “Yes,” I say quickly, relief flooding through me. “My bags. My laptop. Honestly, everything I own at this exact moment is in that car.”
Maceo laughs, deep and understanding. “I figured.”