Only Mine (Falcon Haven #1)

1. Wrenley

ONE

WRENLEY

T he rain’s trying to tell me something.

It’s been following me for three hundred miles, from New York City to this narrow coastal road where the GPS signal keeps dropping. Not a coincidence , I think, as droplets hammer against my windshield like tiny accusations.

Turn back, Wrenley. You don’t belong here, either.

I haven’t slept for more than four hours at a stretch in months. My eyes burn. My shoulders ache. The comments section of my life has been empty since I pulled the plug on everything two weeks ago, and I still check for notifications that will never come.

The wipers can barely keep up with the storm. I squeeze the steering wheel tighter as my headlights catch the reflective edges of a wrought-iron gate. This must be it. The address Celeste texted matches the elegant numbers mounted on stone pillars, barely visible through sheets of water.

I pull up to the intercom and press the call button.

Nothing happens .

I try again, holding it longer. Still nothing.

“Of course,” I mutter, checking my phone. No service. Just great.

A small dirt road winds along the perimeter of the property.

I carefully follow it, wipers fighting against the downpour, until I spot a service entrance with a smaller gate that’s unlocked and hanging slightly ajar.

I squeeze my car through the narrow opening until the property unfolds before me, glimpsed through flashes of lightning and my flickering headlights.

Cypress trees flank a winding driveway that leads to a sprawling stone house with dramatic windows.

a palace in winter, a lake house in summer, a harvest manor in the fall, and my personal favorite, a garden paradise during spring.

It adopts any fantasy a passerby could think up, simply by admiring it.

Odds are, the owner of such a palatial dream doesn’t have to fantasize about any of it, because they’re living proof.

But I’m not here for the shapeshifting mansion. Celeste’s directions mentioned a guesthouse somewhere to the east. I follow a smaller, offshoot path until my headlights illuminate a structure about a hundred yards from the main residence.

As I cut the engine and sit listening to rain drumming on the roof, my phone suddenly buzzes.

Excited to get service, I read the text immediately. It’s from Celeste.

Arrived safely?

I type back: No one answered the intercom. Found a side entrance.

Three dots appear, then:

The key is under the blue pot by the guesthouse door. Make yourself at home!

I grab my duffel, resolving to grab my bigger suitcase from the trunk when there’s less downpour, and dash through the rain to the guesthouse’s porch.

The blue pot holds a plant that’s definitely seen better days, and the entire thing tips over when I try to lift it, spilling wet soil across my already-soaked shoes.

Perfect. I dig through the mud until my fingers close around a metal key, then wipe it on my jeans, leaving a dark streak across my thigh.

The lock sticks, because why wouldn’t it? I jiggle the key, shoulder the door, and nearly fall face-first into the house when it finally gives.

Then I’m stopped cold by the sheer luxury of the interior.

Vaulted ceilings with rough-hewn beams. An open kitchen and a stone fireplace that could roast an entire deer.

Windows that frame the storm like it’s performance art.

It’s the kind of space I would have once killed to feature on my platform, a rustic opulence without trying too hard, lived-in without being messy.

“This could work,” I whisper, running a hand through my damp hair and turning slowly in one place.

For a moment, I just gape, dripping and disoriented. No notifications blowing up my phone. No emails demanding immediate response. No content to create, no comments to moderate, no endless performance of a life I no longer recognize.

Just me and the rain and a gorgeous new home.

I exhale for what feels like the first time in months.

My inner peace shatters when the back door slams open with enough force that I actually yelp, stumbling backward and knocking over a side table.

A man fills the frame, backlit by a flash of lightning that illuminates broad shoulders and a stance that suggests he’s accustomed to being obeyed.

That burst of electricity reveals him in full: rain-slicked, dark hair, day-old stubble along a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes so startlingly blue, they seem to glow with their own internal fire.

Rainwater tracks down his throat, disappearing beneath a Henley that clings to his chest in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

His sleeves are pushed up, revealing forearms mapped with intricate tattoos that disappear beneath the fabric.

This is not a gardener or a caretaker. I know that immediately.

The overhead lights snap on, and I’m blinking into his incredible face. Another tattoo climbs the side of his neck, something botanical and delicate that contradicts everything else about him. His stubble is uneven, like he forgot to shave this morning, there’s smudge of flour on his cheek, and?—

Oh good, my fight or flight response chose “flirt.”

Scrambling backward, I slam into the kitchen counter. My hand closes around a heavy cast-iron pan sitting on the stove.

I thrust the cookware forward with both hands. “Stay back. I’ll throw it.”

He stops prowling toward me, brows lifting. “You’re threatening me with my own skillet?” His mouth twitches like he might actually smile, but the moment passes. “Careful. That pan’s seen three generations. It’s worth more than your car.”

“ You be careful. You’re the one who burst in here like some kind of”—I release one hand to gesture wildly, and the cast-iron drops like an anchor, nearly pulling my shoulder out of its socket—“tattooed storm god!”

“I asked who the hell you are.”

Through the tunnel of adrenaline, I finally hear the melody in his voice, low, accented, and unmistakably furious. It yanks me back to reality.

“Wrenley Morgan,” I manage to say, lifting my chin despite the water dripping from my hair and my heart bursting from my chest. “Celeste invited me. She said your guesthouse was available.”

“Celeste,” he repeats, the name sounding like a curse on his lips.

His eyes travel slowly down my body, taking in my soaked clothes, the way my white T-shirt clings to every curve. It’s not a leer. It’s an assessment, and somehow, that’s worse. Heat crawls up my neck.

“She didn’t tell you,” I surmise.

“This is private property, Miss Morgan.”

“Which I was invited to stay at.”

“By my ex sister-in-law,” he says, cheek muscles pulsing. “Who doesn’t live here. She had no right.”

“Okay, well, she failed to mention that part.” I place the skillet on the counter. Carefully.. “Look, there’s obviously been a misunderstanding. Celeste told me the homeowner was aware of this arrangement. That I could stay here for six weeks while?—”

“Six weeks?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Absolutely the fuck not.”

Blinking rapidly, I blubber, “I signed a contract.”

This is a lie. I signed nothing. But this man makes me want to plant my feet. I bet no one stands up to him. Ever. He has that air about him.

“With whom? Because it wasn’t with me.”

“Sir—”

“Saint,” he cuts in.

“What?”

“Everyone calls me Saint.” His mouth twists like even he finds this ironic.

“Fine. Saint.” The name feels strangely intimate on my tongue. “I don’t want to cause problems. I just need...” My voice cracks embarrassingly. “I need somewhere quiet. To regroup. Celeste said you wouldn’t mind.”

I hug my arms across my chest, suddenly aware of how transparent I’ve become.

A muscle under his eye twitches. “I need you gone.”

“Tonight? In this storm?” The thought of getting back in my car and finding a hotel in a town I don’t know makes my stomach knot. “Please, I can leave first thing tomorrow.”

“This isn’t a negotiation.” He takes another step toward me, as if he will personally escort me off the property, and I catch a whiff of something spicy and warm beneath the rain smell. I hold on to that instead of crumpling into a ball and keening with terror.

Don’t. You’ve worked through this, Wrenley. You need to stay calm.

“Celeste has no right,” he repeats, each word sharp as a knife. “No right to send strangers to my home. Near my daughter.”

The last word makes his eyes flick toward the main house, and I follow his gaze. That’s when I notice the small silhouette standing in the open doorway, a tiny figure in a yellow raincoat that’s too big for her and quickly becoming soaked.

“Ivy?” he calls, his voice changing completely. “Ivy, go back inside!”

But the little girl doesn’t listen. Instead, she hurls herself toward us, her bare feet splashing through puddles, a plastic flashlight clutched in one hand.

“She’s going to slip,” I murmur, stepping next to Saint instinctively.

He blocks my path with one arm as she reaches us. “Don’t. You don’t touch her.”

Ivy pads inside, her feet leaving puddles. “You left the stove on. The pot bubbled over. ”

Saint mutters something in French that sounds distinctly unprintable.

The little girl, Ivy, studies me with unnerving focus. “You look like you fell in the ocean.”

I laugh despite everything. “Close. Just driving through a biblical flood.”

Saint says through clenched teeth, “This woman was just leaving.”

“But it’s raining.” Ivy says this as if it settles everything. She approaches me without a trace of hesitation. “I’m Ivy. I’m five.”

“Wrenley,” I reply automatically. “I’m ... confused.”

She smiles and pats my arm as if she understands.

Saint watches this exchange with visible disbelief. “Ivy, she can’t stay here. She?—”

“But Aunt Celeste said this lady needed somewhere quiet,” Ivy says. “And you always tell me to help people when they need it.”

I’ve never seen such a scary man look so thoroughly outmaneuvered by a five-year-old.

Ivy asks me, “We’re having coq au vin, and Papa only makes it when he’s really mad or really happy, and today, he’s just regular mad about the rain, so it’ll be extra good.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m soaking wet, terrified, exhausted, and standing before a man who clearly wants me gone. And his daughter is inviting me to dinner.

Saint makes a noise in his throat that sounds like frustrated surrender. “We need to call Celeste.”

“Aunt Celeste just called. You missed it. We need to eat dinner now,” Ivy counters with absolute certainty. “It’s already seven thirty, and the sauce will separate if we wait.”

She turns on her heel and marches toward the door, then pauses to look back at both of us .

“Seven minutes,” she announces.

Ivy disappears into the rain, leaving Saint and me in a silence that feels combustible.

He stares at me, and I stare back, neither of us moving.

“Your daughter is persuasive,” I say, desperate to break the tension.

“She doesn’t talk to strangers. She hasn’t shown interest in anyone new in years.”

Oh. Well. I’m not sure how to handle that.

“I didn’t come here to disrupt your life,” I say. “I just needed somewhere to hide for a while.”

His eyes sweep over me, taking in my damp clothes, my wearied face. “From what?”

The question stuns me with its directness. Nobody’s asked me that. Not to my face. They all just assume breakdown, burnout, scandal.

“From myself,” I answer honestly. “From expectations. From a life I built that doesn’t fit anymore.”

His expression shifts from drenched outrage to mild annoyance after my confession.

“You have one night,” he finally says. “Because it’s raining, and because my daughter has apparently decided you’re staying for dinner. Tomorrow, we sort this out.”

My shoulders sag in relief. “Thank you.”

“Seven o’clock,” he says, turning to leave. “And Miss Morgan? My home is private. My daughter is private. Whatever your reasons for hiding, don’t make us part of your escape plan.”

The door closes behind him with a decisive click.

As soon as I’m sure he’s gone, I sag against the counter.

Some disappearing act this turned out to be. Less than an hour in Falcon Haven and I’ve already managed to threaten the owner with his own kitchenware and get myself invited to the world’s most awkward dinner.

I check my watch: 6:05.

That gives me fifty-five minutes to transform from drowned rat to dinner guest.

Fifty-five minutes to prepare for a meal with a man who looks at me like I’m a problem he needs to eliminate.

Welcome to your fresh start, Wren. It’s already a disaster.