Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Draco
The coin rolls across my knuckles in a steady rhythm as I make my way through the shadowed trees separating the cottage from the main house, muscle memory guiding my fingers while my eyes adjust to the shadows.
It’s past midnight, and the autumn air carries a sharp bite that promises winter isn’t far behind.
Three days I’ve been using this place, and it still feels like a miracle.
I discovered it by accident that first night—broke, pissed off, and looking for somewhere to crash after getting cleaned out by kids running my own con. The cottage appeared through the trees like something from a fairy tale, windows dark, door unlocked, practically begging to be borrowed.
Rich people, I thought at the time. Living in a different universe where crime doesn’t exist.
But now I know better. This isn’t just rich—this is old money, the kind that builds storybook cottages for their kids and leaves them perfectly maintained for decades. The kind that never locks doors because they’ve never had to worry about people like me.
The cottage comes into view through the trees, exactly as I left it this morning. Too perfect. Too curated. And for a guy like me—raised in the gutters of ancient Rome—fairytales never had a place for me. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop coming back.
Dark windows, climbing roses dormant for the season, stone walls that look like they could weather another century without developing a crack. I pause at the edge of the clearing, listening for any sounds that don’t belong—voices, footsteps, anything that might suggest my luck has run out.
Nothing but wind through the trees and the distant hum of the city.
I approach the cottage carefully, checking the windows for any signs that someone’s been here.
Everything looks undisturbed, exactly as I left it.
The fruit I moved back to its original position, the dishtowel folded the way I found it.
I’ve gotten good at covering my tracks over the past few days, treating this place like the sanctuary it’s become.
And then I notice it.
A keypad. The lock is new.
Brand-new. Shiny. Installed today.
I stop dead.
Someone changed the locks. Someone knew I’d been here. And yet—no cameras. No alarms. No motion sensors. Nothing watching me.
None of this adds up.
My pulse kicks into the old rhythm—assessment, strategy, survival. Two thousand years ago this would’ve meant an ambush, a rival, a trap.
Now it’s just a lock on a cottage I’m not supposed to care about. But my body doesn’t know the difference yet. It braces anyway.
Old soldier. New world. Same reflex.
I step closer, running a fingertip along the smooth metal.
Professionally installed. Clean edges. Perfect fit. Not the kind of job you do unless you’re worried about someone getting inside.
But if they were worried, why not add cameras? Why not call security? Why not post guards?
Because people this wealthy don’t like being watched. They want control, not surveillance. Privacy, not evidence.
I should leave. That would be the Roman move—live to fight another day.
But something stops me.
The trees are silent. The cottage is dark. No movement. No eyes on me.
And a lock like this? I can bypass it in seconds.
Brand-new tech has one weakness—installers almost never change the factory override.
I enter the default master sequence I learned months ago watching a locksmith repair a door in Brooklyn.
A soft click.
The lock disengages. Almost too easy.
I slip inside, letting the darkness swallow me.
The door opens with its usual quiet creak, and I slip inside, immediately hit by that familiar scent of old roses and lemon oil. It’s become more comforting than any place I’ve lived since leaving Missouri. Maybe more comforting than anywhere I’ve lived in my entire life.
I pull out the phone Laura insisted I take—one of those basic models that does calls and texts and not much else—and see three missed messages. All from her, probably checking to make sure I haven’t gotten myself killed or arrested. I hate how relieved I am that she can’t see where I’m standing.
The woman worries like a mother hen. Sweet, sure, but it makes me feel like a kid instead of a man who survived two millennia and the fucking underbelly of Rome.
The first message: How are you settling in? Need anything?
The second: Haven’t heard from you. Everything okay?
The third, from today: Draco, please just let me know you’re alive.
I should answer her. She deserves that much. But admitting that I’m currently squatting in some rich family’s cottage doesn’t exactly scream "responsible adult making good life choices." Besides, I am alive, and I’m figuring things out. Just not in any way she’d be likely to approve.
Instead, I text back: All good. Exploring the city. Will call soon.
It’s not exactly a lie.
I toss the phone onto the kitchen counter and start my usual routine. Check that nothing’s been moved. Examine the fruit bowl, the dishtowels, and the pillows on the sofa. Everything looks untouched, but something feels… off.
The quilt in the bedroom has been straightened.
Close to how I left it.
But not exactly.
My street instincts kick in, that hypervigilant awareness I honed dodging cutthroats and crooked guards through Rome’s back alleys.
Someone was in here today. I’m sure of it. A faint floral scent clings to the room — something soft, like rosewater or lavender — not the harsh perfumes modern women wear, but gentle and old-fashioned. Definitely feminine.
Shit.
I do a more thorough sweep. Nothing dangerous. Nothing rearranged enough to make a statement.
Just enough to say: I know you were here. I saw the signs. I fixed them. And I’m keeping this quiet… for now.
Security would have been less subtle.
This feels like… curiosity.
The owner?
The thought makes my pulse hammer. I’ve been operating under the assumption that this place sits empty while its owners vacation in the Hamptons or Europe or wherever rich people go when they’re bored with Manhattan. But what if they’re not gone? What if someone actually lives here?
I stay standing, coin rolling faster across my knuckles as I do another slow scan of the room. Fresh fruit. Fresh bread. Running water. Power.
This place isn’t abandoned—it’s maintained. Cared for. Loved.
She was here—recent. The air hasn’t settled yet.
Which means she’ll be back.
And now there’s a brand-new lock on the door—installed quietly, without security, without cameras. Whoever came here didn’t want a confrontation. They wanted to slip in and out again… just like me.
If she comes back and finds me here… that’s a problem.
Leaving is the smart call. Find somewhere else. Start over. Survival demands it.
But as I look around the cottage—at the hand-carved mantle, the stained-glass windows, the books lined up on shelves like old friends—I realize I’m hesitating like an idiot. For the first time since waking from the ice, I’ve found a place that feels like home. Not just shelter. Home.
This is dangerous. Maybe the stupidest thing I’ve done since they resurrected me from my long sleep. But I can feel it—whoever was here today might come back. Soon. Maybe even tonight.
And whoever she is, she’s close.
I can feel her.
Someone young. Creative. Female. Her presence is everywhere once I start noticing. The food is chosen, not stocked. Fresh fruit is replaced often. Fancy coffee, expensive bread. One person’s preferences, not a family’s.
Someone who cared enough to change the lock… but didn’t secure the place against someone like me.
Sheltered. Brave. Or completely unaware of the kind of man who’s been sleeping in her bed.
Tonight, I should walk away before this becomes something I can’t untangle.
Fortuna doesn’t favor fools, and staying would make me one.
I gather my things and head for the door. Leaving is the smart call. The only call.
And yet, this place has gotten under my skin in a way I didn’t expect. All my life, I’ve been a survivor, someone who takes what he needs and moves on. But wanting more—wanting this—is how men get sloppy. How they get caught.
So, I make myself move. One step toward the door. Then another. Before I talk myself into staying. Before I do something I can’t fight my way out of.
My hand closes around the doorknob.
One deep breath.
One last look.
Then–
A faint scrape.
The beeping sequence of numbers.
Turning.
Slow.
Careful.
Deliberate.
Someone’s here.
She’s here.
I freeze.
The door opens.
And everything in my world resets in one heartbeat—before I even see her face.