Chapter 11
Noelle
The Ward house smelled like something out of a daydream—cornbread, pumpkin pie, spiced wine.
That was the first thing I noticed—how warm it was.
Not just the temperature, but the feel of it.
The kind of warm you only got in houses where people actually loved each other, where someone always had something in the oven, and someone else always had a baby on their hip.
There were books stacked under the windows, handmade throw blankets draped over the couch, and a mismatched gallery wall of old family photos that hadn’t been curated for aesthetic. Just life.
It reminded me of Catherine Donnelly’s house.
She’d been my best friend in third grade—the first kid who ever invited me over for dinner.
Her mom had hugged me without hesitation and served hot dogs and noodles on paper plates, and I’d thought it was magic.
That was before Catherine got braces and decided I was too poor for sleepovers.
The Ward house felt like that. Like magic.
Like something I hadn’t let myself want in a long time.
Me and Beau’s shoes were by the door. There were puzzles on the coffee table, a casserole bubbling in the oven, and baby toys tucked neatly in the corner even though Hazel wasn’t crawling yet.
Somewhere in the kitchen, I could hear Willow humming.
Someone laughed—Rhett, I thought. Then June said something smart and Silas chuckled.
It should’ve made me feel out of place.
But instead, it felt like I’d been here before.
Like I’d always been here.
Delilah brushed past me, muttering something about oven mitts, and Whit followed behind her with a wink. Everything was so easy. Everyone knew where to go, what to do, how to be.
I stood in the middle of it all, my arms still crossed, trying not to be obvious about how badly it was throwing me.
This wasn’t my life. It was never my life. But standing here, barefoot on hardwood, hearing the clink of silverware and the murmur of soft conversation, I wanted it so bad it made my throat hurt.
And that was when the unease started to rise.
Because I hadn’t done anything to earn this.
Because I hadn’t said yes to anything.
Because this felt too easy.
The Wards…they were the family everyone wanted.
Willow and Rhett, the oldest ones, the midwife and the handyman; June and Silas, more unconventional, but deeply and thoroughly in love.
Delilah was like an honorary sister (even if she was entirely oblivious that she had Whit on the hook), and the youngest sibling, Holden, was storybook perfect: the prodigal son returned from a long stint in the Peace Corps, wanting to spend time with his niece.
“Alright,” Delilah was saying, standing in the kitchen beside Rhett as June and Silas set the table.
Willow was occupied with Hazel, while Beau stayed at my side—watching everything with a bemused smile, a beer in one hand and the other on my lower back.
“Someone warn Holden that if he steals one more fucking roll before dinner, I will bite him.”
“I can hear you, Delilah,” Holden said, rolling his eyes.
“Someone tell Holden we won’t be on speaking terms until he stops acting like an entitled little shit,” Delilah shot back.
“Hey Holden,” Whit said. “You and Delilah won’t be on speaking terms until you stop acting like an entitled little shit.”
Holden glared at Whit before raising his hands in surrender—a half-eaten roll dangling from his fingers. “What can I say? I’ve been living off powdered soup and weird canned meat for the last year. I’m re-civilizing.”
“You’re re-feralizing the kitchen,” Rhett muttered. “Go stir the green beans.”
“But I’m the guest of honor,” he argued.
“You’re not,” Silas grunted.
“Especially when we have an actual guest in this house,” Willow chimed in. “If anyone gets the guest of honor position, it’s Noelle—isn’t that right, sweetpea?”
Hazel squealed in response, flapping her arms in Willow’s lap.
I forced a smile, nodded at Willow, and gave Hazel a little wave. “Sounds fair to me.”
“You hear that, Noelle?” Holden called over his shoulder. “Guest of honor. Give me your roll.”
“You’re not touching my roll,” I said, suddenly defensive—even though I didn’t even have a roll in my hand yet. “I don’t care how many years you were living off whatever apocalypse pantry bullshit you just described.”
Whit snorted. “She fits right in.”
Did I?
That was the problem.
Because it felt like I did.
Rhett called for everyone to find a seat, and the motion was instinctual, fluid—Delilah reached for the pot holders, Willow passed the baby to Rhett without missing a beat, and June looped her arm through Silas’s on their way to the table like they were the couple on top of a wedding cake.
Whit grabbed plates. Holden was still chewing.
Everyone moved around each other like they were dancing a routine they’d practiced a thousand times, and I—
—I followed.
Sat down next to Beau because I knew it would be weird not to.
Accepted a plate from Delilah without thinking.
Let Willow refill my wine glass.
And smiled back at Hazel when she reached for my necklace with sticky fingers and a gummy grin.
The domesticity wrapped around me like a weighted blanket. Safe…familiar, addictive.
Terrifying.
Because this was exactly how it happened, wasn’t it? Not with ropes and force and cages—but with casserole and clean towels and someone remembering how you take your coffee. With Beau’s hand on my knee under the table, steady and sure, like he already knew I was going to stay.
Shane would have said this is how you get inducted into a cult, and it was a cult I was more than happy to join.
“Silas and I were actually just talking about this,” June said, nodding toward me. “How the town has a way of pulling people in.”
“Like quicksand,” Whit added helpfully.
“Or Venus flytraps,” Delilah offered. “Pretty and sticky.”
Beau glanced at me, brow furrowed. “You okay?”
I smiled, but I could feel it wobble. “Yeah. Just…thinking.”
Because they didn’t mean it to sound sinister. I knew that. These were good people. Beautiful people. People who’d survived enough bad that they clung to the good with both hands.
But it was starting to feel like everyone was waiting for me to take my place.
Like the puzzle was nearly finished and they’d just been missing one last piece.
Me.
They kept talking, comfortable family banter filling the room…but a spooky sensation was crawling up my spine, like fingers curling around my neck. I looked from Willow, Rhett, and baby Hazel…to June and Silas, making gaga eyes at each other like they were fucking brainwashed.
And I remembered.
Beau was the middle brother.
Beau was the third oldest.
And I’d been dropped in his lap just like these other two women—like a fucking gift from whatever fertility god this family seemed to worship.
Beau looked over at me, frowning. “You good?”
I nodded too quickly. “Yeah…yeah, I just…I just need some air.”
I felt every set of eyes on me as I abruptly pushed my chair out, leaving a full plate behind and a less-full glass of wine. The walk to the front door was short enough that I didn’t melt down before I got there, and then I was pushing it open, stepping onto the porch, met with—
—the woods.
The deep, dark, deadly woods.
It was yet another reminder that this place…it wasn’t for me. I was supposed to go back to the city, surround myself with cement walls and pavement. My apartment was waiting. My life.
I’d only been here three days, and I was already completely and utterly bewitched.
I’d just slumped to a seat on the porch steps, halfway between the warmth of the house and the darkness of the rural night, when I heard the door creak open behind me and gently thud shut again.
Footsteps followed—then Beau was sitting next to me on the steps of the porch—not touching me, like he was afraid I was going to bolt.
We were both quiet for a moment, breathing, listening to the cicadas sing.
“You’re not okay,” he murmured.
I heaved a deep breath. “No. I am…thoroughly freaked out.”
“Why?”
I glanced back toward the house, toward the family inside: the family with the right politics, the right vibes, all the right things to say. It felt like a trick.
This wasn’t me. I wasn’t the girl who landed in the Hallmark movie…I was the girl with a bad fucking attitude who showed up in town, banged the hot mechanic, and left.
Yet here I was.
At family dinner.
Playing the part of the next in line at the execution.
“I’m trying to figure out a way to say this that doesn’t make me sound like an asshole,” I started.
Beau laughed. “You uh…you say that a lot for someone who doesn’t often come off as an asshole.”
“Liar.”
He shrugged. “Okay. Believe what you wanna believe.”
I scowled at him, but he just sat there—still listening, waiting.
“Damn it…react to me,” I muttered.
“Sorry,” he said. “Not really one for dramatic reactions.”
“So you’re not going to get pissed?”
“I might, but I’ll just bottle it up.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t drop. Okay…if I was sticking around, maybe he would need therapy.
But that was the point—was I sticking around?
“Beau,” I started. “I just…I think I just figured out that I don’t have a choice in this? And that’s pretty fucking scary.”
His jaw tightened: a reaction, for once. “Mmhm.”
“You already knew this.”
He sighed. “I knew it from the moment I walked outside at Mabel’s to help you with your car.”
I had no idea how to react to that, how to feel. My fingers curled on my knees, then uncurled again. I saw Beau shift out of the corner of my eye, and I knew he wanted to hold my hand…but thought better of it.