Willow Creek was supposed to be her refuge. It was supposed to be a quiet town where Isabella could rebuild her shattered life. After being humiliated, she was determined to remain hidden and start a new life. But when she meets Noah, a low-key, dangerously handsome man with haunted grey eyes, she is drawn into him instantly. What Isabella doesn’t know is that Noah is no ordinary man. A centuries-old vampire kind who has abandoned his throne after the loss of his beloved. Noah has spent years hiding in willow creek, and after meeting her, he vowed to keep his distance but her intoxicating presence awakens desires he thought was long buried. As their love grows stronger, ghosts of their pasts begins to awaken. In a town where vampires, witches, and fae collide, will their love be enough to defy all odds?
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Isabella.
There’s a special kind of humiliation that sticks to your skin no matter how many times you shower. I’ve taken six in the last twenty-four hours, and I still feel it crawling under my clothes like an army of ants.
The rain didn’t help either.
By the time I pulled up to the edge of Willow Creek, the storm had gone from a polite drizzle to a full-on biblical downpour. My windshield wipers were doing the absolute most and still failing, and the GPS on my phone had frozen just as I reached the turnoff for something called “Mosswood Lane.” Which, for the record, sounded more like the setting of a low-budget horror movie than a peaceful writing retreat.
The cottage appeared through the mist like it wasn’t totally convinced it wanted to be seen. The roof sloped low on one side, the stone chimney was missing a few bricks, and the front porch sagged. Vines had taken over the front wall like nature was trying to reclaim it. The whole place looked like it had once belonged to someone’s sweet great-aunt who may or may not have been a hedge witch.
I loved it instantly.
I parked the car, my loyal, slightly traumatized Honda Civic, right outside the crooked gate, turned off the engine, and took a moment to sit there in the silence. Or what passed for silence, considering the rain was still assaulting the roof like it had a personal vendetta.
“You did it,” I whispered to myself. “You actually left.”
It didn’t feel triumphant. Not yet, but still, it felt enough.
I grabbed my overnight bag which was just the essentials, and made a run for the porch. The front door was painted forest green, chipped in places, with a brass knocker shaped like a fox. The keys were tucked in a ceramic frog beside the door, exactly where the property manager said they’d be.
Inside, the place smelled like dust, lemon wood polish, and a little bit of old books.
“Hello?” I called out. Old habits.
Nothing answered, which was both reassuring and a little sad.
The living room was cozy, in a “this used to be cute thirty years ago” kind of way. Floral curtains, a fireplace that begged to be used, and an old couch that looked like it had seen some things. I flicked on a lamp. It didn’t come on.
Right. Power. I found the fuse box near the back door and flipped the main switch. The light overhead flickered, then steadied.
Back in the living room, I kicked off my soaked shoes, dropped my bag, and collapsed onto the couch. I let my eyes close for a moment, listening to the rain pound against the roof like it was trying to shake the house awake.
I could’ve stayed like that for hours, but life had other plans.
When I went back out to grab the rest of my things from the car, I got exactly three feet before the unmistakable sound of a tire giving up on life reached my ears. I looked down at the front left wheel.
Flat. Of course.
“Perfect,” I muttered, pulling my hoodie tighter around me as the rain doubled in intensity just to make a point.
I dropped my box of toiletries on the porch, grabbed a flashlight from the glove box, and knelt to get a look at the damage. Mud squelched beneath my knees. The flashlight was weak and flickering like it was auditioning for a haunted house job.
I was drenched, freezing, and completely out of my depth when headlights cut through the storm behind me. A slow-moving truck rumbled down the lane and pulled up beside my car. The driver’s side window rolled down with an old mechanical groan.
“Need a hand?”
His voice was calm and deep, like the rain didn’t affect him the way it was affecting me, and probably the whole town.
I stood up too fast and nearly slipped. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.”
The man stepped out of the truck and into the rain without a hood, like a complete psychopath. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and the kind of handsome you notice even when you’re ankle-deep in mud and self-pity. His brown hair was plastered to his forehead, he had a sharp jawline and grey eyes that looked like they could see through people if they wanted to.
He didn’t smile or introduce himself as he crouched next to my car and inspected the tire like this was something he’d don a thousand times.
“I have a spare,” I offered.
He nodded once. “Good.”
In silence, he set to work. I stood awkwardly beside him, feeling completely useless and weirdly exposed. After a minute, I said, “I swear this car has been fine until today. Guess she didn’t like the move.”
He glanced up at me, rain dripping down his cheekbones. “Big move?”
“You could say that.”
More silence.
I fidgeted. “I’m Isabella, by the way.”
He didn’t respond right away. Then he said very quietly, “Noah.”
Just that. Noah.
“Well, thanks, Noah. Seriously. You’re kind of saving my ass here.”
He didn’t look up again. He kept working. I got the sense he wasn’t used to talking to people, or maybe he just didn’t want to. Still, there was something oddly calming about the controlled way he moved.
He tightened the last lug nut, stood, and gave the tire a once-over.
“You’re good.”
“Wow. That was fast.”
He shrugged. “Not my first time.”
I laughed a little, more out of nerves than amusement. “Well, I owe you.”
“No need.”
He started back toward his truck. I felt like I should say more, like ask something or offer him a towel, or at least invite him in for a warm drink like a sane human would, but he was already getting in the truck.
The engine roared to life, and the taillights lit up the mist as he backed away down the lane.
I stood there watching until he disappeared behind the trees.
Back inside, I dried off and changed into pajamas, then lit a few candles since the lighting was dim and the storm didn’t seem like it was letting up anytime soon.
Noah.
The name stuck in my mind over and over again. I couldn’t figure out why. He hadn’t said much, hadn’t even looked at me for more than a second. But something about him—
No. I should the thought out of my head.
Not now.
I opened my laptop and pulled up a blank document. I stared at the blinking cursor for a few minutes. The urge to write was there, but I just couldn’t get myself to start. Maybe I was just… scared?
I started typing.
The rain hadn’t stopped for days. She arrived soaked to the bone, her suitcase in one hand and her dignity somewhere in the trunk. The man who found her on the road said his name like it was a secret, and she didn’t ask for more. She was too tired to be curious about it.
I paused.
Noah, huh?
I smiled, then I kept typing.
59Isabella. I received an email from my old publishing firm. Short, cold and very corporate but in form of an apology.“Dear Ms. Rune,We acknowledge our prior misjudgment in the handling of your manuscript. A formal retraction has been issued regarding the previous publication under Ms. Nadia Rune’s name. We sincerely apologize for any harm this caused to your reputation.”There signature from a real person. Just “The Editorial Board.”Still, I stared at it for a long time. It should have made me feel good. Elated, even. Instead I just felt numb about it. I kept staring at it for minutes.Then I deleted it. The apology wasn’t for me. It was for show, just to cover their own legal tracks.It was something, but still I wasn’t moved.Two hours later, my phone lit up with a message from Madison, a literary agent I hadn’t spoken to since before the collapse.“Saw the retraction. Let’s talk. I still believe in your voice.” Straight to the point, as expected. Again, while I appreciated it
58Sienna.The courthouse was colder than I expected.Maybe it was the way the walls echoed, or the way everyone avoided eye contact, like they were all pretending this wasn’t a scandal they’d been whispering about for weeks. Maybe it was just me—because I felt like something was still sitting on my chest. Even after everything had come out.Even after Natasha was gone.Even after Nadia had been exposed.The courtroom wasn’t packed, but it was far from empty. A few reporters sat in the back row with notepads they barely pretended not to use. A couple of locals had come “just to observe,” which was code for nosy.Isabella was sitting beside Damian near the front. Her back was straight, her face calm, but I knew that look. It was her “I’m not breaking here” face. I’d worn it enough to recognize the shape of it.I sat a few rows back. Alone. That was intentional. I didn’t want to be seen whispering to anyone.Nadia sat beside her lawyer, eyes dry, mouth drawn tight. She wasn’t wearing he
57Isabella. It was a quiet kind of storm.The kind where everyone already knew the answer, but we still had to wait for the official words. We stood in my father’s study, Noah, Sienna, me, and my father, and watched as Natasha paced the room like she hadn’t just confessed to multiple crimes just a day ago.The police weren’t here yet. They’d been called, tipped off by the investigator and Isaac, who’d sent copies of the files directly to the city bureau. But Natasha hadn’t run. She stayed, as if she still thought she could talk her way out of everything.I didn’t move. I just watched her from across the room.“You’re all so dramatic,” she said, voice sharp. “I said what I said in the heat of the moment. You think that counts as a confession?”Damian didn’t speak. He was seated in the armchair, his hands resting on the cane between his knees. His face was pale, but alert.Sienna stood beside me, arms crossed.Noah was closer to the door. Watching her, always watching.“You said you s
56Noah. I didn’t knock when I walked into Natasha’s house. She liked to leave the door unlocked when she was expecting someone. I figured if she was arrogant enough to assume she’d never get caught, she wouldn’t mind the courtesy being ignored.She was in the sunroom. Of course she was. Draped across one of those too-white couches with a glass of wine in hand and a silk robe that looked more costume than comfort. The kind of setup that begged for an audience.She smiled when she saw me.“Darling,” she said smoothly. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”I dropped the folder onto the glass table in front of her. It was filled with printouts, photos, screenshots, testimonies. The works.Her smile flickered for half a second before she reached for the wine again.“Well, that’s ominous,” she said.I didn’t sit down. “Go ahead. Read it.”She took her time, flipping slowly through the pages. I watched the micro-expressions dance across her face: the initial surprise, the twitch of her mouth a
55SiennaI hated town events.They were always too loud, too decorated, and filled with people who thought cinnamon-scented candles made things festive. I didn’t do “festive.” I did practical. Controlled. Predictable.But Isabella had asked me to come, and that meant I came.So there I was, standing under a string of fairy lights wrapped around a poorly pruned sycamore, watching people sip tiny glasses of sparkling cider like it was an Olympic sport.The event was technically a fundraiser,some vague thing about restoring the old school theater,but it was really just an excuse for the town’s social circle to parade around in their softest scarves and loudest personalities. The local café had catered, complete with gluten-free pastries and pumpkin-flavored everything.Isabella looked good.Calm, even. She wore that green sweater that made her eyes pop, and when she laughed, it sounded beautiful and calming.It had been two days since she got the PI report. Two days since Damian started
54IsabellaI received the report in the middle of the night,it was in the form of a zipped folder and a six-line email from a woman named Sandra Vega,a former NYPD who is now a private investigator with a specialty in corporate scandals and rich people who lie.I stared at the email for a full minute before clicking it open.“Initial findings attached. Sensitive material. Password: VICTORIAN. More soon.”I opened the file. Entered the password. And held my breath.I released the breath I was holding as soon as the file opened.And then everything changed leaving me in shock with my mouth wide open.The first document was a scanned copy of a sealed court file,redacted in places, but not enough to hide the names.Isabel Hart. Deceased.Natasha Green. Witness.Damian Hart. Declined to testify.There was a death. Not just the car accident I was told. Not just some vague story about swerving on a wet road and a funeral no one let me plan.There was a whole investigation. Buried. Hidden und
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