Chapter 3: The House That Didn’t Want Her

The storm didn’t let up. It clawed at the windows like something alive, rattling the glass just enough to feel personal. Like even the weather knew she didn’t belong here.

Ava stood in the foyer, water dripping from her hair onto the glossy marble floor. Her suitcase felt suddenly small—laughable, really—compared to the vast, echoing mansion swallowing her up. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something darker… expensive, masculine, out of place beside the lavender perfume her mother always wore.

Her mother kept talking—some hopeful ramble about bedrooms, breakfast plans, and “bonding time.” But her voice sounded distant, like it was coming through a fuzzy radio. Ava couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe normally. Because he was still there.

Jace.

Leaning on the staircase railing now, one hand gripping the polished wood, his knuckles showing faint scars that didn’t look like accidents. His gaze stayed on her, even as his father—her mother’s new husband—stepped into the foyer to greet them.

This should’ve been the moment Ava shook his hand. Smiled. Pretended this union was normal and happy and not something that made her skin feel two sizes too small.

But all she saw was Jace, a shadow in human form.

He didn’t move when she looked back at him again. Didn’t smile, didn’t nod in acknowledgment. Just watched. Like she was some kind of puzzle he’d already decided he wasn’t going to solve, but still wanted to pick apart anyway.

Her mother nudged her elbow lightly.

“Sweetheart, say hello to Mark.”

Ava blinked, then snapped her attention to the man in front of her—tall, salt-and-peppered, with warm brown eyes. He looked kind. Genuinely kind. Which almost made her feel worse.

She forced a smile. “Hi. Thanks for letting us—um—stay.”

“Stay?” Mark chuckled in a gentle way that reminded her painfully of her dad. “This is your home now, Ava.”

The word home scraped against something raw inside her chest.

Home was a kitchen table with a missing chair leg.

Home was music coming from her father’s workshop.

Home was laughter that wasn’t forced, grief that wasn’t hidden behind bright lipstick and new marriages.

Home wasn’t this pristine, echoing palace where every sound bounced back too loudly.

And it definitely wasn’t Jace Rowan, who still hadn’t said another word.

Mark helped her mom carry bags upstairs, leaving Ava alone in the foyer with him. The silence stretched long enough to feel intentional.

Finally, Jace pushed off the railing and walked past her. The scent of clean skin, cold rain, and something dangerously warm brushed against her—like an unspoken dare.

“You move quietly,” he said over his shoulder.

She frowned. “What?”

Jace stopped at the base of the stairs and finally looked back at her fully. His eyes were unreadable, but not empty. No—there was something there. Something she didn’t have a name for yet.

“You looked like you were trying to disappear,” he said casually, as if commenting on the weather.

A flush crept up her neck. “Maybe I was.”

A slow smirk curved his mouth, but it wasn’t friendly. It was the kind of smile that said he saw more than he should. More than she wanted him to.

“People don’t disappear in this house,” he murmured.

“Trust me. Everything gets noticed.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. He just turned and ascended the stairs, each step echoing like a countdown.

Ava’s pulse thundered beneath her skin.

Why did every word he said feel like a warning?

Her new bedroom was too clean.

It wasn’t messy or unlived-in—worse, it was perfect. Perfectly staged, perfectly arranged, perfectly wrong. Pale walls. Crisp linens. A window overlooking the endless stretch of forest behind the property.

She touched the bedside lamp, the soft velvet of the chair by the window, the cool metal handle of the wardrobe. But none of it felt like hers.

Her father’s old leather jacket—one of the only things she’d brought—hung limply at the foot of the bed. A reminder that she wasn’t losing everything. Not yet.

“You okay, honey?” her mom asked from the doorway.

Ava shrugged, pretending to examine her reflection in the mirror. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Her mom came in and curled an arm around her shoulder. Ava stiffened, fighting the sting in her eyes.

“You’ll adjust,” her mother said softly. “I know this is a big change. But Mark is good. He’s… safe. He’s good for us.”

Ava didn’t argue. She didn’t have the energy to.

“And Jace is…” Her mom hesitated, searching for the right word. “Well, he’s older than you by a couple of years, but he’s kind once you get to know him. A little rough around the edges, maybe.”

Ava remembered the shower droplets on his chest. The lazy, dangerous smile. The way he watched her like he’d already decided she was trouble.

Kind wasn’t the word she’d use.

“Just give him a chance,” her mother added.

Ava nodded even though she wasn’t planning to.

Her mom kissed her forehead. “Get settled. Dinner’s in an hour.”

When the door clicked shut behind her, Ava exhaled shakily.

This house wasn’t just big.

It was alive in all the ways that made her feel small.

She wandered over to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. At the edge of the backyard, the forest swayed like a restless beast.

A shiver crept up her spine.

Behind her, something creaked.

Ava spun.

Jace leaned in her doorway, arms crossed, as if he owned the frame he stood in.

“You don’t knock?” she snapped.

His lips twitched. “Door was open.”

“It’s rude.”

“So close it,” he said, unbothered.

His gaze swept the room—slowly—landing on the jacket at the foot of her bed. “Your dad’s?”

Ava stiffened. “That’s none of your business.”

“Didn’t say it was.” He tilted his head slightly. “Just asked.”

The quiet between them thickened, heavy like the storm outside.

Jace stepped farther into the room—still keeping a comfortable distance, but it didn’t matter. His presence filled every corner like heat.

“You look like you want to run away,” he said calmly.

Her jaw tightened. “You don’t know anything about me.”

A soft hum left his throat. “Not yet.”

The words hit her harder than they should’ve.

He took another step closer. Just one. Just enough.

“I’m not your enemy,” he said, voice lower now, almost rough. “But this house? It’s… complicated.”

Her heart thudded once—hard.

“What does that mean?”

A shadow crossed his expression, brief but noticeable.

“Don’t worry about it tonight.”

“Jace—”

“Seriously.” His gaze locked on hers, heavier now, as if trying to slow the panic she didn’t even realize had risen in her chest. “Get through dinner. Get through the first week. The rest comes later.”

Ava swallowed.

“I don’t want trouble.”

His smile this time was different. Not cruel. Not mocking. But knowing.

“You don’t have to want it,” he murmured.

“Trouble finds who it wants.”

Before she could ask what that was supposed to mean, he backed toward the hallway.

“Oh,” he added, pausing at the doorframe. “Don’t wander around the west wing at night.”

“Why?”

His smirk returned—dangerous, but not playful.

“House gets… loud.”

She frowned. “Loud how?”

“Just trust me.”

And then he was gone.

Dinner was worse.

Not because the food was bad—the opposite, actually. It was too good. Too elegant. Too not-her. Roasted salmon with lemon butter, wild rice, vegetables arranged so precisely it looked like a magazine photo. She hated that her stomach growled.

Her mother and Mark talked easily across the table, their conversation flowing around her like warm air she didn’t know how to breathe in.

Jace sat beside her.

Too close.

Every time he moved, she felt it in her bones. The heat of him. The quiet power. The strange awareness that made her hyper-conscious of every inch of her own body.

He didn’t say much. Just listened. Watched.

At one point, his knee brushed hers under the table.

A spark shot up her leg so fast she nearly dropped her fork.

Jace didn’t apologize.

Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even look at her.

He just kept eating, jaw flexing slightly, eyes fixed on his plate.

Ava forced herself to shift her leg.

But that didn’t stop the memory of the contact from burning.

This was wrong. He was wrong. This whole life was wrong.

After dinner, she escaped upstairs under the excuse of unpacking. Her mother offered help; Ava refused. Jace said nothing. But she felt his eyes on her back as she walked away.

In her new room, she collapsed onto the bed. The storm had finally begun to soften, but her mind hadn’t.

She thought she was done for the night.

She wasn’t. Not even close.

Because at around 11:42 p.m., when she finally managed to close her eyes, a sound drifted through the wall.

A soft thud.

Then another.

Then a low voice—Jace’s—sharp, irritated, maybe angry, though she couldn’t make out the words.

She sat up slowly, pulse thumping.

The house was supposed to be quiet. Everyone was supposed to be asleep.

But the west wing—

The one he told her to avoid—

Was awake.

Ava slipped out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor.

She didn’t mean to go toward the hallway.

But curiosity has a way of dragging you where you shouldn’t go.