Chapter 2

The Blackwood estate didn’t look like a home.

It looked like a warning.

Black stone walls rose against the gray November sky, sharp and unyielding. Tall iron gates opened without a sound as Finn drove through, like the place itself had decided I was allowed inside for now. The driveway stretched long and straight, lined with trees that had already started dropping their leaves even though autumn had barely settled in. Everything felt deliberate. Controlled. Cold.

I sat in the back seat with my duffel bag pressed against my legs and Lila’s smaller backpack on my lap. The leather was still warm from the heated seats. It felt wrong somehow—too soft, too clean—against the worn fabric of my jeans and the hole in the sole of my left shoe that I kept trying to hide by curling my toes.

Finn didn’t speak. He drove like someone who had done this many times before and expected nothing in return. I watched the trees slide past and tried not to think about the contract still sitting on that black desk miles behind us. Tried not to think about the way Kael’s voice had sounded when he said you have nothing left to lose.

The car stopped under a covered entrance. Finn got out first and opened my door. The air that hit me smelled like pine and cold stone and something darker underneath—Alpha scent, dominant and clean, the kind that made the wolf under my skin stir restlessly.

“East wing is prepared for your sister,” Finn said, his voice quiet. “Main residence for you. Alpha’s orders.”

I stepped out. Gravel crunched under my shoes. The house loomed above us, three stories of dark glass and sharp lines, like it had been designed by someone who never wanted anyone to feel welcome. No flower beds. No warm lights in the windows. Just expensive emptiness waiting.

I followed Finn inside.

The foyer was massive. Dark wood floors that looked like they’d never known a muddy footprint. A staircase that curved upward like a question no one was supposed to ask. No family photos on the walls. No coats hanging by the door. No sign that anyone actually lived here beyond the faint ticking of a clock somewhere far away.

A woman waited at the base of the stairs. Mid-forties, a silver streak cutting through dark hair pulled back in a neat twist. She wore a simple black dress and the quiet authority of someone who ran the household without needing to raise her voice. Her eyes flicked over me once—taking in the duffel, the thin jacket, the way I held myself like I was ready to leave at any second—and then settled into careful neutrality.

“Elara Vance,” Finn said. “This is Mrs. Thorne, estate manager. She’ll show you to your rooms.”

Mrs. Thorne inclined her head. “Follow me.”

We walked in silence up the stairs and down a long hallway lined with closed doors. My footsteps sounded too loud. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and that same cold Alpha scent that seemed to cling to every surface. I wondered if Kael walked these halls at night. I wondered if he ever made a sound.

My room was at the end—large, sparsely furnished, all cream and charcoal. A wide bed with crisp white sheets. A desk that looked like it had never been used. Floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the dark forest behind the house. An en-suite bathroom bigger than the entire apartment I had just left.

On the bed sat a folded set of soft clothes—black leggings, an oversized sweater that looked like it would swallow me—and a single note in sharp, precise handwriting:

Wear what you like. The closet is stocked. Medical appointment tomorrow at 9 a.m. — K

No greeting. No signature beyond the single initial. Just instructions.

Mrs. Thorne lingered in the doorway. “Dinner is at seven in the small dining room. Alpha will not be joining you tonight. Your sister will arrive within the hour. The east wing has been aired and stocked. If you need anything, press the panel by the door.”

She left without waiting for a reply.

I stood alone in the quiet and tried to remember how to breathe.

The closet was, as promised, stocked. Soft sweaters in neutral colors. Jeans that still had tags. Underwear and socks still in their packaging. Even a pair of slippers that looked like they’d never touched a floor. Everything was my size. Everything was new. Everything felt like it belonged to someone else.

I showered quickly, the water pressure strong enough to make my shoulders ache in a way that almost felt good. I changed into the leggings and the oversized sweater. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and nothing else. No scent of previous owners. No history.

When the clock in the hallway chimed seven, I went downstairs.

The small dining room was lit by a single low-hanging light. One place setting. One glass of water. One plate of food that looked like it belonged in a magazine—seared steak still pink in the center, roasted vegetables glistening with oil, something green and delicate on the side that I couldn’t name.

I sat. The chair was comfortable. The fork was heavy in my hand.

I ate slowly. Every bite tasted like guilt and relief at the same time. The steak was perfect. The vegetables were real. There was salt. There was flavor. My stomach, used to emptiness and cheap broth, clenched around the richness like it didn’t quite trust it.

Halfway through, the front door opened. Soft footsteps. A familiar small voice calling my name.

“Ellie?”

I stood so fast the chair scraped against the floor. Lila appeared in the doorway, backpack clutched to her chest, eyes huge in her thin face. Finn stood behind her looking faintly uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure what to do with a child in this house.

She ran at me. I dropped to my knees and opened my arms. She hit me hard enough to knock the breath out of my lungs, small arms wrapping tight around my neck. She smelled like the cheap shampoo we shared and the fear she tried so hard to hide behind bravado.

“We’re staying here for a while,” I whispered into her hair. My voice came out rougher than I wanted. “There’s food. A real bed. You’re safe.”

She pulled back just enough to look at me. Her eyes were the same dark brown as mine, but still soft in the way children’s eyes are before the world finishes hardening them. “Is the scary man nice?”

I almost laughed. Almost.

“He’s… quiet,” I said. “But he promised we both get to stay. That’s enough for now.”

Finn cleared his throat. “I’ll show her to the east wing when she’s ready.”

Lila’s hand tightened in the fabric of my sweater. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

I glanced at Finn. He gave a small nod, almost imperceptible.

“Yes,” I said. “Just tonight.”

We finished dinner together at the same table. Lila ate like someone who had learned not to trust that the next meal would come—fast, focused, glancing up every few bites like she expected the plate to disappear. I watched her and felt the contract settle deeper into my bones. This was why. This thin little girl with tangled hair and a backpack that held everything she owned. This was the only reason any of it made sense.

Later, after Mrs. Thorne had quietly cleared the plates and Finn had retreated somewhere into the vast house, I took Lila upstairs. She brushed her teeth with the new toothbrush that had been left in the bathroom, changed into one of the soft new shirts from the closet (it hung to her knees), and climbed into the wide bed like she was afraid it might reject her.

I turned off the main light but left the bathroom light on, the door cracked. Old habit. She still hated the dark.

I lay down beside her. She immediately curled into my side, one small hand fisted in my sweater.

“Ellie?” Her voice was already sleepy.

“Yeah?”

“Is this real?”

I stared at the ceiling. The room was too quiet. Too clean. Too far from everything we had known.

“It’s real for now,” I whispered. “That’s enough.”

She fell asleep fast, the way kids do when they’re finally warm and full. I stayed awake longer, listening to her breathing even out, feeling the steady rise and fall of her small chest against my arm.

Eventually I slipped out of bed and walked to the window. The forest beyond the glass was black and endless. No city lights. No distant traffic. Just trees and darkness and the kind of silence that made your own thoughts too loud.

I hadn’t seen him since the signing. I hadn’t heard his voice. But his scent lingered in the halls—clean snow and iron and something older that made the back of my neck prickle every time I breathed too deeply.

I pressed my palm flat against the cool glass.

One year.

I’ll endure it.