Chapter 1
Hawk
Thunder cracks overhead like a shotgun blast as I sit on my Harley and stare up at the looming monstrosity before me. A flash of lightning illuminates the Victorian mansion for a split second before plunging it back into darkness.
Ten fucking years I've avoided this place.
Nothing here but ghosts and old memories. Although the security alert blinking on my phone says otherwise. Someone's inside the house.Myhouse, technically, though I don’t think of it that way. Not since that fateful Halloween night all those years ago. I was only twenty-five when?—
I cut that thought off before it can fully form. I know as well as anyone that the past is best kept in the past.
"Goddamn waste of time," I mutter, sliding off my bike and stomping through puddles to the wrought iron fence. I push open the rusted gate—ignoring how the ear-splitting creak of the hinges sounds like a woman's scream—before remounting my Harley and riding up the gravel drive. The grounds are overgrown, nature reclaiming my childhood playground. Good. Let it all rot.
Each footfall up the front steps feels heavier than the last, like the house itself is pushing back against my approach. At the massive oak double front door, I pause, fumbling with my keyring before finding the right one. The lock turns with surprising ease, as if the house has been waiting for me.
Inside, I flick on the tactical flashlight from my belt, sweeping its beam across the grand foyer. White tarps drape over furniture. Cobwebs hang from the crystal chandelier. Dust particles dance in my flashlight beam.
The security grid on my phone shows a breach on the second floor, east wing. Fuck. My sister Lily's bedroom.
My jaw clenches so tight my teeth grind. Of all the fucking rooms in this fucking place, why that one? Probably just some trash pandas taking refuge from the weather outside. Maybe even a false alarm—it’s been known to happen in electrical storms. But, on the off-chance it’s a junkie looking for shit to steal or teenagers getting their Halloween jollies by breaking into a haunted house, I need to let it be known they picked the wrong place to trespass.
I take the grand stairs two at a time, leaving wet tracks on the once-pristine carpet. Muscle memory guides me, even as my mind rebels against every step.
The second-floor hallway is a tunnel of darkness punctuated by closed doors. Family portraits line the walls, faces obscured by layers of dust. I don't need to see them. Those faces are burned into my brain, still haunting me all these years later.
I pause outside Lily's room, hand hovering over the doorknob. Another crackle of lightning followed by a booming roar of thunder that shakes the house, and I swear I hear a faint shuffle inside. My other hand drops to the gun holstered at my hip, thumb flicking off the safety.
One swift motion and I'm through the door, weapon raised, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness like a knife.
"Don't fucking move," I growl, scanning the room.
For that first split-second, nothing seems disturbed. Lily's four-poster bed stands in the center of the room, its once bubblegum pink canopy now drab and dust-coated. As my eyes sweep, the mirror on her vanity reflects my flashlight beam at me.
Then I hear it—a small, panicked intake of breath. I whip my light in that direction, finger tensing on the trigger.
What I see freezes me where I stand.
In the corner of the room, in front of the window seat that forms a small alcove, is a small figure. A female, arms wrapped protectively around herself. Her wide, brown eyes blink rapidly in the beam of my light like a frightened animal's. Dark curls tumble around her face, partially obscuring delicate features that are…absolutely beautiful. Strikingly beautiful.
Her olive skin is marred by what I first think are shadows but then realize are bruises.
What. The. Fuck?! Bruises? Who the fuck hurt her?
A seething anger rises in my chest along with a primal protectiveness.
“P-Please," she whispers, voice barely audible over the storm raging outside. "Don't hurt me. I-I’m sorry," she stammers."
I lower my weapon slowly. "Who the fuck are you, and why are you in my house?"
The words come out far harsher than I intend, a reaction to the rage I feel at whoever or whatever inflicted those injuries.
She flinches at my tone, retreating further into the corner. I notice then that her clothes—a thin sweater and jeans—are damp and torn, and there's a dark stain on her sweater that might be blood.
She doesn't answer, just watches me with those too-big eyes.
I holster my gun just in time to lunge forward as her eyes roll back in her head, her body slackens, and she falls into my arms.
Chapter 2
