Chapter 13
1355words
The forty-minute drive from the city has given me time to process everything—the twins, the confrontation with Lucas and Vanessa, the reality that I'm about to move into Damon's home. I've been staring at my phone, scrolling through messages from Mia about the coffee shop, trying to maintain some sense of normalcy.
"We're approaching the estate, Ms. Rivera."
I glance up from my phone to see the driver watching me in the rearview mirror.
The trees outside suddenly give way to reveal Damon's "estate"—though that word seems woefully inadequate for what lies before me. The sprawling mansion rises from manicured grounds like something from a period drama, all stone and grandeur, with multiple wings stretching in different directions. The driveway alone must be half a mile long, curving gracefully toward a circular courtyard with a fountain at its center.
"This can't be right," I murmur.
The driver chuckles. "First time at Silvercrest, ma'am? It tends to have that effect."
As we pull up to the entrance, I notice the fountain isn't a typical cherub or water feature but a striking sculpture of wolves, their stone bodies frozen mid-run, water cascading over powerful limbs. It's beautiful and somehow unsettling.
The front door opens before the car fully stops, and a tall, severe-looking man in a crisp suit emerges. His posture is military-straight, his expression carefully neutral as he approaches the car.
"Ms. Rivera," he says as the driver opens my door. "Welcome to Silvercrest. I'm Marcus Thorn, head of security."
Something about him makes me instinctively straighten my spine. "Thank you. Please call me Sienna."
His eyes—a peculiar amber shade similar to Damon's—assess me with unnerving intensity. "Mr. Sinclair has been delayed but asked me to show you to your quarters. The staff will bring your belongings."
I follow him up wide stone steps, through massive double doors carved with intricate designs that seem to shift as we pass—wolves running through forests, I realize with a start. Inside, the foyer opens to a soaring ceiling with a crystal chandelier that must cost more than my entire coffee shop. The marble floor gleams beneath our feet, and artwork that belongs in museums adorns the walls.
"This place is..." I trail off, unable to find adequate words.
"It's been the Sinclair family seat for seven generations," Marcus says, his tone softening slightly. "Though Mr. Sinclair has made significant modernizations."
He leads me through a maze of corridors, each more opulent than the last. Staff members pause their activities to watch me pass, their expressions ranging from curiosity to something that looks strangely like concern.
"This wing houses the family quarters," Marcus explains as we enter a hallway with fewer doors, spaced farther apart. "Mr. Sinclair's suite is at the end—your suite now, of course."
He opens double doors to reveal not just a bedroom but an entire suite that makes my apartment look like a closet. The main sitting area flows into a massive bedroom dominated by a four-poster bed that could easily fit four people. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook gardens and, beyond them, dense forest.
"The bathroom is through there," Marcus indicates a door. "And this—" he moves to another door "—is your private study and dressing area. Mr. Sinclair had it prepared especially for you. He thought you might appreciate having your own space for work or... quiet moments."
The adjoining room is elegant and feminine—a writing desk by the window, built-in bookshelves, and a walk-in closet already stocked with clothes in my size.
"He's very thoughtful," I say, touched by the consideration.
"He wants you to feel at home here," Marcus says, his stern expression softening slightly. "This is your home now, Ms. Rivera. Both of yours."
"Thank you," I say, moving to the windows. "The view is beautiful."
"The forest is part of the estate. Nearly five thousand acres in total."
I turn to him, stunned. "Five thousand—? That's not an estate, that's a small country."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Indeed. Dinner is served at seven in the main dining room. Elena—Mr. Sinclair's sister—will send someone to escort you, as the house can be... confusing at first."
As he turns to leave, I notice a strange symbol carved into the doorframe—a crescent moon with what looks like claw marks across it.
"What's that?" I ask, pointing.
Marcus freezes momentarily. "Old family tradition. Protection symbols. You'll find them throughout the house."
"Protection from what?"
"Mr. Sinclair can explain the family... traditions... when he returns." His tone makes it clear the conversation is over. "Is there anything else you require?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine."
After he leaves, I explore our new accommodations, running my fingers over luxurious fabrics and opening drawers already stocked with clothes in my size. The bathroom features a tub big enough for swimming and products that probably cost more than my coffee shop's monthly earnings.
I spend time in my private study, arranging the few personal items I brought on the elegant desk—my mother's photo, a favorite book, the three positive pregnancy tests I couldn't bring myself to throw away. The space feels like a sanctuary, somewhere I can retreat when I need quiet time away from the overwhelming grandeur.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts.
"Come in," I call, expecting a maid or perhaps this Elena I'm supposed to meet.
Instead, a young woman with striking features enters, carrying a tray. "Ms. Rivera? I thought you might like some tea. Ginger and lemon—good for morning sickness."
"That's thoughtful, thank you." I accept the steaming cup, inhaling the soothing aroma. "And please, call me Sienna."
"I'm Maya," she says with a warm smile that reaches her unusual green-gold eyes. "I help manage the household staff."
Unlike Marcus's formal stiffness, Maya's presence is immediately comforting. "This place is incredible," I tell her. "I feel like I've stepped into another world."
"In a way, you have." Something in her tone makes me look up sharply, but her expression reveals nothing unusual. "Silvercrest has its own rhythms, its own rules. You'll adjust."
"Everyone keeps looking at me strangely," I admit. "Like they're waiting for something."
Maya arranges pastries on a small table by the window. "You're the first woman Mr. Sinclair has brought home in five years. People are curious."
"Since his wife died," I say softly.
Maya nods. "Clara was beloved here. And her loss... changed him."
I sip my tea, unsure how to respond. What am I doing here, carrying another woman's husband's children, living in what was once her home?
"I should let you rest before dinner," Maya says. "The first trimester is exhausting, especially with twins."
"How did you know about the twins?" I ask, startled. "We just found out today."
A flicker of something—alarm?—crosses her face before she composes herself. "Mr. Sinclair must have called ahead with the news. We're all very happy for you both."
Before I can question her further, voices in the hallway catch my attention—one of them Damon's, the other Marcus's, their tones hushed but intense.
"—shouldn't have brought her here yet. Not when the others are gathering—"
"She's carrying my heirs, Marcus. Her place is here, under my protection."
"The council won't approve—"
"The council answers to me. She stays."
Their footsteps move away, their conversation fading, but their words echo in my mind.
Heirs? Council? What others are gathering?
I look at Maya, who busies herself arranging flowers, deliberately avoiding my gaze.
"Maya," I say carefully, "what council was Damon and Marcus talking about? And what did they mean about the gathering?"
She meets my eyes, her expression unreadable. "Perhaps Mr. Sinclair can explain this better than I can."
After she leaves, I stand at the window, watching shadows lengthen across the immaculate grounds. Beyond the gardens, the forest looms dark and mysterious. For a moment, I swear I see movement among the trees—something large, watching the house.
I press my hand to my stomach again, a protective gesture that's becoming habit. "What have we gotten ourselves into?" I whisper to my unborn children.
As if in answer, a howl rises from the distant forest—wild, primal, and somehow familiar.
