Page 94
“Yeah,” he says after a long pause. “I think it’s time.”
Breakfast sits completely forgotten on the table. The three of us stand there in the elegant dining room, the newspaper lying open between us like a challenge we can no longer ignore.
Timothy Maddox may think a carefully worded statement will get everyone off his back.
But we’re done waiting for him to come back to us.
We’re going to him.
The Maddox House looks nothing like I expected.
It’s large and imposing, tucked away on a private stretch of land just outside the main city, but it lacks the dark gothic feel of the House of Night. The sprawling two-story estate has tall windows that reflect the late-morning light, and its façade is made of tidy bricks that line up perfectly.
It’s all so… normal. Suburban. If you don’t include the brass pentagram door knocker in the center of the front door.
Standing on the wide front steps beside Damon, I feel a nervous flutter in my stomach.
We’ve been standing here for almost a full minute. I’d feel better if Hunter were here, but he had a class he couldn’t miss.
“So…” I say softly. “Do we knock? Ring the doorbell? Or just barge in?”
Damon’s hand rests on my hip, fingers flexing. “I’m still deciding between knocking and breaking in.”
I let out a nervous laugh. Neither of us moves. We’re procrastinating, and we both know it. There’s something about showing up at a house you haven’t been invited to.
Before we can make a decision, the heavy front door swings open.
An older woman with neatly styled gray hair and a warm, knowing smile stands in the doorway. She’s wearing a simple but elegant blouse and slacks, like she’s been expecting company.
“Oh,” I start, flustered. “Sorry, we were about to ring the bell or knock or—”
Damon’s fingers tighten on my hip, but the woman beams at us, completely unfazed.
“Arianette,” she says brightly, her eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure. “So lovely that you’ve finally come.” Her gaze shifts to Damon. “And Damon. So handsome. I see why he picked you.”
“I, uh…” Damon actually seems at a loss for words. “Thank you?”
“I’m Mrs. Willet,” she continues smoothly. “My husband and I manage the house for Mr. Maddox. Please, come in.”
She steps aside and gestures for us to enter. Damon and I exchange a quick glance before following her inside.
The interior is just as surprising as the exterior. The house feels lived-in and comfortable, but still very nice. I take in the high ceilings with dark wood beams, soft lighting, plush rugs over polished hardwood floors. There are fresh flowers on a side table and bookshelves filled with actual books, not just decorative leather spines. It feels like a real home. Not the cold, calculated fortress I imagined Timothy hiding in.
This is another side of him. Another piece he kept hidden.
I stop Damon gently, tugging on his arm. “Are you okay if I go in alone first? Talk to him by myself?”
He searches my face for a second, then nods. “If that’s what you want.” He leans down and kisses me softly, lingering just long enough to steady me. “I’ll be right out here.”
“I baked a pie this morning,” Mrs. Willet says to Damon, “and it should be cool enough to eat soon. Let me drop Arianette off, and we’ll go get a piece.”
She leads me down a long, sunlit hallway. “He’s in the back working diligently on his physical therapy. Following the doctors’ orders and then some.”
She stops in front of a set of double doors, peers inside, then steps back so I can enter.
Timothy isn’t lifting weights or using any machines.
He’s standing in a small cleared space near the center of a small room, shirtless, the large scar on his chest puckered and prominent. His beard is longer, thicker, as is his hair, the locks curling at the nape of his neck. He’s processing through a slow, deliberate sequence of motions. His movements are fluid and controlled–graceful in a way I’ve never seen him before. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, arms flowing in wide, circular patterns, breathing deeply and steadily. It looks like half dance, half meditation.
