The engine ticked under the hood as Austin killed the ignition, the soft metallic clicking fading into the cool mid-morning air. Dew still clung to the windshield and the edges of the Thorne manor's driveway shimmered under the weak October sun. The whole place looked like it had been pulled straight out of old money fantasies, its stone walls softened by age rather than weathered by it, its windows tall and narrow like watchful eyes. No matter how many times he stepped onto the property, it had a way of making him feel like he had entered somewhere older, heavier, something with roots deeper than reason.
Austin slid out of the car, boots hitting the gravel with a muted crunch. He straightened his jacket, letting the cool air settle against his skin for a moment as he took in the façade. The manor sat with the self-assurance of a place that had seen centuries come and go. Its wide hallways and antique trim practically radiated family secrets. Usually, he felt nothing walking toward it. Today, there was something else in his chest, something he refused to call fear, although the edges of it came close enough to make his gut tighten.
Fear wasn't compatible with his training. Navy SEAL medics weren't allowed that luxury, not after years of conditioning, simulation, firefights, real fights. But what he felt now hovered just outside the boundary line, an old instinct brushing the back of his mind, whispering that something in this house was off.
Elizabeth had called him before sunrise. No cold calculation in her tone, no smooth, well-shaped threat hidden under her words. She didn't sound like the woman who ran the Thorne dynasty. She sounded like someone shaken, someone grieving, someone who had let one mask slip before she could reach for another.
Austin wasn't used to that version of her. Honestly, he wasn't sure anyone was.
He rubbed a hand over his face as he walked to the entrance, trying to replay her voice in his mind. Urgent. Emotional. Thin around the edges, like she had spent the night scraping her nails down her nerves.
He wasn't even fully awake when she'd called, yet he had felt that urgency like a shove between his shoulder blades.
A servant opened the manor doors before he reached them. The man bowed slightly, eyes downcast in practiced formality. His hands were steady, posture perfect, but there was something in his face, a subtle hardness, like someone who could smile politely while stepping over a corpse. Austin's instincts prickled. Every servant here looked like they belonged in a luxury magazine spread, but all of them also carried a quiet familiarity with violence. He noticed it every time he came, but today he mapped it harder.
Habit.
Old training.
As he stepped inside, he did what he always did. Eyes scanned corners without turning his head, every entry point caught in peripheral memory. Ceiling height, windows, stair access, potential choke points, furniture obstruction, where a crossfire would land, where cover existed, where cover pretended to exist but wouldn't stop a high-velocity round. He didn't consciously think through it anymore. His body just catalogued, precise and silent.
The air inside smelled faintly of polish and old wood. The manor's antique style wrapped around him immediately, velvet drapes, carved arches, gold-lined portraits staring down with arrogance only generational wealth could ferment. His footsteps barely made a sound against the polished floors, and each sound that did form echoed further down the halls than physics should allow in a house this size.
Servants appeared briefly as he passed, giving polite nods before melting away. Most houses felt lived in. Thorne Manor felt occupied.
The butler approached with a bow, as if Austin's arrival had been timed to the second.
"Ms. Thorne is expecting you, sir," he said with smooth politeness.
Austin nodded, keeping his voice steady. "Lead the way."
They climbed the staircase, its wooden railing older than most countries' governments. Austin tried to think of a reasonable explanation for why she had summoned him so early. Maybe she wanted to discuss a work detail. Farren Security Service dealt with supernatural threats, so it wasn't impossible something had come up overnight. Maybe Adam had done something at school. Maybe she was still angry about him skipping Sebastian's funeral. That one felt probable. Elizabeth had the kind of pride that didn't take kindly to perceived disrespect.
Still, none of those theories matched the urgency in her voice.
He walked a few more steps before realizing something was wrong.
They had passed the study.
He paused mid-stride, chest tightening slightly, and glanced at the door to the left. That room was where she normally conducted business, demanded reports, delivered ultimatums with the calmness of someone reading a grocery list. He should have been led there.
The butler continued walking.
"Uh," Austin said, raising a brow, "isn't this the part where we turn?"
The butler stopped, turned back toward him, and offered a small, apologetic smile. "Ms. Thorne requested you be brought elsewhere today."
Austin hesitated, instincts twitching. But the butler's tone didn't waver, and there was no tension in his shoulders that signaled danger. So he followed.
They stopped before a different door.
A heavy one.
And the moment the butler opened it, Austin realized where they were.
The master bedroom.
Elizabeth Thorne's room.
The inside was dim, lit only by low warm lamps and weak morning light leaking through half-closed velvet blinds. The scent of stale coffee and something faintly floral hung in the air. The walls were a deep red, a heavy velvet tone that made the space feel warmer than the rest of the manor. The bed dominated the room, a massive king-size canopy with dark wooden posts and curtains loosely draped, half pulled aside, half falling crooked like someone had grabbed them without thinking.
The sheets were a mess.
Not careless messy.
Tossing, turning, sleepless messy.
Elizabeth sat in the far corner, tucked into an armchair as if she had been there for hours. She wore a nightgown that once probably looked elegant but now hung rumpled, clinging slightly around her shoulders. Her hair fell loosely around her face, dark strands tangled with exhaustion. She held a mug of coffee, steam barely rising, suggesting it had been reheated too many times or left untouched for too long.
Her eyes lifted the moment he walked in.
He saw it instantly.
She had been crying.
Not dramatically, not loudly, but long enough for the skin under her eyes to look rubbed raw. Her expression had returned to a mask, a cold, neutral shield, but the damage beneath it was still there, faint but visible.
The butler bowed and stepped out quietly, shutting the door behind him.
Austin stayed standing, suddenly unsure of protocol. She wasn't like this. She wasn't vulnerable. She wasn't soft. And he had never been invited into her personal space this intimately.
He cleared his throat. "Uh… Ms. Thorne. I… I wanted to say I'm sorry for your loss. Sebastian was a good man and…"
She lifted one hand sharply.
Not a threat. Just dismissal.
Not interested.
Her voice was low. "Sit."
There was a chair opposite her, one single armchair placed across a small coffee table. A deliberate setup. He walked over, touched the chair lightly, then adjusted it a few inches. Not for comfort. For positioning. For reaction time. In case he needed to move quickly.
Elizabeth's eyes flicked toward the adjustment.
She noticed.
She said nothing.
Austin sat.
Silence stretched thin between them. He watched her fingers curl around her mug, knuckles pale. She exhaled slowly, setting the mug down on the table with a soft clink.
"I did not sleep well," she said, voice quieter now.
Austin blinked, unsure how to respond. "I'm… sorry to hear that?"
Her jaw clenched.
He straightened slightly.
"Ms. Thorne," he said gently, "you said it was urgent. You needed me. What's going on?"
Elizabeth's gaze drifted to the bed, then back to him.
"I need you," she said, pausing over the words as if they tasted bitter, "to take out some people."
Austin stared.
"Take out," he repeated slowly. "You mean… kill them?"
Elizabeth didn't flinch. "A clan of werewolf hunters. They have been a nuisance for years. Their leader is a man named Cassius Vane."
Austin felt his stomach drop. He knew the name. FSS had files on them. Covert hunters. Ghosts among ghosts. Dangerous, organized, methodical.
Elizabeth leaned back in the chair, gaze fixed on him. "I need you to kill him. Him and anyone who stands with him."
He frowned. "Why me? Why now?"
She inhaled sharply. A small break in her mask. "Because I believe they were responsible for the death of Sebastian. And I want to sleep without imagining them laughing about it."
Austin felt anger ripple along her voice, not loud, but deep and heavy, like magma moving under rock.
"Why do you think they did it?" he asked.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Because I hit them where it hurt."
No elaboration. No details.
Typical Elizabeth.
He sat back, rubbing his palms together. He didn't want this. He didn't want blood on his hands again. He didn't want to kill someone he wasn't obligated to kill. He wasn't military anymore. He wasn't in the field. He wasn't taking lives for missions or for flags or for duty.
He exhaled. "I'm not doing that. Not unless I have proof. Not unless it's absolutely necessary."
Her nostrils flared. "Austin, do not play the saint with me. If your son was killed and you knew who did it, would you be so noble?"
His jaw locked. The room tilted for a second as images he tried to bury clawed up from memory. The question wasn't fair, and she knew it. But the hit landed anyway, straight to a place inside him he guarded fiercely.
Seconds stretched.
Her eyes watched him like she was seeing whether he would break or bend.
Finally, he inhaled slowly. "I'll see what I can do," he said. "I'll look into it. I'll try."
A small breath left her. Relief mixed with grief. Not victory. Not manipulation.
Relief.
It was the first genuine emotion she'd shown since he walked in.
He stood. "I need to get to work."
She nodded without speaking.
As he walked to the door, something in the air changed, a heaviness shifting as though the room exhaled behind him. He didn't look back. He couldn't. Her vulnerability felt like a sound only he had heard, something fragile enough to shatter if he acknowledged it twice.
He stepped out into the hallway, letting the door click shut. The silence of the manor swallowed him whole.
But his mind stayed in that room.
Replay after replay.
That single thin crack in Elizabeth Thorne.
And for the first time, he wondered if the house was not the only thing in mourning.