It’s October 19th. Which means I survived the panic, and Marked by Alphas 1: Prey is officially LIVE on Spotify right now!

And yes, it’s completely free. $0.00.

It’s over eleven hours of fully multi-cast madness, and I need you to listen all the way to the very end. Once the story wraps up, the voice actors at HeartString Media (Ren, Hudson, Uri, Adam, Finn, and Zane) stick around for a short free talk where they just absolute chaos, banter, and share behind-the-scenes nonsense.

Quick reminder on what’s coming next: Marked by Alphas 2: Claim drops a month from now on November 14th for $9.99 USD (Spotify only, for now). Of course, Spotify Premium subscribers can stream it for FREE using their included 15 monthly hours!

🎧 Listen on Spotify: Marked by Alphas 1: Prey

📚 Pre-save Book 2: Marked by Alphas 2: Claim

🌹 Follow the Author Page: Ruby Rose Wynter Author Page

🎙️ Meet the Voices Behind Your Obsessions (Plus Ren’s BaZi Chart!)

Because I have zero self-control and take world-building to extreme levels, today isn’t just the audiobook launch—I’ve also officially published the Velvet & Vice VA Roster Page on my site!

👉 Check out the Voice Actors: HeartString Media: Velvet & Vice Roster

You can now put faces to the voices, check out their vocal specialties, read their behind-the-scenes studio dynamics, and see who voices your favorite alphas!

And yes, because I am completely obsessed, I even went so far as to calculate a full BaZi astrology chart tailored to Ren Rosewood’s character personality. Go check it out if you are interested in Ren’s BaZi Chart reading and why his personality is the way he is!

👉 Check out Ren’s BaZi Chart: Ren Rosewood’s Profile & BaZi Analysis

🕒 A Quick Funny Note on Spotify’s “Worldwide” Time Zone Weirdness!

If you were wondering why this post/email didn’t hit your inbox earlier today—I just had a total realization about how Spotify handles audiobook launches!

Turns out, Spotify doesn’t released audiobook according to local time zones. Instead, Spotify anchors every global audiobook release to 12:00 AM Pacific Standard Time. Because I live in New Zealand (which is 17+ hours ahead of the US), midnight on October 19th in America translates to 8:00 PM on October 19th in NZ local time!

So I literally couldn’t hit “send” on this announcement or unlock the book for you until the clock caught up in the US. Live and learn! 😅

🌍 For My International BL Readers

If Spotify audiobooks aren’t unlocked in your country yet, hang tight! Spotify is currently rolling out audiobooks globally to over 180 countries. As Spotify expands the service to your region, Marked by Alphas 1: Prey will automatically unlock for you!

Why Spotify? Two big reasons:

1. Accessibility for YOU: Audible and Amazon and other audiobook apps are notorious for region-locking titles and making audiobooks unavailable or insanely expensive for readers across Asia and non-Western countries. Spotify is universally available, letting our global community listen without geographic lockouts! 💖

2. My BaZi chart HATES Audible 😉: As I mentioned in my previous post, my chart is currently running through a brutal 20-year Qi Sha (Metal) luck pillar. Amazon and Audible are heavily Earth/Metal platforms that act like a giant chainsaw chopping down my Yi Wood wildflower energy every time I try to grow there. Spotify is far more fluid, accessible, and aligned with my chart—so we are staying away from the platforms that fight my Qi! ✨

🌹 Moving Forward as Ruby Rose Wynter

From now on, I will officially be communicating with all of you as Ruby Rose Wynter!

It’s going to make things so much easier and cleaner for everyone—you, me, and any new readers joining us—so nobody gets confused across different platforms or series!

⚠️ IMPORTANT: Quick Spotify Audio Quality Hack!

Before you hit play, I have to give you a quick heads-up on a weird Spotify quirk.

Spotify’s default settings apply aggressive audio normalization to spoken-word audio, which can compress the voice actors and add an annoying, sharp, static-like “hiss” to spoken S and T sounds.

If the audio sounds hissy or harsh to your ears, it’s not the production quality—it’s Spotify’s processing! You can fix it in 10 seconds inside the app to get crystal-clear quality:

1. Tap your Profile Picture → Settings & Privacy → Playback.

2. Toggle Enable Audio Normalization to OFF.

3. Go to Settings & Privacy → Audio Quality and turn Auto-adjust quality to OFF (make sure Wi-Fi/Cellular are set to High or Very High).

(Optionally, if you want to tame high frequencies even further, pop into Spotify’s Equalizer under Playback and pull the 4 kHz and 8 kHz sliders down just a few decibels!)

What Else is Happening Today!

• Brand-New Covers & Name Updates: As of today, the ebook versions are officially updated with new covers and published under my new pen name, Ruby Rose Wynter (collapsing all my BL/MM reverse harem paranormal romance into one place that actually fits my Bazi chart!).

• Title Reminder: Book 1 is now Marked by Alphas 1: Prey (formerly Marked), and Book 2 is now Marked by Alphas 2: Claim (formerly Claimed). Same stories, fresh new look!

• Amazon Page Merge: If you spot Amazon looking a bit messy with two author pages floating around over the next few weeks while things migrate over from Zara K. Lee, don’t worry—nothing is broken, Amazon just moves at its own pace.

What’s Next?

The new dark shifter romantasy is still cooking and aiming for March 2027 (audio first, as promised). If I manage to finish early or sneak out a short audiobook release in between, you’ll be the first to know!

Go queue up Prey, turn off audio normalization, enjoy the HeartString Media chaos at the end, and let me know what you think!

Love,

Ruby Rose Wynter

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Last time I told you audio was coming in November. Plot twist: it’s coming sooner. October 19th. Yes, this month. Yes, I’m slightly panicking.

Marked by Alphas 1: Prey goes live on Spotify on October 19th, and it’s completely free. $0.00. It’s over eleven hours, fully multi-cast, and I need you to listen all the way to the end. After the story, my voice actors at HeartString Media (Ren, Hudson, Uri, Adam, Finn and Zane) did a free talk where they just... chaos. Banter, screwing around, behind-the-scenes nonsense.

Marked by Alphas 2: Claim follows on November 14th, a month later, for $9.99 USD. Spotify only, for now.

Now, a warning about how Spotify is behaving, because it’s weird and I don’t want you thinking I lied to you. Both audiobook pages are already live, on the website and in the app. You can’t pre-order anything yet. What you can do is hit the pre-save button and add them to your library, so they’re waiting for you on release day. Prices don’t show up yet either, so don’t panic when you see no number.

The other quirk is my author page. On the mobile app, the audiobooks appear under my Ruby Rose Wynter profile. On the web version, they don’t. Same books, same pages, just missing from the web profile for now. So if you go looking on desktop and my author page looks empty, it’s Spotify, not me. Use the direct links below, and please follow my author page while you’re there.

Marked by Alphas 1: Prey

Marked by Alphas 2: Claim

Ruby Rose Wynter Author Page

Now, the name thing.

Marked by Alphas and The Blood Moon Chronicles were originally published under Zara K. Lee. They’re moving. Every Zara K. Lee BL/MM reverse harem paranormal romance is coming over to Ruby Rose Wynter, which, if you read my last post, you know is the name that actually fits my chart. Splitting myself across pen names was never going to help a plant-energy person who’s trying to grow roots, so I’m collapsing it into one.

On October 19th, the ebook versions get updated with Ruby Rose Wynter on them and brand-new covers.

The titles are changing too, to match the audiobooks. Book 1 was Marked by Alphas 1: Marked, and it’s now Marked by Alphas 1: Prey. Book 2 was Marked by Alphas 2: Claimed, and it’s now Marked by Alphas 2: Claim. Same stories, new subtitles. If you already own the old versions, that’s why the names look different.

The actual merge of the two author pages on Amazon will take longer, because it’s step by step, and Amazon moves at its own speed. If things look messy for a few weeks, with listings in the wrong place or two author pages floating around, that’s why. Nothing’s broken. It’s just in progress.

And the dark one.

The new dark shifter romantasy is going well. Still aiming for March 2027, and still audio first, like I told you.

I know November to March is a huge gap. If I finish early, or if the new book lets me breathe, I might sneak something out in between. If I do, it’ll be an audiobook, probably from one of my existing stories, not a new ebook. No promises. It depends entirely on how much the new book is trying to eat me.

That’s everything. I can’t think of anything else to tell you, which is rare.

Pre-save the audiobooks on Spotify, follow the author page, watch for the new covers on the 19th.

Love,

Alex

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Let’s start with the part I’ve been dreading: I disappeared on you.

I dropped three episodes of Hearts of the Cultivators serial on YouTube in July, told you there’d be more, and then went completely silent. If you subscribed, watched, waited — I’m sorry. That’s on me, and I’ve been carrying it around like a rock in my shoe ever since.

So here’s the honest version of where I’ve been.

I was furious.

I keep seeing authors describe this part as “an emotional rollercoaster,” and I understand why — it’s the polite phrasing. But that’s not what it was for me. What I actually hit was a wall of I am so sick of this shit.

Sick of writing books I genuinely believe in and watching them go absolutely nowhere. Sick of doing everything right — the blurb, the cover, the categories, the newsletter, the launch plan, the whole indie-author checklist that everyone swears works — and getting crickets. Sick of doing it for years.

There’s a specific flavor of exhaustion that comes from working hard at something and having the effort just... not convert. It’s not sadness. It’s closer to rage with nowhere to go. You start wondering if you’re delusional. If the stories are actually bad. If you should stop.

I didn’t stop. But I did stop pretending the strategy was the problem.

Okay, time for the weird part

Some of you know this about me and some of you absolutely don’t, so here we go.

I’ve been studying BaZi — Chinese astrology — for over ten years. Obsessively, thousands-of-charts-deep. (Fun easter egg: if you’ve ever wondered why I pick pen names like Ruby Rose Wynter or Ivy Hayward, yes… that is literally by design. I am a Yi Wood Day Master—think delicate bamboo, ivy, and wildflowers. My whole vibe is plant energy trying to grow roots and spread outward.)

So when people find out and assume I recently discovered I’m in a rough luck pillar and that’s my big revelation — no. I’ve known about this twenty-year stretch for years. I knew going in. I knew what it meant. I’d already made peace with the idea that this chunk of my life was going to be uphill regardless of how hard I pushed.

What’s new isn’t the diagnosis. What’s new is understanding the actual mechanism, and what it means I have to do about it.

Here’s the mechanism, in plain terms:

I am running a pure Seven Killings (Qi Sha) pillar—specifically heavy, rigid Metal like Geng Shen and Xin You.

If you don’t know the system, picture it like this: I’m a wildflower (Yi Wood) trying to spread out, and a giant metal axe or chainsaw comes through and cuts it straight down at the stem. Or if you’re a Ding Fire (a delicate candle flame), Qi Sha is a bucket of freezing water dumped right on top of you. It doesn’t just make growth inefficient—it actively snuffs it out and severs the effort.

If you’ve ever gone through a phase in life where every time you try to build something, weird unexplained shit keeps happening to push you backward, or you constantly get into trouble for just existing and trying to grow... you’ve felt Qi Sha.

• You can feel it for a visiting month (a rough 30 days).

• You can feel it for a visiting year (a brutal 12 months).

• I’m living it in a 20-year stretch.

Which means the harder I try to force traditional, static growth, the more there is to cut down. For ten years I read that as “this is going to be a hard stretch, push through it.” That’s the textbook version, and it’s wrong for this specific configuration. You don’t out-muscle a chainsaw. Pushing harder into rigid growth is exactly the move that keeps getting punished.

So over the last year and a half I went back to the chart with my own creative brain instead of the textbook one — studied thousands of charts to see if there are patterns. There are.

So what does that actually mean for me? It means I need to aligned my writing and my way of doing my indie author business with my personal bazi chart. Hence, audiobook first.

This is not a full pivot away from ebooks and paperbacks. Those aren’t going away — they’re just moving to secondary delivery instead of the main push.

I did try to bring the YouTube visual audio novel serial into this too, since it’s technically audio-adjacent — but I realized two separate things killed that plan. One, YouTube is its own rule-bound, algorithm-gated platform, every bit as Earth/Metal as Amazon or Audible. Two, and just as importantly: producing a full visual audio novel is enormous work, and right now that’s not where my energy should go.

So: audio to the front, quietly, off the platforms that fight my chart. Text still exists, just not where I’m pushing. Backlist building underground until this pillar clears.

🔥 BEAUTIFUL TORMENT IS OUT TODAY

Book 2 of the Beautiful Sin Series is live. (September 15th — though depending on where you are in the world, your “today” might be my “tomorrow.” Time zones are their own kind of chaos.)

Lan is back. The Sinclair brothers are worse. Vegas happens.

Rule #2 for surviving life with four stepbrothers: Don’t cross lines you can’t uncross, no matter how tempting they might be.

Guess who’s collecting broken rules like they’re limited edition trading cards?

Living with the Sinclair brothers after crossing that line with Jaxson? Pure chaos. Especially when that honey-sweet scent has intensified, golden threads appear whenever we touch, and I’m having dreams about ancient temples that feel more like memories than imagination.

But it’s not just Jaxson anymore. Colt watches me with barely contained intensity, his protectiveness morphing into something far more possessive. Xander’s quiet attention has become a tangible weight, his calculated patience showing dangerous cracks whenever Jaxson and I are together.

Then Las Vegas happens. One hotel suite, three beautiful stepbrothers, and enough unresolved tension to fuel a small country. When I finally surrender to whatever this is between Jaxson and me, there’s no going back.

I never meant to shatter our family dynamic into a million glittering pieces. I certainly never expected to wonder if I’ve made the greatest mistake of my life — or finally found exactly where I belong.

This is either destiny finally claiming what was always hers or the most spectacular disaster in the history of complicated families.

Definitely both.

What you’re walking into:

• A snarky protagonist with a very forbidden crush

• Three possessive, protective alpha stepbrothers

• Reverse harem & fated mates

• Found family dynamics

• Touch hunger and physical intensity

• Only one bed (yes, in Vegas, yes, with all of them)

• Past-life connections and ancient temple dreams

• Soul-deep bonds

The hotel suite chapter nearly killed me to write. I need someone to scream at me about it.

GRAB BEAUTIFUL TORMENT

(on Amazon and in KU)

If you read it and enjoy it, a review genuinely helps more than I can explain.

🌊 The big shift: audiobooks in November

This is where the chart stuff stops being theoretical.

I’m moving into audio. I’m in production right now and launching in November this year.

Marked by Alphas will be going up on Spotify, and Book 1 will be FREE. If you have Spotify Premium, you already get 15 hours of audiobook listening per month included in your subscription—so you won’t have to spend an extra dime or worry about credit limits.

I’ll send you direct links closer to launch so you can dive right in!

🐺 The secret project (March 2027)

I’ve also been quietly writing something new, and I want to tell you about it before it’s finished because keeping secrets is not one of my talents.

Dark BL MM reverse harem shifter romantasy.

And I do mean dark. These male leads are not soft. They’re not going to learn a gentle lesson about communication. They are morally gray in the way where you should probably be concerned. We’re talking stalking. We’re talking body count. All of it in service of keeping one beautiful omega safe, which they consider extremely reasonable behavior and would be baffled to hear otherwise.

Hotly unhinged. That’s the whole brief.

This one goes straight to audiobook first. The ebook and paperback won’t exist until the entire series is written and complete — that’s the plan, and I’m sticking to it. Audio first, text later, series finished before anything gets published in written form.

Target: March 2027.

And the YouTube serial?

Not dead. Parked.

Hearts of the Cultivators visual audio novel is still very much alive in my head and in my files — it just got shelved while I sorted out everything above. I’d rather tell you honestly that it’s on pause than keep promising episodes I’m not delivering. When I have a real date, you’ll get a real date.

Thank you for still being here

Genuinely. Some of you have been on this list through multiple quiet stretches and multiple “okay THIS time I’ve figured it out” announcements, and you’re still here. That’s not nothing. That’s the thing that makes this worth continuing to do.

I’m not promising a perfect posting schedule. I’m promising I’ll stop vanishing without a word, and that when I go quiet, I’ll tell you why.

Go read Beautiful Torment. Come back and tell me who your favorite Sinclair brother is. I have opinions and I will argue.

Love,

Alex

P.S. — If the BaZi stuff was interesting to you rather than deeply strange, tell me. I have a decade of this rattling around in my head and I’d happily write a proper post breaking down how I read my own chart and what I found. If it was too much, tell me that too. I can take it.

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MARKED BY SHADOWS IS OUT! Now on Amazon and in KU to read.

To be completely honest with you all... there was a massive, terrifying moment where I didn’t think this book was going to make its release date at all.

The Behind-the-Scenes Drama (Or: How I almost aged ten years)

I usually like to keep things smooth sailing, but this launch was an absolute nail-biter. My editor was very late returning the manuscript—on the absolute last possible day to upload it to Amazon before they locked the files.

Cue me, sitting in New Zealand, furiously sweating, panic-checking the clocks between NZ and America, and doing a mad-dash formatting sprint to hit that upload button just in time. I was incredibly stressed, but the universe aligned, the romance gods smiled down, and we made it.

🔮 Welcome to the Void Chronicles

If you love grumpy mediums, possessive alpha detectives, and high-stakes paranormal tension, Marked by Shadows is going to be right up your alley. Here is a taste of what’s waiting for you inside and hope you love the cover as much as I do. Yeah, that’s Enzo!!!

READ MARKED BY SHADOWS

(on amazon and in ku)

The Synopsis

Rule #1 of surviving as a semi-functional medium: Don’t take jobs that sound too good to be true.

But here I am, broke and desperate enough to let a finance bro ghost talk me into breaking into his own apartment for a hundred grand. I thought my biggest problem would be the dead screaming in my head and my spectacular lack of impulse control.

Then I found the symbols. The same ones that killed my parents. And five cops burst through the door.

Enzo Cross, the detective whose dark intensity makes me want to bare my throat despite every survival instinct screaming danger. His pack—because apparently cops travel in packs now—includes a mountain named Kieran whose presence makes me feel small in ways that shouldn’t be appealing; Soren, the sleek analyst who watches me like I’m a problem he wants to solve with his hands; Cade, the fighter whose sharp smile promises he bites; and Dante, the charming detective whose bedroom eyes and filthy mouth make my brain short-circuit.

They all look at me like I’m a puzzle they’re determined to solve. Then Enzo touches me, and the dead go silent.

For the first time, I can hear myself think. That silence is more addictive than any drug, more dangerous than any demon. And these five men look at me like I’m something precious instead of something broken.

But the ritual that killed my parents isn’t finished. It wants me, and the thing hunting me doesn’t care how many possessive detectives stand in its way.

🔥 What to Expect Inside:

• MM Reverse Harem / Poly Urban Paranormal Romantasy

• A snarky, exhausted protagonist medium who just wants five minutes of peace

• Five possessive, protective alpha detectives who might not be fully human

• Found family and fated mates

• Touch him and die vibes

• Supernatural threats & a dangerous mystery

• Western magic mixed with Eastern cultivation

• A size difference that’ll make you absolute swoon

• Forced proximity & intense, touch-starved tension

Thank you all so much for your patience, your excitement, and for riding the waves of this chaotic release week with me. Go grab your copy, meet Ruby and his detectives, and let me know what you think!

Happy reading,

Alex [Ruby Rose Wynter]

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⚡ Episode 3 of Hearts of the Cultivators is LIVE on YouTube!

Witness the brutal fall of the corrupt Tianyi Sect through the eyes of the formidable Jiang Yuelou, alongside his lethal brothers Zhao Minghua and Xu Zhelan. Discover what happens when the feared “Six Demons of Lingshan” arrive at the base of Bai Chen’s mountain—and what happens when Jiang steps out for fresh air, only to stumble upon a certain beautiful “bamboo spirit” he vows to bring back to Lingshan by any means necessary.

👉 CLICK HERE TO VISIT THE CHANNEL AND START LISTENING/WATCHING

👉 WATCH EP 3!

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The ink has dried, the spiritual arrays are aligned, and the gates are finally open!

Welcome to HeartString Media—my absolute labor of love. Along with the studio launch, I am so incredibly excited to officially debut my new pen name, Poppy Wei Lian, which will be my dedicated creative home for all things BL, Reverse Harem, and Chinese fantasy!

As a one-woman empire, I have spent the last year pouring my heart, soul, and endless hours into building this universe from scratch. Today, I am so thrilled to finally share my flagship project with you: Hearts of the Cultivators, a premium Visual Audio Novel Serial.

If you love possessive immortal masters, soul-deep fated bonds, hidden power dynamics, and gorgeous ancient cultivation fantasy aesthetics, I made this exactly for you.

🏮 Day 1 Launch Collection — Out Now (July 17th, 2026)

I didn’t want to just give you a tiny teaser today. I wanted to drop you straight into the thick of the cultivation sects with a massive triple-release! You can stream all of these right now on the channel:

• 🌸 “Invisible No More” (Official Series Theme Song): Lose yourself in the official OST. It’s a sweeping, atmospheric arrangement featuring traditional Guqin, haunting Dizi flute, and a heart-soaring Erhu orchestral swell that captures the quiet, beautiful perspective of my protagonist, Bai Chen.

• 🌿 Episode 1: The Gathering Storm: Meet Bai Chen—a brilliant youth deliberately masking his appearance to stay invisible as a low-profile disciple in the small Qinggu Sect. But as news arrives that the ruthless Lingshan Sect has violently overthrown the powerful Tianyi Sect, his peaceful world begins to crack.

• ♨️ Episode 2: The Bamboo Hot Spring: While the rest of the sect panics over their impending Lingshan visitors, Bai Chen focuses on his secret, cultivation-boosting wild boar stew and slips away to a hidden hot spring in the bamboo forest. But his solitude is shattered by a devastatingly powerful, masked stranger who sees straight through his “ordinary” disguise.

👉 CLICK HERE TO VISIT THE CHANNEL AND START LISTENING/WATCHING

WATCH INVISIBLE NO MORE OST

WATCH EPISODE 1

WATCH EPISODE 2

⚔️ Dropping Tomorrow: The Masters Arrive (July 18th)

The story doesn’t stop here! Set your notifications, because tomorrow I’m flipping the script completely to the perspective of the legendary, formidable Lingshan Sect masters.

• ⚡ Episode 3 (Launching July 18th): Witness the brutal fall of the corrupt Tianyi Sect through the eyes of the formidable Jiang Yuelou, alongside his lethal brothers Zhao Minghua and Xu Zhelan. Discover what happens when the feared “Six Demons of Lingshan” arrive at the base of Bai Chen’s mountain—and what happens when Jiang steps out for fresh air, only to stumble upon a certain beautiful “bamboo spirit” he vows to bring back to Lingshan by any means necessary.

🎙️ Behind the Voices

This isn’t your standard, single-narrator audiobook. Hearts of the Cultivators is a fully realized audio drama. I have spent the last year carefully directing and engineering each of these digital voice talents to give them their own distinct personalities, character designs, and looks. I wanted each master to sound exactly like the money asset they are!

• Bai Chen — Voiced by Ren Rosewood

• Master Jiang — Voiced by Hudson Calder

• Master Zhao — Voiced by Aaron Valen

• Master Xu — Voiced by Uri Blaché

• ...and the rest of the masters ready to claim what is theirs.

Combined with the custom stylized webtoon panel illustrations and dynamic cinematic editing I’ve put together, this series is meant to be an immersive visual experience as much as an auditory one.

📚 The Big Future: Amazon Novel & Author Page!

While you dive into the audio drama version, I have a massive announcement regarding the written word. The official Hearts of the Cultivators book is officially coming to Amazon!

• The Release Date: Mark your calendars for July 12th, 2027. Yes, I know—it is a long way from now (a lifetime in cultivation years!), but the universe is massive and I am crafting it to perfection.

• The Covers: The official book covers are strictly under wraps for now, but I will be hosting a grand reveal closer to the release date as the timeline gets closer!

• Follow the Journey: My official Amazon Author Page for Poppy Wei Lian is officially live! Please head over and hit that Follow button right now so you are automatically notified the absolute second pre-orders go live.

PRE-ORDER HEARTS OF THE CULTIVATORS BOOK

CHECK OUT POPPY AUTHOR PAGE ON AMAZON

🎬 See the World Come to Life on Facebook! Want to see character art drops, exclusive short video teasers, and cinematic Reels? I’ve officially launched the HeartString Media Facebook Page! It’s going to be our main hub for bite-sized visual content and daily updates, so come over, follow the page, and say hello in the comments!

✨ Support the Sect!

Since I am running this whole empire solo, your early support genuinely means the world to me! Please take a second to Like, Comment, and Subscribe on YouTube to help a fresh indie creator beat the algorithm.

Step into the mist, cultivators. Your masters are waiting.

— Alex

🔗 OFFICIAL LINKS & CHANNELS:

► Official Website: https://www.heartstringmedia.com

► YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/@HeartStringMedia

► Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/HeartStringMedia

COPYRIGHT & LEGAL NOTICE © 2026 HeartString Media. All rights reserved.

#BL #BLSeries #Audiobook #RomanceAudiobook #Danmei #Xianxia #Cultivation #BLStory #HeartStringMedia #HeartsoftheCultivators #PoppyWeiLian

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Not only is a story out in the world today, but I am officially opening a thrilling new corner of my still growing unvierse. Today, I am incredibly excited to introduce my new dedicated pen name for all things supernatural romance, PNR, and urban romantasy: Ruby Rose Wynter 🌹.

Under the Ruby Rose Wynter vault, you can expect heavy doses of BL/MM romance with a dark edge—where magic is ancient, forces are supernatural, the “heats” are primal, and the chemistry is explosive enough to fog up your e-reader. From hell-gate breaches to fiercely protective fated packs, these are stories of sealed monstrous powers and high-voltage passion that leaves a mark.

And what better way to crack open the vault than with a release? Beautiful Sin (The Beautiful Sin Series, Book 1) is officially live and out in the world today!

🖤 Welcome to the Sinclair-Ji household

I am so incredibly excited (and always a little nervous!) to finally hand this story over to you. This book has been a labor of absolute love, packed with everything that makes my writer-heart beat faster: intense forbidden tension, forced proximity, a fiercely snarky protagonist, and alpha heroes who are completely obsessed.

If you love BL MM reverse harem, fated mates, and a cramped apartment with entirely too much sexual tension, Lan Ji and the Sinclair brothers are ready for you.

BEAUTIFUL SIN

(The Beautiful Sin Series, Book 1)

Rule #1 for surviving life with four stepbrothers: Don’t fantasize about any of them.

Especially not the three gorgeous ones who watch me like I’m their favorite dessert.

Guess how well that’s working out for me?

Living in a cramped apartment with the Sinclair brothers was never going to be easy. Not when Jaxson’s protectiveness borders on obsession, Colt’s eyes track my every move, and Xander’s quiet attention misses nothing.

But it’s Jaxson—six foot three of sinful temptation with a smile that could launch a thousand ships—who keeps me awake at night.

One heated moment shattered the careful distance between us, and now there’s no going back. His touch lingers. His voice drops when he says my name. And that honey-sweet scent that appears whenever we’re close? Yeah, that’s new and definitely not normal.

Something ancient is awakening between us, something that feels terrifyingly right despite being so very, very wrong.

They say blood is thicker than water, but they never mentioned what happens when destiny comes knocking with a wrecking ball.

I never meant to fall for my stepbrother. I certainly never expected to feel this pull toward all three of them.

But here we are—one snarky college student, three impossibly beautiful stepbrothers, and a connection that defies all logic.

This is either the greatest love story never told or the fastest way to destroy everything we’ve built.

Probably both.

What to expect in Beautiful Sin:

• 🌟 A snarky protagonist with a forbidden crush

• 🐺 Three possessive, protective alpha stepbrothers

• 🔥 Reverse harem & fated mates

• 🫂 Found family dynamics

• ⚡ Touch hunger & physical intensity

• 🛏️ “Only one bed” situations

• ⏳ Mysterious connections to past lives & soul-deep bonds

• 🌶️ Slow burn to steamy encounters

Read Beautiful Sin

(Out July 12th, 2026)

Pre-Order Beautiful Torment

(Released September 15th, 2026)

Happy reading, stay swooning, and go grab your copy!

With love and gratitude,

Alexandria 🌹

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If you’ve been following my writing journey for a while, you know that some characters simply refuse to stay quiet. They live in your head, whispering (or shouting) that their story isn’t done yet.

Well, a certain series shouted so loud that it completely rewrote its own destiny.

Many of you remember Haru to Aiden, the 40K book I published a long time ago under the pen name Bella Chan. It was Book 1 of a 5-book contemporary stepbrother romance series. A while back, I brought it to Substack as a live serial called Beautiful Sin. It was hitting the 100K mark, but it still felt like something was missing. The angst was there, but the universe wanted to be bigger.

So, I took the serial down, went back to the drawing board, and let the characters completely take over. Now, that original story exploded into an ancient, deep-lore, supernatural MM reverse harem romance.

Because the world-building and lore became so much deeper, the characters got a massive upgrade, including brand-new names to match their new identities:

• Haru Ono is now Lan Ji (and yes, he is still just as snarky, witty, and beautifully angsty as all my signature protagonists!)

• Reo Ono is now Wei Ji

• The Davis Brothers (Aiden, Noah, Mason, Isaac) are now the Sinclair Brothers (Jaxson, Colt, Xander, and Nico)

What was once a 40K/100K contemporary draft is now a massive 200K story that I have split into two: Book 1: Beautiful Sin and Book 2: Beautiful Torment. And remember, this is still just the first part of their grand journey—there are more books coming in the series as Lan’s reverse harem fully develops!

What went from a simple stepbrother romance has evolved into an ancient Chinese deep-lore contemporary romance mixed with fated soul bonds, cosmic connections, and supernatural secrets. I honestly don’t even know what exact niche or genre to classify this under, but I know one thing: it is intense, it is steamy, and I am obsessed with it.

Here is your very first look at the official blurb for the newly reborn BEAUTIFUL SIN.

BEAUTIFUL SIN

(The Beautiful Sin Series, Book 1)

Rule #1 for surviving life with four stepbrothers: Don’t fantasize about any of them.

Especially not the three gorgeous ones who watch me like I’m their favorite dessert.

Guess how well that’s working out for me?

Living in a cramped apartment with the Sinclair brothers was never going to be easy. Not when Jaxson’s protectiveness borders on obsession, Colt’s eyes track my every move, and Xander’s quiet attention misses nothing.

But it’s Jaxson—six foot three of sinful temptation with a smile that could launch a thousand ships—who keeps me awake at night.

One heated moment shattered the careful distance between us, and now there’s no going back. His touch lingers. His voice drops when he says my name. And that honey-sweet scent that appears whenever we’re close? Yeah, that’s new and definitely not normal.

Something ancient is awakening between us, something that feels terrifyingly right despite being so very, very wrong.

They say blood is thicker than water, but they never mentioned what happens when destiny comes knocking with a wrecking ball.

I never meant to fall for my stepbrother. I certainly never expected to feel this pull toward all three of them.

But here we are—one snarky college student, three impossibly beautiful stepbrothers, and a connection that defies all logic.

This is either the greatest love story never told or the fastest way to destroy everything we’ve built.

Probably both.

What to expect in Beautiful Sin:

• 🌟 A snarky protagonist with a forbidden crush

• 🐺 Three possessive, protective alpha stepbrothers

• 🔥 Reverse harem & fated mates

• 🫂 Found family dynamics

• ⚡ Touch hunger & physical intensity

• 🛏️ “Only one bed” situations

• ⏳ Mysterious connections to past lives & soul-deep bonds

• 🌶️ Slow burn to steamy encounters

The Countdown is On! 🗓️

Beautiful Sin officially releases on July 12th—which is just a few days away!

In my last post, I mentioned that Beautiful Torment was with my editor and that I had planned for its release around July 18th so you guys could read the books back-to-back. Well, as indie authors know all too well, we are often completely at the mercy of our turnarounds and external schedules. Because of this editing bottleneck, the new release date for Beautiful Torment will officially be September 15th.

The silver lining? Both books are officially available for pre-order right now! Look at these gorgeous covers below! If you want to make sure they land on your Kindle the second they drop, you can secure your copies today. Or, if you are a Kindle Unlimited reader, get your reading snacks ready because Beautiful Sin will be available to read for FREE in KU on launch day!

Pre-Order Beautiful Sin

(Released July 12th)

Pre-Order Beautiful Torment

(Released September 15th)

A Little Window Into My World 🌊❄️

I rarely talk about my personal life in my posts, but keeping you guys at arm’s length right now just feels too distant—so here is a bit of what’s been happening behind the scenes. To say things have been chaotic lately is a massive understatement.

Between the freezing New Zealand winter temperatures, sudden flooding, and an unexpected leaking roof that has turned our house upside down, it’s been a lot to handle. Plus, my 86-year-old father lives with me and my two younger sisters, so trying to look after him and herd everyone through all this household madness has been a real juggling act. So yeah... there is definitely a lot going on over here!

Channel Launch, Xianxia Serials, & A Surprise Book Drop?! 🎙️✨

Remember in my last post when I teased you about my new YouTube Channel for my visual audio novel serials? Well, life has definitely reshaped those plans too! Originally, I wanted to launch two serials back-to-back, but I’ve decided to focus entirely on just one first to give it the absolute, undivided attention it deserves.

The production phase has become an absolute beast—in the best way possible! What started as a simple plan to feature background art has evolved into a full-on, immersive production featuring complete character art integrated right into the scenes.

The premier launching serial is going to be my BL Reverse Harem Danmei Xianxia (Cultivation) Romantasy!

Keep your eyes peeled, because the official teaser, launch posts, and all the relevant links will be dropping on July 17th. Meanwhile, here is a sneak peek of our celestial beauty protagonist below!

BUT WAIT... THERE’S MORE! 🎁

July 17th is officially turning into the biggest day of my summer (or winter, for my fellow Kiwis)! Because I am also pushing to release a brand-new book on that exact same day under the same pen name as Beautiful Sin!

This upcoming release is an MM Reverse Harem Urban Paranormal Romantasy. Some of you might remember that I originally planned for this project to be a visual audio novel serial on YouTube as well. While I’ve decided to postpone the audio version for now to protect my sanity, the book itself is still full steam ahead!

Now, full disclosure: normally, I never launch a book like this. I always make sure my books are completely ready and returned weeks before the release date. But life throws curveballs, schedules get disrupted, and well… here we are! My editor has promised to return it to me today or tomorrow. Haha. It is cutting it incredibly close and I am mildly terrified, but I am fiercely determined to have it in your hands by July 17th.

Because we’re playing a high-stakes game of chicken with the calendar, the official teasers, cover reveal, and pre-order links will be coming very soon. Watch this space!

Thank you all so much for your endless patience, love, and support while I navigate both these frustrating editor delays and the chaos at home. I can’t wait for you to dive into Beautiful Sin in just a few days, and then join me on YouTube and for a surprise book drop on the 17th!

Stay cozy, and happy reading!

Alexandria 🌹

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If you’ve noticed a bit of radio silence over here lately, it’s because I have officially bitten off more than I can chew. I am currently drowning in manuscripts, audio/video editing, and general chaos because… I am launching a new YouTube channel this July!

Because I apparently don’t know how to do anything in moderation, I am launching serializations that I write, edit, and produce entirely by myself. Is it impressive? Or is it a literal cry for help? Honestly, the jury is still out.

Here is the breakdown of the madness coming your way:

🎙️ The YouTube Lineup: Visual Audio Novels

Yes, you read that right. Visual audio novels! Think webnovel serial style. Because I’m working on these chapter-by-chapter, there won’t be an ebook for the Xianxia/Cultivation series right away. That’ll come later. For now, you get a weekly drop on YouTube!

Mark your calendars: The channel launches on July 17th, so stay tuned for a post and email on that date.

• The Schedule: The plan is for chapters to drop weekly. Now, if I am totally drowning and losing my mind, I might miss a week here and there, but we’ll see!

• A Shameless Hint: Watching those subscriber counts tick up and seeing the view numbers climb is basically the only thing keeping my fragile self-esteem afloat right now. The more love the channel gets, the faster those chapters will magically appear. Haha. Just saying! 😉.

Please appreciate the beauty below (and also my suffering for the sake of storytelling)!

🗺️ IMPORTANT: A Heads-Up About a Massive Rebrand!

Because this YouTube channel has a different brand name, I am changing my entire online presence—including this Substack’s name and URL—to match the new channel on July 17th.

If you suddenly get an email notification or see a completely new name in your Substack feed on July 17th, DO NOT PANIC! It is still me! I’m just getting a shiny new coat of paint to match the new visual audio novel empire.

📚 The Amazon News: Beautiful Sin is Coming!

For those of you who remember Beautiful Sin from when it was serialized right here on Substack before I took it down—it is finally polished and ready for the world!

• July 12th: Beautiful Sin (Book 1) launches in full-length book format on Amazon!

• Book 2? Hopefully July 18th, but we’ll see. The book is currently with my editor and I’m crossing my fingers that I get it back on time.

Why no pre-orders? This is exactly why I never put up Amazon pre-orders until the absolute last second. I refuse to risk the wrath of the Amazon gods if a book isn’t ready in time! So, keep your eyes peeled for the drop notice. Cover reveals and teasers for Beautiful Sin are coming soon.

💖 How to Support My Descent Into Madness

If you want to support my creative chaos (and see a whole pack of gorgeous men fighting over one snarky uke), make sure you keep an eye out for the channel launch on July 17th! I’ll drop the links as soon as it goes live.

Ebooks will live on Amazon KU, but this Substack is still your go-to spot for all my frantic behind-the-scenes updates.

Thank you all for being here and cheering on my chaotic writing journey. Wish me luck—I’m going to need it!

Xoxo,

Alexandria

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With Book 2 (Defiant Desire) now officially out in the wild, I wanted to do something special to celebrate. Whether you’ve been waiting to dive into the story or you want to gift a copy to a fellow romance lover, now is the perfect time.

Starting this Wednesday, May 20th, through Sunday, May 24th, Book 1, Defiant Surrender, is completely FREE on Amazon!

If you haven’t met Ellis and Captain Bancroft yet, here is what is waiting for you inside:

An unwanted marriage arrangement. A protective military alpha. A sassy country omega who vows to never surrender.

When Ellis’s brother dies in battle, he leaves behind a crumbling estate and a forced engagement to his commanding officer. Ellis despises Captain Alec Bancroft on principle—he failed to bring his brother home safely, and Ellis doesn’t need an alpha out of pure obligation. But forced proximity under the same roof changes everything. When an unexpected heat strikes, their fierce emotional friction collides with a blazing, undeniable biological compatibility.

Defiant Surrender is a steamy, slow-burn MM Omegaverse fantasy romance packed with delicious tension, hurt/comfort, age gap, and fated soulmates.

🗓️ The Details:

• What: Defiant Surrender (Book 1)

• Price: $0.00 (Free on Kindle)

• When: Wednesday, May 20th – Sunday, May 24th

If you download a copy, it helps immensely if you leave a quick rating or review on Amazon—it tells the algorithms to keep pushing the book out to new readers.

📢 Big News: The Ivy Hayward Facebook Page is LIVE!

Want to make sure you never miss a notification, release date, or fun behind-the-scenes extra? Head over and follow the brand-new [Ivy Hayward Facebook Page]! This is where I’ll be dropping all updates moving forward.

Check out the page HERE!

Looking ahead, I will be setting up dedicated pages for my other upcoming pen names, alongside a main master brand hub. That’s where the real fun starts—including videos, reels, and the official launch of my audio novel serials, which will be streaming across Facebook, YouTube, and Spotify. Hit follow on the new page now so you’re on the ground floor for everything coming next!

Thank you all so much for your incredible support. Happy reading, and go grab your copy!

Download Defiant Surrender for Free

Subscribe now

Honestly, writing this second book was such a journey, and I am so excited (and maybe a little nervous, as always) to finally share it with you. If you’ve been wondering how our favorite country omega handles being thrust into the absolute shark tank of the Imperial Capital’s high society, you’re about to find out.

To give you a little taste of what you’re stepping into today, here is a quick look at what’s waiting for you in Book 2:

Alec’s world is nothing like my quiet countryside life. There are balls to attend, empresses to charm, and a terrifyingly fashionable duchess who looks at my alpha like he’s the last cake at a garden party. Meanwhile, his cousin keeps shoving me into scandalous undergarments, the aristocracy can’t decide whether to adore me or devour me, and my wolfhound has declared war on the estate’s rose gardens.

But beneath the glittering surface, something extraordinary is happening between us. Our bond is deepening in ways that neither of us expected—rare, ancient, and impossibly powerful. Every touch sparks light only we can see. Every kiss echoes through a connection that borders on magic. And every night, my devastatingly handsome alpha takes me apart so thoroughly that I’m running out of witty comebacks.

Which is frankly unacceptable.

If you love an established couple figuring out their fated bond, plenty of fish-out-of-water high society drama, a sassy omega who refuses to be pushed around, and an alpha who gets a little vulnerable, this one is for you.

As a quick reminder, Defiant Desire is Book 2 in The Captain and His Healer (and part of the broader Duty and Desire series).

READ DEFIANT DESIRE

(ON AMAZON AND IN KU)

If you haven't started Alec and Ellis’s story yet, go back and grab Book 1, Defiant Surrender, to see exactly how our feisty country healer first collided with his devastating captain.

READ DEFIANT SURRENDER

(ON AMAZON AND IN KU)

Sneak Peek & Teaser

As we left the dining room, I was acutely aware of Alec’s hand at my waist, his grip tight enough to suggest he was exercising considerable restraint. The moment we rounded the corner into a deserted corridor, he moved with startling swiftness, backing me against the wall with his body caging mine, one hand braced beside my head while the other remained possessively at my waist.

“You,” he growled, his voice deeper than I’d ever heard it, “have been driving me to distraction all evening.”

“Me?” I managed, breathless from the sudden proximity. “You’re the one who spent the entire meal conducting an exploratory mission beneath the tablecloth!”

His dimple appeared briefly before his expression darkened again with hunger. “I don’t appreciate Henderson’s attention to you.”

“If you were any more obvious about your disapproval, you’d have urinated on my shoes to mark your territory,” I replied, trying for tartness despite the way my body was responding to his proximity with embarrassing eagerness. “I doubt the aristocracy would consider that appropriate dinner etiquette, even for an alpha.”

His laugh was rough and unexpectedly genuine. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, his face moving closer until our breath mingled. “Absolutely impossible.”

“So you’ve mentioned. Repeatedly.” I tilted my chin up in challenge, though my defiance was undermined by the way my pulse hammered visibly at the base of my throat. “Though that hasn’t seemed to diminish your interest.”

“Nothing could diminish my interest in you, Ellis Fairhaven,” he said, the simple declaration carrying more weight than any flowery speech.

Before I could formulate a response, he moved with lethal grace. In one fluid motion, he pressed me against the wall, his powerful body caging mine completely. One hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back as his mouth descended on mine with devastating hunger.

This was no gentle exploration. This was possession—raw, primal, and absolute. His lips claimed mine with bruising intensity, his tongue sweeping past my startled gasp to taste me with thorough demand. The rich sandalwood-cedar of his scent engulfed me completely, intensified by his arousal into something wild and untamed that made my knees threaten to buckle beneath me.

I should have pushed him away—we were in a public corridor where any servant might discover us engaged in decidedly improper behavior. Instead, I melted against him, my hands fisting in the front of his jacket as I surrendered to his demanding kiss with embarrassing eagerness. My body arched instinctively into his, seeking more contact, more pressure, more everything as a soft, needy sound escaped my throat.

Alec growled in response, the vibration rumbling through his chest where it pressed against mine. His teeth nipped at my lower lip before his tongue soothed the sting, the contrast between sharp pain and pleasure making me gasp. The hand not tangled in my hair slid possessively down my side to grip my hip, fingers digging in with barely restrained strength as he pulled me harder against him.

I could feel every hard plane of his body, every tense muscle, the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing insistently against my stomach. The blue-gold light of our bond pulsed between us, visible even through closed eyelids as our scents mingled and intensified, creating a feedback loop of mutual hunger.

When he finally broke away, we were both breathing hard, my lips swollen and tender from the force of his passion. His pupils had expanded until only a thin ring of midnight blue remained, and a flush of color rode high on his cheekbones. I could feel the rapid thunder of his heartbeat where our chests remained pressed together, matching the frantic pace of my own.

“Ellis,” he murmured, his voice a rough growl that seemed torn from somewhere primal and desperate, his forehead resting against mine, “I need you in my bed. Tonight.”

The raw need in his voice sent a shiver racing down my spine, my body responding with an answering surge of desire. “That’s rather presumptuous, Captain,” I managed, though the breathless quality of my voice and the honeysuckle-jasmine sweetness flooding the air between us undermined any pretense of indifference.

His thumb traced the curve of my lower lip, now sensitive from his attentions. “Our rooms have a connecting door that I very much hope you’ll allow me to use.”

I should have maintained some pretense of resistance—some token protest to salvage my pride. Instead, I nodded, my body’s need overriding any lingering caution. “I suppose that would be the sensible arrangement,” I said weakly. “Since you’re so concerned about my navigational challenges.”

His smile was slow and predatory, a pure alpha expression of satisfaction that sent another wave of heat cascading through my system. “Purely practical,” he agreed, taking my hand to lead me toward the staircase. “I’m merely being responsible for your well-being.”

“Of course,” I murmured, allowing him to guide me through the maze of corridors with a sense of growing anticipation. “Your consideration is truly overwhelming.”

***

I’d thought the guest quarters were ostentatious, but Alec’s bedchamber made them look like a modest gardening shed. The room was roughly the size of Fairhaven’s entire ground floor, because apparently aristocrats require excessive square footage to perform basic human functions like sleeping and changing clothes.

A ridiculously massive four-poster bed dominated one wall—likely capable of accommodating Basil, Magnus, and half the Imperial cavalry without anyone touching elbows. The thing was draped in what appeared to be an entire silk merchant’s inventory, all in shades of midnight blue that probably had absurdly pretentious color names like “Imperial Twilight” or “Aristocratic Melancholy.”

Bookshelves lined another wall, though I was mildly disappointed to discover they contained actual books rather than hollowed-out tomes concealing illicit brandy or secret military correspondence. A surprisingly modest writing desk sat beneath windows tall enough to require their own cleaning staff, while two leather armchairs that had probably cost more than my entire herbal inventory faced a fireplace large enough to roast an ox.

What truly ambushed me, however, was his scent—that infernal combination of sandalwood and cedar that had been wreaking havoc on my internal organs since our first meeting. Here in his personal domain, it was concentrated to an intensity that made my knees embarrassingly weak and sent my own honeysuckle-jasmine fragrance spiraling into the air without my permission. My traitorous omega instincts practically purred with satisfaction, as if finally entering the territory they’d been seeking all along.

“Do all Bancrofts require this much space to perform the basic function of unconsciousness?” I asked, gesturing toward the bed that could comfortably sleep six. “Or is this compensation for some other inadequacy I should be aware of before proceedings continue?”

Alec’s dimple appeared as he fought a smile. “Family tradition. Though I’m happy to demonstrate that no compensation is necessary in any department.”

“How reassuring,” I replied dryly, though my body was already betraying me with a fresh wave of honeysuckle scent at the promise in his words. “I’d hate to discover false advertising after all this buildup.”

I trailed my fingers along a perfectly polished side table. “Though I must say, it lacks a certain rustic charm. Not a single leaky window or strategic draft. How do you know it’s raining without water dripping directly onto your face at three in the morning?”

“A tragic oversight in the architectural planning,” Alec agreed, his dimple making another appearance as he stepped closer, crowding my space in a way that should have felt threatening but somehow didn’t. “Though I could arrange for some strategic water damage if it would make you feel more at home.”

“How considerate,” I managed, my voice embarrassingly unsteady as he moved into my personal space. “Though I suspect your housekeeper might object to intentional property damage in the name of nostalgic comfort.”

“I’m more interested in other ways to make you comfortable,” he murmured, and suddenly he was close enough that his breath stirred the hair at my temple, sending an involuntary shiver racing down my spine.

My pulse quickened as he closed the remaining distance between us, one hand settling at my waist while the other came up to cup my face. The heat of his palm against my cheek sent electricity racing through my system, my omega scent spiking with honeysuckle sweetness in automatic response to his proximity. The blue-gold light of our anima cognitionem pulsed between us, wrapping around our joined forms like a living thing.

“You’ve been driving me to distraction all evening,” Alec murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip in a touch so gentle it made my throat tighten with unexpected emotion. “Sitting beside me, smelling like this, with those storm-gray eyes watching my every move.”

“You started it,” I reminded him, my voice embarrassingly breathy despite my attempt at indignation. “With your hand on my thigh and your… your alpha presence suffocating the entire dining room. I’m surprised the chandelier didn’t melt from the intensity.”

His laugh was low and rich, a sound that I felt as much as heard. “Are you suggesting I deliberately provoked you, Ellis Fairhaven?”

“I’m not suggesting it; I’m stating it as empirical fact. You were one possessive growl away from marking your territory like an untrained hound.” I tilted my chin up in defiance, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the way I was unconsciously leaning into his touch like a touch-starved houseplant. “You’re impossible, Captain.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to my mouth with naked hunger. “Repeatedly.”

And then his mouth was on mine, and sweet merciful goddesses, the man kissed like he was trying to claim territorial rights to my tonsils. This wasn’t the restrained “pleased to make your acquaintance” kiss—this was full alpha conquest mode, complete with a hand tangling in my hair to tilt my head at whatever ridiculous angle he’d decided was optimal for invasion.

When his tongue swept against my lips, I made the tactical error of gasping, which he immediately exploited like the military strategist he was, plunging inside with the confidence of someone who’d never encountered resistance. He tasted like expensive brandy and arrogance, which should have been revolting but instead made my insides perform acrobatics that would impress a circus troupe.

My knees—the treacherous anatomical bastards—decided this was the perfect moment to abandon their primary function of keeping me upright. I clutched his shoulders to avoid the mortification of puddling at his feet like some swooning maiden from one of those ridiculous romance novels Mrs. Finch pretended not to read.

I was absolutely, categorically not losing control. If my body appeared to be melting against his like ice on a summer day, that was merely an optical illusion caused by the room’s poor lighting and definitely not because one more second of his kiss might actually cause me to combust.

In a desperate bid to maintain some scrap of dignity, I attempted what I thought was a brilliant counterattack with my tongue—a clever twist-and-thrust maneuver that any reasonable person would find impressive. Alec, being fundamentally unreasonable, simply captured my tongue between his lips and sucked hard.

The sound that escaped me was utterly humiliating—half whimper, half moan, entirely omega—as my cock jerked against my trousers and slick dampened my thighs with embarrassing enthusiasm. My inner muscles clenched around nothing, apparently having received completely different instructions than the ones my brain was trying to issue.

When I nipped at his bottom lip in retaliation, his growl vibrated through both our bodies like we were instruments tuned to the same frequency. His arm tightened around my waist, pulling me against him in a way that made it abundantly clear that certain parts of his anatomy were significantly more excited than others.

When he finally released my mouth, I was panting like I’d just sprinted up the manor’s ridiculous staircase while carrying Basil. My lips felt twice their normal size, and my brain had apparently relocated to some distant province without leaving a forwarding address.

“Careful, little healer,” he warned, his voice dropping to that insufferable alpha register that made what remained of my knees threaten outright rebellion. “I can only be teased so far.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a challenge,” I replied, my voice embarrassingly breathy. “And I’ve never been one to back down from—”

Whatever clever retort I’d been formulating dissolved into incoherence as Alec’s mouth found the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. His teeth scraped gently against my skin before his tongue soothed the sting, the dual sensation sending lightning racing down my spine.

“You were saying?” he murmured against my neck, his breath hot against my skin as he worked his way down to the juncture of my shoulder.

“I was saying,” I managed, tilting my head to give him better access despite my determination to maintain at least a pretense of resistance, “that your tactics are thoroughly underhanded, Captain.”

I felt his smile against my skin as his fingers moved to the buttons of my waistcoat. “All’s fair in war and seduction, Ellis.”

“Is that what this is? A seduction?” The question emerged more vulnerable than I’d intended, my usual armor of snark momentarily lowered.

Alec paused, drawing back to meet my gaze with unexpected seriousness. “This is whatever you want it to be,” he said, the light of our bond pulsing softly between us. “But I hope you know that for me, it’s far more than mere seduction.”

The simple sincerity in his voice made my chest tighten with emotions I wasn’t ready to examine. So instead, I reached for the safe harbor of sarcasm. “Well, it would be a shame to waste all this aristocratic square footage on mere conversation, when there are clearly more practical applications available.”

His dimple reappeared as he recognized my deflection for what it was. “Practical, indeed,” he agreed, resuming his work on my buttons. “Though I suspect there’s nothing particularly practical about what I have in mind.”

As he slid the waistcoat from my shoulders, his hands lingered, tracing the contours of my upper arms through the fine fabric of my shirt. Each touch left trails of heat in its wake, my skin hypersensitive to even the lightest contact.

“You’re trembling,” Alec observed, his voice softer now, laced with a tenderness that was somehow more devastating than his earlier hunger.

“It’s cold in here,” I lied, even as the blue-gold light between us brightened in response to my heightened emotions.

“Liar,” he murmured, but there was no rebuke in his tone, only fond amusement as he began unfastening the buttons of my shirt. “Your scent gives you away every time, little healer. Honeysuckle and jasmine, but sweeter now, richer when you want me.”

“A thoroughly unfair biological betrayal,” I muttered as he parted my shirt, exposing my chest to the cool air and his heated gaze. “Omegas should demand evolutionary compensation.”

“I find your biological responses utterly enchanting,” Alec countered, his fingers tracing a path from my collarbone to the center of my chest with such deliberate slowness that I wanted to scream. “Especially when I do this.”

Thank you all so much for sticking with me and supporting my stories. It truly means the world to me. If you dive in today, I hope you love the ride!

Warmly,

Alexandria

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I’ve been buried in drafts and cover files lately, but I finally have a moment to breathe and share some big changes happening in my writing world.

The Big One: Defiant Desire arrives May 18th

Alec and Ellis are back next week! I’ll be honest—this book took on a life of its own. It clocked in at 150,000 words.

It’s an epic continuation of their story. We’re moving from the countryside to the Imperial Capital, which means high-society drama, scandalous undergarments (thanks to Alec’s cousin), and a very silly wolfhound. More importantly, we’re diving deep into their bond—something ancient, powerful, and a little bit dangerous.

A New Look for the Series

I’m rebranding the entire Duty and Desire world (including Defiant Surrender and Treasured Conquest) to better reflect the “Romantasy” vibe of these stories. I wanted the outside of the books to finally match the magic and heat on the inside.

Check them out below! I personally love the new looks. Alec (in Defiant Surrender) and Nolan (in Treasured Conquest) look so hunky, while Ellis (in Defiant Desire) looks absolutely beautiful and perfect.

So what are you waiting for? Go pre-order the new releases and check out the updated editions of Defiant Surrender and Treasured Conquest. Links are below, and all books are free to read in Kindle Unlimited!

Please note: It might take about 24 hours for the new versions of Defiant Surrender and Treasured Conquest to go live on Amazon because I had to unpublish them briefly before launching the new editions. If you’ve already bought those books, no worries—they will be updated automatically in your library!

DUTY AND DESIRE SERIES BOOKS

Defiant Surrender | Defiant Desire | Treasured Conquest

Where did Beautiful Sin go?

For those of you following the serial, you probably noticed it vanished recently. Don’t panic! I took it down because it’s undergoing a massive transformation.

I’ve changed a lot of the internal “wiring”—I’ve deepened the soul-bond and pivoted to a Fated Mates dynamic to better align with my brand. I’m much happier with this more intense version, and I think you will be too.

The Beautiful Sin series will launch officially in July. Stay tuned for updates! I can’t wait to show you the cover reveals and share some of the hot voices I have lined up for the audio version.

The Summer Roadmap

I have a lot planned, and I’ll be sharing more teasers, cover art, and info in the coming posts, but here is the bird’s-eye view of what’s coming:

• May 18th: Defiant Desire (The Captain and His Healer #2)

July: The Big Launch

• Beautiful Sin Book 1 and 2

• My new YouTube Channel officially goes live!

• BL RH Xianxia Romantasy project. I mentioned this ages ago, and it’s finally being realized with both the ebook and the audio serial launching.

It’s going to be a wild summer. Thank you for sticking with me while I polish these worlds and get everything ready for this next chapter.

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I want to start with a huge, heartfelt thank you for sticking by me. I’ve been a bit quiet lately—life and health decided to throw a few curveballs my way, and I had to step back to focus on getting back on my feet. Because of that, I’ve had to hit “pause” on the audiobook serial over on YouTube. I know many of you were enjoying that, but don’t worry—it’s not gone! I’m getting things organized and plan to relaunch it later this year.

But even while things were a bit chaotic, I was working away on a story that I’ve fallen in love with, and I’m so excited to announce that it’s finally here!

Treasured Conquest

I’m thrilled to introduce you to the second couple in the Duty and Desire series! It’s under my BL MM Omegaverse Fantasy Romance pen name Ivy Hayward. This is a story of survival, culture clashes, and a love that overcomes every barrier (even the literal language ones).

Meet the Couple:

• Renhua: A beautiful Eastern omega who narrowly escaped traffickers—only to end up a very “disaster-prone” stowaway.

• Nolan Gastrell: A commanding, protective Imperial Lieutenant who finds a soaking wet omega in the sea and decides he’s never letting go.

Why you’ll love it:

If you like your romance with high stakes and even higher chemistry, this one is for you. It features:

• The “Disaster” Omega: From flooding the galley to getting stuck in the rigging, Renhua is trying his best, I promise.

• Language Barrier: Lots of “lost in translation” moments that are as sweet as they are frustrating.

• The Tropes: Forced proximity (shared cabin alert!), huge size difference, fated mates, and a very possessive military Alpha.

A Quick Note: Treasured Conquest ends on a Happy For Now (HFN). Nolan and Renhua’s journey is so epic it needed two books! Their story will continue in Treasured Devotion (Book 2).

TEASER

GET TREASURED CONQUEST

(on amazon and in ku)

Chapter 1

Nolan

Nolan Gastrell was having an exceptionally good day, which naturally meant something catastrophic was about to happen.

The morning sun gilded the Longhua Empire harbor in shades of gold and crimson as Nolan leaned against the polished railing of The Sea Viper, mentally calculating just how obscenely wealthy this particular expedition was about to make him. Or rather, how wealthy it would make his family’s already bloated coffers, while earning him the far more valuable currency of his father’s grudging approval.

Six months into his two-year leave from active military service, Nolan was still adjusting to the transition from battlefield to trading vessel. The Gastrell children had all inherited their father’s ruthless business acumen—it ran in their blood as surely as their alpha designations—but Nolan had been the only one to pursue military service alongside commerce, much to his father’s perpetual disappointment.

When his elder brother Philip had announced his omega wife Edith was expecting their first child, the Gastrell household had reorganized with the efficiency of a military campaign. Imperial medical tradition was absolute: an alpha must remain within close proximity to their omega during pregnancy, their bond strengthening the child’s development and protecting against complications. A bonded omega separated too long from their alpha during pregnancy risked both their health and the child’s.

With Philip necessarily grounded, someone needed to command the Eastern trade routes that formed the backbone of the Gastrell shipping empire. His alpha sister Whitney—whose commercial strategies had doubled profits in the Western territories—had immediately stepped forward.

“Absolutely not,” their father had declared with the finality of a man whose opinions had calcified sometime during the previous century. “An unmarried alpha female does not command trading vessels through contested waters. It’s unseemly.”

“Unseemly?” Whitney had erupted, her alpha presence flaring with indignation. “What’s unseemly is hampering our business because of outdated gender traditions!”

The argument that followed had been spectacular even by Gastrell standards. In the end, family tradition had prevailed. Nolan had been summoned home from his military posting, secured a leave of absence, and found himself commanding The Sea Viper while Whitney was relegated to managing domestic operations alongside their father. The arrangement utilized everyone’s talents—Philip providing local oversight while bonded close to Edith, Whitney restructuring the company’s Imperial operations, and Nolan handling the Eastern routes where his military training proved as valuable as his trading skills.

None of which stopped Whitney from expressing her frustration in every letter.

“Bring me something exquisite,” her latest missive had demanded. “If I’m trapped negotiating with Imperial bureaucrats while you explore the East, the least you can do is return with treasures worthy of my sacrifice.”

The dramatic phrasing was pure Whitney, but Nolan knew her well enough to recognize the genuine disappointment beneath the theatrical complaints. He’d already set aside several pieces he knew would appeal to her sophisticated taste for Eastern art and design—though he suspected no gift would fully compensate for what she viewed as their father’s betrayal of her ambitions.

“We’ve secured the jade shipment in your private hold, sir,” reported Wilkes, his valet and self-appointed keeper of all things Nolan might forget or neglect—which was essentially everything not involving profit margins, battle tactics, or particularly fine brandy. The man was dressed impeccably despite the sweltering Eastern heat, not a droplet of sweat daring to appear on his pinched face. “Triple-locked and warded as requested.”

“And the silk?” Nolan asked, already knowing the answer but enjoying Wilkes’ look of mild offense at having his thoroughness questioned.

“Cataloged, packed in cedar, and stored precisely according to your instructions,” Wilkes replied with the long-suffering air of a nursemaid dealing with a particularly demanding child. “Along with the spices, ceramics, and those peculiar scrolls the archivist insisted were ‘vital historical documents’ rather than the thinly disguised erotic art we both know they are.”

Nolan’s lips twitched. “The archivist is a scholar of Eastern cultural practices.”

“Indeed. Particularly the cultural practices involving contortionists and multiple partners, judging by what I glimpsed while sealing the crates.”

Below deck, a tremendous crash followed by colorful cursing in at least three different languages suggested that someone had just discovered why Captain Harlow insisted all crates of Longhua porcelain be reinforced with cushioning spells. The grizzled captain himself appeared from belowdecks seconds later, his weather-beaten face contorted into an expression that fell somewhere between murderous rage and resigned acceptance.

“Which priceless artifacts just met their demise?” Nolan called down, leaning over the railing with the easy confidence of a man who’d already factored inevitable catastrophes into his profit calculations.

“The matched set of blue-glazed temple bowls,” Harlow growled, his salt-and-pepper beard bristling with indignation. “Courtesy of young Pip, who apparently thought ‘fragile’ was a suggestion rather than a warning.”

On cue, a gangly youth scrambled up from below, his face flushed with embarrassment. “It wasn’t my fault, sir! Tempest came bounding through the hold like the emperor’s hunting wolves were after him!”

As if summoned by his name—and the prospect of being blamed for something—a massive wolfhound materialized on deck, paws skidding slightly on the polished wood as he came to an abrupt halt before Nolan. Tempest stood nearly three feet at the shoulder, his muscular frame rippling beneath a coat that shimmered like polished steel in the morning light. His amber eyes held an intelligence that bordered on the uncanny, currently masked by an expression of canine innocence that fooled absolutely no one.

“Destroying priceless artifacts again, are we?” Nolan asked, scratching behind the enormous dog’s ears. Tempest leaned into the touch with shameless pleasure, completely unconcerned about the economic impact of his recreational activities.

“That beast is an affront to profitable commerce,” Wilkes muttered, taking a strategic step backward as the wolfhound’s gaze swung toward him. “Must he accompany us on every voyage?”

“He’s saved my life twice and detected three assassination attempts,” Nolan pointed out, fondly ruffling the thick fur at Tempest’s neck. “I think that earns him the right to occasionally redesign our cargo arrangements.”

The dog huffed in what sounded suspiciously like agreement before trotting off to terrorize another section of the ship, tail held high like a victorious battle standard.

Across the deck, First Mate Donovan was directing the loading of final provisions with the precision of a battlefield commander. The man approached efficiency like a religion, with every fold of his uniform crisp despite the humid air and every order delivered in the clipped tones of someone who considered wasted words a personal moral failing.

Nolan appreciated Donovan’s military precision. Captain Harlow might command the day-to-day operations of The Sea Viper, but having Donovan as his first mate created a bridge between Harlow’s seafaring expertise and Nolan’s military background. The arrangement had worked surprisingly well these past months—Harlow maintained the ship’s operations while acknowledging Nolan’s authority as both a Gastrell and a decorated lieutenant temporarily commanding his family’s trading interests.

“Rice secured in moisture-proof containers, sir,” he reported, clipboard clutched like a sacred text. “Extra water barrels stowed as requested, and Cook has finally stopped threatening to jump ship over the spice inventory.”

“He’s still upset about the star anise?” Nolan asked, remembering the portly chef’s near meltdown when they’d been unable to acquire his preferred variety in the Longhua markets.

“Claims we’ve bought ‘peasant quality’ and it will ‘disgrace his galley,’” Donovan confirmed, his expression suggesting he considered Cook’s culinary tantrums approximately as important as the mating habits of sea slugs. “I reminded him that even the Imperial Palace would be impressed by his roasted duck regardless of star anise quality, which calmed him enough to begin preparing luncheon rather than plotting how to poison us all.”

“Your diplomatic skills continue to impress,” Nolan said dryly.

“Keeping this crew from murdering each other is excellent preparation for my next posting,” Donovan replied with the faintest hint of a smile. “Speaking of which, your friends in the regiment sent another message. Apparently, Captain Bancroft’s leading his unit to a record-breaking field exercise score. Major Lawrence specifically mentioned they expect you’ll be catching up on tactical studies when you return.”

Something warm settled in Nolan’s chest at the mention of his childhood friends and military companions. Trading expeditions paid handsomely and satisfied his family’s expectations, but his heart belonged to his military career. The two-year leave had been a compromise—fulfilling his duty to the Gastrell name while maintaining his commission for when he returned. There was a clarity to military service that appealed to him—a directness that contrasted sharply with the veiled language of commerce.

“My father insists this ‘practical experience’ in trade negotiation will serve me well when I return to my regiment,” Nolan said, his tone suggesting he found the idea dubious at best. “Though I suspect he’s still hoping I’ll abandon the military entirely for the family business.”

“The great Gastrell shipping empire needs heirs to continue its dominance,” Donovan noted with the pragmatic tone of someone who understood family obligations all too well.

“They have Philip for that,” Nolan replied, though they both knew the elder Gastrell would never be satisfied with just one son following the family tradition. “With favorable winds, we’ll be back in Imperial waters within a month, and I’ll be one voyage closer to returning to my commission.”

From the dock below came the shrill whistle of the harbor master, signaling their clearance to depart. Within moments, the deck erupted into controlled chaos as sailors moved to their stations. Ropes were cast off, sails unfurled, and The Sea Viper began to glide away from the dock with stately grace.

“Last chance to acquire any forgotten Eastern comforts,” Harlow called out, though his tone suggested he’d personally keelhaul anyone who dared delay their departure.

“Unless someone failed to procure enough rice wine to pickle their liver, I believe we’re fully stocked,” Nolan replied, earning appreciative chuckles from the nearest crewmen.

As the ship pulled away from the crowded port, Nolan took a final, appreciative look at the Longhua capital. Unlike the Empire’s practical stone and timber constructions, the Eastern city seemed to defy gravity itself—impossibly slender towers topped with upturned roofs painted in jewel tones, their elegant curves reminiscent of birds preparing for flight. Delicate bridges spanned canals that divided the city into districts, each one more beautiful than the last, while cherry trees in perpetual bloom lined the palace avenues.

The Longhua people prized beauty and ritual above all else. Where Imperials valued direct speech and clear hierarchies, the Easterners operated in layers of meaning and nuance. A slight inclination of the head could convey more than an Imperial’s lengthy speech, and gift-giving had been elevated to an art form where the wrapping held as much significance as the present itself.

“Will you miss it?” Wilkes asked, correctly reading Nolan’s thoughtful expression.

“Parts of it,” Nolan admitted, watching as the elaborate Eastern architecture began to recede. “Their appreciation for beauty in mundane objects. The way they find meaning in precise movements.” He smiled slightly. “Their tea ritual makes our hasty Imperial breakfast customs seem positively barbaric.”

“And yet you seem eager enough to return to those barbaric customs,” Wilkes observed.

“Home is home, even with its flaws,” Nolan replied simply. “Besides, I’ve filled Father’s coffers beyond even his expectations this time. That should buy me at least a month of peace before he begins lamenting my wasted potential in the military.”

Wilkes sniffed delicately. “Perhaps if you’d stop being so irritatingly competent at both trading and soldiering, your family might finally accept that you can excel in multiple arenas simultaneously.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” Nolan asked with a flash of his charming smile—the one that had persuaded Eastern merchants to lower prices and his commanding officers to overlook minor infractions with equal success.

As the ship cleared the harbor and entered open waters, the sails caught the afternoon wind, filling with a satisfying snap. The vessel seemed to leap forward, eager for the journey ahead, and something tight in Nolan’s chest eased at the familiar sensation of freedom that came with the open sea.

“Shall I have Cook prepare your usual mid-departure meal, sir?” Wilkes asked, already anticipating the answer.

“Yes, but tell him to restrain his enthusiasm for Eastern spices this time. Last voyage his ‘subtle culinary influences’ nearly burned through my esophagus.”

“I shall convey your delicate palate’s limitations with all the tact I can muster,” Wilkes replied in a tone that suggested tact would be in decidedly short supply.

Hours later, with the Eastern shores nothing but a distant smudge on the horizon, Nolan found himself at his favorite spot—a small perch near the forecastle where the ship’s bow cut through the waves with hypnotic rhythm. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the deck as sailors went about their duties with the practiced efficiency of a crew that had weathered many voyages together.

Tempest lay stretched beside him, massive head resting on equally massive paws, amber eyes half-closed in contentment as the sea breeze ruffled his thick fur. The wolfhound seemed to share Nolan’s affinity for the ocean, never showing the slightest discomfort even during the roughest weather.

“Nothing like it, is there, boy?” Nolan murmured, absently scratching behind the dog’s ears. “No diplomats to flatter, no merchants trying to cheat us, no family expectations to navigate.”

Tempest huffed in what Nolan chose to interpret as wholehearted agreement.

His peaceful contemplation was shattered by a commotion belowdecks—raised voices, the sound of something heavy crashing against wood, and what sounded suspiciously like Cook threatening violence with a rolling pin. Tempest’s head snapped up, ears forward and alert as the wolfhound immediately transitioned from lazy companion to vigilant guardian.

“What now?” Nolan muttered, rising to his feet just as a cabin boy came scrambling up from below, eyes wide with alarm.

“Sir! There’s—” the boy gasped, pointing frantically toward the hatch he’d just emerged from. “In the stores— Cook found—”

Before the boy could finish, a slender figure burst onto the deck, darting between startled sailors with surprising speed and agility. Nolan caught only a glimpse of dark hair and Eastern clothing before several crew members gave chase, shouting in a mixture of Imperial common tongue and colorful sailor’s slang that would have made even seasoned soldiers blush.

“Stop that thief!” bellowed Cook, emerging from belowdecks with a flour-covered rolling pin clutched in his meaty fist like a war hammer. “Caught the little rat stealing from my preserves!”

The figure—Nolan could now see it was a slight youth in dirty Eastern clothing—dodged around the mainmast, narrowly avoiding Donovan’s attempt to grab him. The stowaway’s movements had the desperate energy of a cornered animal, darting this way and that with no clear escape plan beyond away from these people.

“What in the emperor’s name is going on?” Nolan demanded, descending from his perch, Tempest at his heels.

“Stowaway, sir,” reported Donovan, slightly winded from the chase. “Found hidden among the water barrels in the rear storage hold. Looks Eastern—probably slipped aboard during loading.”

The stowaway, hearing Nolan’s authoritative tone, paused momentarily, giving him his first clear look at the youth. The face was caked with dirt and grime, making it difficult to discern features clearly. The dark, tangled hair was partially hidden under a ragged cloth cap, and the plain, mud-stained work robes were torn in several places—the kind worn by the lowest class of harbor workers.

The moment of stillness shattered as the youth spotted an opening and bolted again, surprisingly quick for someone who looked half-starved. The stowaway shouted something in rapid-fire Eastern tongue that Nolan recognized as distinctly not the polite trading phrases he’d learned over the years.

“Where’s our translator when we need him?” grumbled Harlow, appearing from his cabin at the commotion. “Bet he’s cursing our entire ancestry.”

“We left Wang at port, remember?” Nolan replied, already calculating how to contain the situation without terrifying the stowaway further. “Corner him carefully. He looks ready to jump overboard if provoked.”

As if reading his thoughts, the stowaway darted toward the port-side railing with alarming intent. Several sailors moved to intercept, which only heightened the youth’s panic. The figure spun away from would-be captors, only to find himself trapped between Donovan, two deckhands, and the galley entrance where Cook stood brandishing his improvised weapon.

The stowaway shouted something in Eastern tongue, the words incomprehensible but the desperate tone universal as he backed away with hands raised defensively.

“Anyone catch that?” Nolan asked, approaching slowly with his hands visible.

“Something about leaving him alone, I think,” offered Pip from his perch in the rigging. “My cousin married a Longhua merchant—picked up a few phrases.”

The stowaway’s gaze darted frantically between the gathering sailors before settling on Nolan with the instinctive recognition of identifying the leader. Dark eyes narrowed with calculation rather than blind panic beneath the grime and tangled hair. This was no ordinary stowaway, Nolan realized. There was intelligence in that gaze, and something like desperate resolve.

“Easy now,” Nolan said in the calm tone he’d used to settle spooked horses. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

The youth’s hand suddenly darted to a worn belt, producing a small but wickedly sharp kitchen knife—clearly stolen from Cook’s domain along with whatever food he’d been caught pilfering. He shouted another warning in Eastern language, the blade trembling slightly but pointed decisively in the crew’s direction.

“Back off, lads,” Nolan ordered, motioning for the crew to give the frightened stowaway space. “He’s terrified and armed—bad combination.”

“Can’t just let him wave a knife around, sir,” Donovan pointed out reasonably.

“I’m aware,” Nolan replied dryly. “But cornering him further isn’t helping.”

He took a careful step forward, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. “We’re not going to harm you,” he said clearly, meeting the youth’s frightened gaze. He tapped his chest. “Nolan. Nolan Gastrell.” Then he gestured toward the stowaway with an open palm. “You?”

The youth’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, the knife still held defensively. His gaze flicked briefly to Tempest, who had remained unusually calm beside Nolan rather than joining the excitement.

“Perhaps the beast has finally found someone he approves of,” muttered Wilkes from a safe distance. “Though his timing leaves something to be desired.”

For a moment, Nolan thought the stowaway might actually respond to his attempt at communication—until Donovan made the critical error of trying to edge behind him. The youth’s reaction was instantaneous—a wild slash of the kitchen knife that missed Donovan’s forearm by a hair’s breadth before the stowaway bolted like a startled hare.

“Seven hells!” Donovan stumbled backward, nearly colliding with two deckhands. “Fast little demon, isn’t he?”

The stowaway darted between a stack of barrels, sending one crashing across the deck. Salted fish spilled everywhere, creating an impromptu obstacle course that sent a burly sailor named Grix skidding face-first into a coil of rope.

“Get that thieving rat!” Cook bellowed, his flour-dusted face now crimson with exertion as he lumbered after the fleeing figure, rolling pin raised like a battle standard.

Tempest, who until now had maintained a dignified distance from the proceedings, suddenly decided this was the most entertaining thing he’d witnessed since the governor’s daughter’s cat climbed the mainmast during last month’s diplomatic reception. The enormous wolfhound let out a joyful bark and joined the pursuit, not to capture but clearly to participate in what he perceived as an elaborate game created for his personal amusement.

“Don’t just stand there!” Captain Harlow shouted at a cluster of wide-eyed junior sailors. “Corner him at the forecastle!”

The sailors fanned out with the coordination of a troupe of drunk performers, colliding with each other as they attempted to follow contradictory orders shouted from every direction. The stowaway seized the opportunity to scramble up a cargo net with monkey-like agility, sending a shower of loose rope fibers onto his pursuers below.

“Oh, marvelous.” Wilkes sighed, watching from a safe distance. “Now he’s taken to high ground. Next, he’ll be swinging from the rigging like a demented acrobat.”

As if hearing the suggestion, the stowaway grabbed a loose line and swung in a graceful arc over the heads of three gaping sailors, landing on a narrow railing before dropping to the deck on the opposite side. Tempest barked in ecstatic approval, clearly voting this the best entertainment since the storm that had sent Cook’s prized collection of copper pots skating across the galley floor.

“You’re not helping!” Nolan called to the wolfhound, who responded with a look of such canine innocence that it could only be described as deliberate mockery.

Pip, determined to redeem himself after the porcelain disaster, launched from his position in the lower rigging like a gangly projectile, aiming to tackle the stowaway. His timing was impeccable, his aim was true, and his execution was… catastrophic. The youth sidestepped at the last possible moment, leaving Pip to crash directly into Donovan, sending both men sprawling into a bucket of pitch that had been prepared for minor hull repairs.

“My uniform!” Donovan’s anguished cry rose above the general chaos. “Do you have any idea how much this costs to launder?”

The stowaway vaulted over a hatch cover, ducked under the swinging arm of a sailor named Fenton—whose reputation for slow reflexes remained gloriously intact—and slid beneath the mess table that had been set up for the evening meal. The table upended with spectacular results, sending hardtack biscuits flying through the air like edible shrapnel.

“Five silvers says he makes it to the captain’s cabin!” called out Marten, a sailor who never met a situation he couldn’t gamble on.

“Ten says Master Nolan catches him before he reaches the quarterdeck!” countered Sewell, his usual pessimism temporarily overcome by financial opportunity.

Tempest had now fully committed to the game, bounding alongside the stowaway rather than pursuing him, his massive tail sweeping sailors off their feet whenever he executed a particularly enthusiastic turn. The wolfhound’s expression could only be described as pure canine delight, ears perked forward and tongue lolling as he matched the youth stride for stride.

“Some fearsome war hound you’ve turned out to be!” Nolan shouted, leaping over a fallen barrel as he joined the pursuit in earnest. “Next time I’ll bring a lapdog for security!”

The stowaway skidded around the mainmast, using it as a shield against two approaching sailors who collided with bone-jarring force when their quarry darted away at the last second. Cook, who had been gaining ground with surprising speed for a man of his girth, tripped over the fallen men and went rolling across the deck like a flour-dusted boulder, his bellowed profanities teaching even the most seasoned sailors creative new vocabulary.

“He’s heading for the stern!” shouted Harlow, who had climbed to a better vantage point and was now directing the chaos like a demented orchestra conductor. “Cut him off at the cargo hatch!”

Three sailors moved to block the path, forming a human barrier of varying heights and widths. The stowaway assessed the obstacle in an instant, dropped to the deck, and slid between the first sailor’s legs with such perfect timing that the man’s reflexive grab caught his neighbor’s shirt instead, sending both of them crashing down.

“Devils and demons,” breathed Wilkes, who had somehow appeared at Nolan’s side, having apparently decided that observing the chaos was preferable to hiding from it. “Where did he learn to move like that?”

The stowaway snatched up a fallen ladle—presumably lost in Cook’s tumble—and wielded it alongside the knife with the desperate grip of someone who had learned to defend himself through necessity. The incongruous sight of a filthy youth in tattered clothes brandishing kitchen implements with deadly seriousness might have been comical if not for the desperation evident in every line of his body.

“We’re only trying to help!” Nolan called out, closing the distance with long strides. “Drop the weapons before someone gets hurt!”

The stowaway’s response was a flying hardtack biscuit that struck Nolan squarely between the eyes with surprising force. Tempest barked in what sounded suspiciously like laughter, dancing in circles around the youth as if they were a new playmate specifically delivered for his entertainment.

“Traitor,” Nolan muttered to the wolfhound, rubbing his forehead where the rock-hard biscuit had left its mark.

The chase had now circled almost the entire deck, leaving a trail of upturned crates, scattered supplies, flour-dusted sailors, and the distinct impression that a small hurricane had been granted temporary ship privileges. The stowaway, despite his size and apparent exhaustion, moved with fluid agility, using the environment and the pursuing sailors’ momentum against them with devastating effectiveness.

“Enough of this nonsense,” declared Donovan, peeling himself off the deck where Pip’s tackle had deposited him. His once-immaculate uniform now resembled an avant-garde painting, with pitch as the primary medium. “Bowman, Grix, Sewell—form up and rush him together!”

The coordinated attack might have worked on a battlefield opponent. It was considerably less effective against a desperate youth with seemingly supernatural awareness of his surroundings. As the three sailors charged forward, the stowaway grabbed a loose rope hanging from the rigging, yanked it taut at ankle height, and created an impromptu trip wire that sent all three men sprawling in a tangle of limbs and creative profanity.

Harlow, watching from his elevated position, threw his hands up in disgust. “Are we truly being outmaneuvered by a half-starved child with a soup ladle? What kind of sailors did they send me?”

“The kind who excel at sailing,” Nolan called back, ducking as another hardtack missile whistled past his ear. “Combat training was apparently optional!”

The stowaway had reached the quarterdeck, his back now to the stern railing with nowhere left to run. Sailors converged from all sides, moving more cautiously now after witnessing the youth’s unexpected fighting prowess. Even Tempest seemed to sense the shift in mood, his playful bouncing giving way to a more watchful stance, though he made no move to threaten the cornered figure.

“It’s over,” Nolan said, approaching slowly with open hands. “You’ve led us on an impressive chase, but there’s nowhere left to go.”

The stowaway’s gaze darted from sailor to sailor, assessing odds that clearly didn’t look favorable. Nolan saw something shift in those dark eyes—not surrender, but a calculation of final options. His gaze flicked meaningfully toward the open water beyond the railing.

“Don’t even think about it,” Nolan warned, recognizing the intent instantly. “We’re miles from shore. That’s certain death.”

The stowaway looked directly at him then, and Nolan was struck by the clarity of purpose in that gaze. No panic, no blind fear—just cold determination that spoke of someone who had already accepted death as a possible outcome and made his peace with it.

“Seven hells,” Nolan muttered, lunging forward just as the youth made his move.

What happened next occurred with the fluid grace of a choreographed performance. The stowaway feinted left, spun right, and slashed outward with the small blade—not to wound but to create space. Nolan, anticipating the movement with the same uncanny sense that had made him a natural at combat, caught the youth’s wrist mid-strike. The knife clattered to the deck as Nolan’s superior strength overwhelmed the stowaway’s technique.

For a heartbeat, triumph flooded his system—until sharp teeth sank into his forearm with enough force to draw blood. The unexpected pain loosened his grip just enough for the stowaway to twist free with serpentine flexibility.

“Grab him!” Donovan shouted, but the youth was already moving, vaulting onto the railing with a single fluid motion that spoke of either tremendous courage or complete desperation.

Nolan’s fingers grazed the back of the stowaway’s tattered clothing, catching nothing but air as the youth leapt from the railing in a clean, decisive arc that carried him out over the churning waves.

“Man overboard!” Pip’s voice rang out from above, his tone shifting instantly from excitement to genuine alarm.

“Hard to port!” Captain Harlow bellowed, already moving to take the helm personally. “Lower the rescue boat!”

“No time,” Nolan muttered, kicking off his boots and shrugging out of his jacket in one smooth motion. Before anyone could protest, he climbed onto the railing and dove after the stowaway, cutting through the air in a clean arc that spoke of countless hours spent cliff-diving in his youth.

The last thing he heard before the sea closed over his head was Cook’s indignant bellow. “After all that, he’s going to rescue the little demon who ruined my galley? Unbelievable!”

The ocean enveloped him in cool silence, the salt sting familiar against his skin as he oriented himself and kicked powerfully toward the struggling figure visible several yards away. The sunlight filtering through the water created shifting patterns that made tracking difficult, but Nolan’s eyes quickly adjusted, focusing on the dark shape thrashing against the current.

The stowaway was a surprisingly strong swimmer but clearly exhausted and weighed down by waterlogged clothing. As Nolan approached, he could see panic beginning to set in as survival instinct battled against whatever fear had driven him to such a desperate act in the first place.

“Stop fighting!” Nolan called as he broke the surface near him, his voice steady despite the exertion. “You’ll exhaust yourself faster!”

The stowaway responded with a flurry of splashing that might have been an attempt to put distance between them but succeeded only in driving them both under momentarily. Nolan surfaced with a gasp, spitting out seawater as he spotted the youth a few feet away, clearly struggling now as his clothes dragged him down.

With powerful strokes, Nolan closed the final distance between them. “I’m going to help you,” he stated firmly, leaving no room for argument as he wrapped a secure arm around the youth’s slender waist.

The stowaway stiffened at his touch, then shocked him by twisting suddenly in his grip, desperate fingers clawing at his face before sharp teeth sank into his shoulder with surprising force.

“Gods and devils!” Nolan swore, nearly losing his hold from the unexpected attack.

“Stop. Trying. To. Drown us both!” he managed between gritted teeth, using his superior strength to keep them both afloat despite the stowaway’s continued struggles.

A large wave crashed over them, momentarily submerging both figures. When they resurfaced, the stowaway was coughing violently, having inhaled seawater in his desperate struggle. Nolan took advantage of the distraction to secure a better hold, one arm banded firmly around his narrow waist while he used the other to keep them afloat.

“The rescue boat’s coming,” he said more calmly now that they weren’t actively trying to drown each other. “Just relax and let me keep us afloat.”

The youth had gone unusually still in his arms, either from exhaustion or acceptance. Despite the slender, almost delicate frame, Nolan could feel a surprising resilience in the body against his, a wiry endurance of someone who had survived through wit and speed rather than power.

“You’re safe now,” he said, not knowing if the boy understood but feeling the need to offer some reassurance as the rescue boat approached. “No one on my ship will harm you.”

The youth said nothing, but Nolan felt the subtle tension in the slender body—not fighting anymore, but far from relaxed. Wary. Calculating. Waiting.

The sailors in the rescue boat hauled them aboard, and Nolan maintained his firm grip on the stowaway even as they were lifted back to the main deck. The boy was shivering violently now, lips blue with cold, yet his eyes remained alert, constantly scanning for escape routes even as his body betrayed signs of exhaustion and exposure.

The wet cloth cap had been lost to the sea, revealing long black hair that now hung in sodden strands around a face that, even beneath the grime and fear, showed unusually refined features. Eastern men typically wore their hair long, but there was something distinctively delicate about this youth’s bone structure that set him apart from the dockworkers Nolan had encountered throughout his travels.

A crowd of sailors had gathered, forming a curious circle around the dripping pair. Some gaped openly, while others exchanged meaningful glances and whispered comments.

“Is that a girl?” muttered one of the younger deckhands, eyeing the slender figure in Nolan’s arms.

“Don’t be daft,” hissed another. “Eastern boy—a few like him are pretty as girls but twice as deadly.”

Cook pushed his way to the front, flour-dusted rolling pin still clutched in one hand. “That’s the little demon who destroyed my galley! Put him in the brig where he belongs!”

“He needs warmth and dry clothes before anything else,” Nolan countered, adjusting his grip as the boy shivered more violently. “Pip!” he called, spotting the gangly youth hovering at the edge of the crowd.

“Yes, sir?” Pip stepped forward eagerly.

“Hot water and clean towels to my quarters, immediately. And Wilkes, I need dry clothing.” With that, he turned and made his way through the parting crowd of sailors, heading toward the hatch that led to the officers’ quarters. The stowaway remained eerily still in his arms—a coiled tension that suggested he was simply waiting for the right moment to bolt.

Continue reading… GET TREASURED CONQUEST (on amazon and in ku).

Thank you again for your patience and for being the best readers an author could ask for. I’m so happy to be sharing Nolan and Renhua’s world with you!

Stay swoony,

Alexandria | Mystic Lotus House

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"Teddy-bear" Basil

This handsome guy is Basil, Ellis’s enormous wolfhound and resident ‘canine catastrophe.’ He’s got the size of a bear, the grace of a drunken one, and a heart full of chaotic love. Expect him to steal every scene (and probably Ellis’s spot on the couch) in my new mm omegaverse cozy fantasy romance!

Hi everyone,

Happy New Year! I hope your 2026 is off to a wonderful start.

I’m reaching out to share an update on my plans for the year. To ensure I’m being fair to all of you while I focus on my upcoming books, I’ve made the decision to turn off paid subscriptions for the entirety of 2026.

I am currently deep in the “writing cave” working on several new projects. Because my schedule is focused on these full-length releases, I won’t be providing the regular, scheduled paywalled updates this year. I’ve paused all billing so you can enjoy my updates without any cost.

A Special Gift for the New Year As a thank you for your incredible support, I have decided to make all previously “Paid Only” chapters completely FREE for everyone to read. I will be unlocking the archives on February 17th. Consider it a gift to celebrate the true start of the new year! If you missed any of the story so far, you can head over then and catch up on everything.

The writing hasn’t stopped! I am so excited about the stories coming in 2026. If you love Cozy Fantasy MM Omegaverse, stay tuned. The new projects feature:

• Fated Mates with plenty of Intense Heat.

• Constant Banter and cozy vibes.

• And some absolutely crazy dogs that keep stealing the show.

The First Release: The first book in this series is due to come out in mid-February! Each couple in this world will get a duet. The first book will end in a Happy For Now (HFN), and the second will conclude their story with a full Happy Ever After (HEA).

Thank you for sticking with me. I can’t wait to share these fated mates and their wild dogs with you soon!

Best,

Mystic Lotus Press

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My brand-new MM Rreverse Harem Paranormal Shifter Romance, Captivated by Alphas, Book 1: Fated, is officially going live on October 9th!

I just got the final manuscript back from my editor, and I’ve already uploaded it to Amazon.

I loved writing this story and I hope you’ll enjoy it just as much. Get ready for some fun and undeniable mate attraction! This book is long, coming in at a whopping 140K words, so prepare to lose yourself in the pages.

Here’s a little taste of what awaits you:

Captivated by Alphas: Fated

Three alpha cousins. One starstruck mate. Zero chance of resisting fate.

I’ve spent five years secretly crushing on the Carmichael cousins. Jace, Hollywood’s most sought-after action star. Adrian, the critically acclaimed heartthrob. Cole, the devastatingly handsome tech mogul. Three powerful panther shifters who could have anyone they want. Instead, they’ve set their sights on me, the groundskeeper’s adopted son who’s spent his life dreaming of belonging.

When all three cousins suddenly return to the estate at once, my carefully constructed world implodes. Every accidental touch ignites something primal. Every heated glance makes my heart race. Every protective gesture awakens something inside me I never knew existed.

But I know the truth. I’m just the help, a mystery even to myself, invisible until I suddenly I’m not. They’re A-list celebrities, billionaires, alphas. I’m nobody special.

But these predators know exactly what they want. And they’ve decided I’m theirs.

Captivated by Alphas, Book 1: Fated is a MM paranormal reverse harem romance featuring powerful panther shifters, undeniable attraction, and a mate who discovers that his wildest dreams might just come true.

PRE-ORDER CAPTIVATED BY ALPHAS

(Available on Amazon and will be in KU)

TEASER

I was heading to the kitchen for a quick break when Madi Carmichael intercepted me in the hallway. Unlike my mother’s controlled chaos, Madi looked perfectly composed in a cream silk blouse and tailored pants, her auburn hair swept into an elegant updo. Only the slight tightness around her eyes betrayed any stress.

“Eli, darling,” she said, touching my arm lightly. “Just the person I was looking for.”

“Mrs. Carmichael—I mean, Madi.” Even after years, I still slipped into formality with her.

“I need your help with something rather urgent.” Her perfectly manicured hand fluttered to her pearl necklace. “Jace just called from the road. He’s making excellent time and could be here in less than an hour.”

My heart skipped several beats. “Already?”

She glanced around before continuing in a lower voice. “I’ve just seen the east wing master suite, and it’s simply not up to standard.”

“You want me to redo the suite?” My voice came out embarrassingly high-pitched.

“Would you? The current arrangement is all wrong—the flowers clash with the new bedding, the bathroom needs a proper cleaning with the special marble solution, and everything needs to be perfect.” She squeezed my arm gratefully. “I’d consider it a personal favor.”

How exactly does one say no to the woman whose family pays for your education, your parents’ salaries, and the roof over your head? Spoiler alert: you don’t.

“I’ll take care of it right away,” I promised, trying to ignore the panic bubbling in my chest. Jace could be here in an hour. I’d be in his bedroom. His personal space. Where he would sleep and shower and—nope, not going there.

“Wonderful! Everything you need should be in the supply closet. Use the blue bottle for the marble, not the green one. It makes all the difference.”

With that cryptic instruction, she swept away, leaving me standing in the hallway having a minor existential crisis. Like, sure, no pressure—just go make Hollywood’s golden boy’s bathroom sparkle while trying not to hyperventilate. Totally normal Tuesday.

I pushed open the suite door with all the confidence of someone walking into a final exam they forgot to study for. And promptly stopped dead in my tracks.

The suite was exactly what you’d expect from Hollywood royalty, and nothing like I’d imagined in my embarrassingly frequent daydreams (which, for the record, involved a lot less clothing and a lot more… okay, let’s not go there). Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated two walls, offering a view of the valley that made my artist’s heart do something between a somersault and a swan dive. The morning light painted everything in cinematic gold, like God himself was operating the lighting rig for Jace Carmichael’s life.

But it was the personal touches that made my mouth go Sahara desert dry. This wasn’t just any VIP suite—this was Jace Carmichael’s actual space, his natural habitat, his personal kingdom of ridiculous attractiveness.

Awards were scattered around with casual indifference, like someone had absentmindedly set down their Oscars between coffee cups. “Oh, this old thing? Just a symbol of being the pinnacle of my profession. I use it as a paperweight.” Movie posters lined the walls in elegant frames (Madi’s touch, no doubt), including several I had cheaper, slightly wrinkled versions of in my own room. The difference being his were signed with personal messages from directors and co-stars, while mine were carefully extracted from magazines and lovingly smoothed out with books stacked on top.

Photos showed Jace with various celebrities, his easy smile making even the most famous faces seem ordinary in comparison. The man had the superhuman ability to be the most gorgeous person in any frame, a talent that should be studied by scientists or possibly weaponized.

The space somehow managed to be both impossibly sophisticated and distinctly him—masculine luxury with just enough Hollywood glamour to remind you that yes, you were indeed in the private domain of one of the world’s biggest stars. It was like GQ magazine and Architectural Digest had a baby, and that baby grew up to have exceptional taste and an obscene bank account.

“Stop fanboying and start cleaning,” I muttered to myself, gathering supplies with the determination of someone who absolutely, definitely wasn’t having a minor cardiac event. “The faster you finish, the less chance of doing something monumentally embarrassing.” Which, given my track record, was about as likely as me sprouting wings and flying to the moon.

Madi was right about one thing though. Whoever had prepared the room had done a mediocre job. The flowers were wilting slightly, the bedding wasn’t perfectly smooth, and there was a thin layer of dust on the bedside tables. I tried very hard not to think about what happened on that bed as I smoothed the Egyptian cotton sheets with hands that were only slightly shaking. Nope, not thinking about it at all.

I attacked the space with the laser focus of someone trying to distract themselves from imminent panic. Fresh flowers arranged with what I hoped was artistic flair? Check. Bedding so crisp you could bounce a quarter off it? Check. Surfaces gleaming like they’d been polished by obsessive-compulsive elves? Double check.

By the time I moved to the bathroom, I’d lost track of time, which is probably why the universe decided it was the perfect moment to royally screw me over. I plugged in my earbuds and cranked up my music, nothing like some bass-heavy beats to soundtrack my descent into madness.

The bathroom was a masterpiece of luxury, all marble and glass with a shower big enough for a small orgy and a soaking tub that looked more like a small swimming pool. I’d seen smaller apartments in Seattle. Chrome fixtures sparkled under recessed lighting, and the heated floors (because of course the floors were heated) felt warm against my feet through my sneakers.

I attacked the already-clean shower with determination, using the blue bottle solution that smelled faintly of lemons and something expensive, probably unicorn tears or liquified hundred-dollar bills. The massive rainfall showerhead gleamed, but I knew it needed to be perfect. I stretched up on my tiptoes, spraying cleaner and reaching with my cloth to wipe the chrome.

A delicate “yip” made me turn to find Princess, Sheena’s tiny Pomeranian, sitting in the doorway like a fluffy white cloud with a pink bow. She tilted her head at me, her tail wagging expectantly. For a dog with a social media account following larger than the population of some small countries, she looked remarkably unimpressed with my cleaning skills.

“No, Princess,” I warned, trying to look stern. “This is not playtime. I’m working.”

She responded by trotting into the bathroom, her perfectly groomed fur bouncing with each step. For a dog who usually refused to walk on anything less prestigious than Persian rugs, she seemed determined to join my cleaning adventure.

“Your mom will kill me if you get dirty,” I told her, but she just sat primly by my feet, watching my every move with adoring eyes. “And stop looking at me like that. I’m immune to your cuteness.”

I wasn’t, of course. No one was immune to Princess’ charm, though she reserved her true affection for a select few. The fact that I ranked higher on her list than most of Sheena’s celebrity friends was a source of endless amusement in the household.

The shower was so large I had to step inside to reach properly, my sneakers squeaking against the marble tile. That’s when disaster struck, because apparently the universe hadn’t finished having its fun with me.

My foot slipped on the wet marble—a graceful move I like to call “The Dying Swan on Ice.” I grabbed for the nearest support, which happened to be the flexible shower attachment. It came loose in my hand as I fell, triggering the water system. Suddenly, I was being drenched by ice-cold water at full pressure, directly in the face, like the world’s most aggressive impromptu baptism.

“SHIT!” I sputtered, fumbling blindly for the controls while trying not to crack my skull open on the marble. The water pressure was intense, soaking me completely in seconds. I finally managed to twist the knob, cutting off the impromptu deluge, but the damage was done. I stood there, dripping and shivering, my black t-shirt now completely soaked and plastered to my skin like a second, very cold, very uncomfortable layer of epidermis.

Princess, who had wisely retreated to the doorway at the first sign of water, let out a concerned whimper at my bedraggled state. Her own pristine fur remained perfectly dry, proving she had more sense than I did. Even the dog was judging me now.

“Don’t you dare tell Sheena about this,” I warned her, wringing out my shirt. She just wagged her tail, looking far too amused for a dog who spent two hours at the groomer every week. I swore she was laughing at me.

“Perfect,” I muttered, pushing wet hair out of my eyes. “Absolutely perfect. ‘Use the blue bottle, Eli.’ ‘You have an eye for detail, Eli.’ Well, now I have an eye for not drowning in the shower I’m supposed to be cleaning.”

I peeled off my soaked t-shirt, wringing it out over the drain. Water puddled around my feet as I considered my options, which ranged from bad to catastrophic. I couldn’t exactly walk through the main house looking like I’d gone swimming fully clothed. Mom would have a conniption if I dripped all over the hardwood floors. I’d never hear the end of it.

The bathroom had a heated rack with fluffy white towels. I grabbed one, drying my hair and torso while trying not to think about how this would look if someone walked in—the housekeeper’s son, half-naked in Jace Carmichael’s bathroom, using the guest towels. That would be a fun one to explain at the unemployment office.

“He’s not arriving for at least another half hour,” I reminded myself. “Plenty of time to dry off, clean up this mess, and find replacement clothes.”

I draped my sopping t-shirt over the heated towel rack, hoping it would dry enough to be wearable soon. In the meantime, I’d just have to finish cleaning shirtless. Not ideal, but at least no one would see me. It’s not like Jace Carmichael was going to suddenly materialize in his own bathroom while I was half-naked and dripping wet. That would be absurd. The universe couldn’t possibly hate me that much.

I grabbed the mop from my cleaning supplies and started soaking up the small lake I’d created on the bathroom floor. My jeans were still uncomfortably wet, stuck to my legs like a clingy ex who doesn’t understand the concept of “it’s not you, it’s me.” At least my upper half was drying in the warm bathroom air.

Princess, who had been keeping me company from her safe, dry spot by the door, suddenly perked up. Her ears twitched forward and her tail started wagging frantically. Without warning, she spun around and darted out of the bathroom, her excited “yips” fading down the hall.

“And now I’m being abandoned by a Pomeranian,” I muttered to myself. “Thanks for the solidarity, Princess. Et tu, Brute?”

I’d been mopping for about ten minutes, but the marble floor was taking forever to dry completely. I’d managed to soak up most of the standing water, but the surface was still slick and dangerous. Just a few more minutes and I could finish up and get out of here before anyone discovered me half-naked in Jace Carmichael’s bathroom. That would be the most mortifying thing to ever happen to me, and I once accidentally called my high school math teacher “Mom.”

The music in my earbuds shifted to a new track, the bass thumping so loudly I couldn’t hear anything else. I was bent over, mopping under the vanity, when a strange prickling sensation crawled up my spine, that feeling of being watched that triggers every human’s primitive “don’t get eaten by a saber-toothed tiger” instinct.

I straightened slowly, my heart suddenly pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape the impending humiliation. Through the steam-fogged mirror, I saw the bathroom door was open. And reflected in that mirror, standing in the doorway, was a man.

Not just any man.

Jace Carmichael.

Completely, gloriously naked.

I spun around, yanking out my earbuds, the mop clattering to the floor with what sounded like a thunderclap in the sudden silence. Time seemed to slow as my eyes registered what I was seeing. Broad shoulders that could carry the weight of several movie franchises. Sculpted chest that belonged in a museum. Narrow waist that defied the laws of anatomy. Muscular thighs that… oh sweet merciful heavens. And between those thighs—oh God—the impressive evidence that the rumors about Jace Carmichael were not exaggerated.

He looked like he’d been carved from marble by a sculptor with a very generous imagination and possibly a religious experience. His skin was golden tan all over—ALL over—and his dark hair was slightly damp, as if he’d just come from a workout designed specifically to make mere mortals like me question our life choices. His blue eyes widened in surprise, then darkened as they swept over my half-naked form.

“I— You—” I stammered, backing up involuntarily. My brain had officially left the building, leaving behind only enough neurons to appreciate the magnificent specimen before me and absolutely none to form coherent sentences. Something about his presence seemed to command the very air around us, like gravity had suddenly doubled its pull. My foot hit the puddle I’d been mopping, and suddenly the world tilted sideways as I slipped.

I braced for impact with the hard marble floor—an impact that never came. Instead, Jace moved with impossible speed, crossing the bathroom and catching me mid-fall. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me against him.

Against his very naked body.

If this were a movie, violins would swell dramatically. Since it was my life, all I heard was the blood rushing in my ears and my dignity making a hasty exit. But something else happened too—something I couldn’t explain. The moment his skin touched mine, a wave of heat rushed through me, starting where his hands gripped my waist and spreading outward like wildfire. My muscles turned to liquid, my spine softening as if my body instinctively knew it should yield to him. My head tilted back slightly, exposing my throat without conscious thought, while something deep in my core tightened and ached.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a seductive rumble that vibrated from his chest straight into mine. His eyes locked with mine, a dangerous sparkle dancing in those blue depths. For a split second, I could have sworn they flashed gold—a brief, impossible change that sent an electric current down my spine. My breath caught, heart hammering against my ribs as my body seemed to recognize something my mind couldn’t comprehend.

His scent hit me then—not the “I spent five hundred dollars on cologne” kind, but something deeper that wrapped around me like invisible bonds. Sandalwood and cedar with hints of bergamot, commanding and powerful, make my knees weak and my skin hypersensitive. Every nerve ending came alive, craving more contact, more of that intoxicating scent. What the actual hell? I’d been around shifters my entire life; Paul literally turned into a panther during our video game nights, but I’d never had this “please, yes, take me now” reaction before. It was like my body had developed a mind of its own, recognizing something primal in him that bypassed all rational thought.

A strange warmth spread from my core outward, my breathing becoming shallow as I found myself inexplicably drawn to him. I wanted—needed—to be closer, though I couldn’t understand why. My throat felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that should have terrified me but instead sent a thrill of anticipation down my spine.

What the hell? I’d never had that reaction to anyone before.

“Though I have to say, falling for me this quickly is a bit forward, even by Hollywood standards.”

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only register the feeling of his skin against mine, the strength of his arms holding me, the scent of his cologne filling my lungs. This close, I could see the flecks in his blue eyes, count individual eyelashes, feel the heat radiating from his body.

And I could definitely feel something else pressing insistently against my stomach. Something that made me simultaneously want to flee the country and ask for an encore presentation.

“You’re early,” I finally managed, my voice embarrassingly breathless. Because apparently, when confronted with a naked Adonis, my brain decided the most pressing issue was his punctuality.

His lips curved into that devastating half smile I’d seen melt hearts across a dozen silver screens. “Clearly my timing is impeccable,” he said, making absolutely no move to cover himself as his eyes deliberately traced every inch of my exposed skin. “Should I come back later, or would you prefer to continue this delightfully unexpected welcome home?”

I suddenly became acutely aware of our position—my bare chest pressed against his, his arms around my waist, our faces inches apart. And him, completely naked, not making any move to cover himself or step away. Like this was a totally normal way to meet someone. Just two dudes, hanging out, one of them literally naked, the other half-naked and dripping wet. Nothing to see here, folks.

Heat flooded my face as I scrambled to extract myself from his grip, nearly slipping again in the process. His hands tightened reflexively, steadying me. Those hands that had probably held Oscars and supermodels were now holding… me. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

“I’m so sorry,” I babbled, mortification making my voice higher than usual. “There was a cleaning accident—the shower just exploded. I was trying to dry my shirt. I didn’t hear you come in because of the music—”

“Breathe,” he interrupted, his thumb brushing dangerously close to my hip bone as he steadied me. “It’s fine. Trust me, this is infinitely better than the red-carpet welcome I was expecting.”

It was decidedly not fine. I was half-naked, soaking wet, and pressed against a completely naked Jace Carmichael, who was not supposed to be here yet. Who was holding me like it was the most natural thing in the world. Who was making no effort whatsoever to cover himself. This situation was so far from fine it had crossed into an entirely new dimension of mortification.

“I should go,” I said, trying to step back again. This time he let me, though his hands lingered at my waist a moment longer than strictly necessary. “I’m sorry about the mess. And for being in your bathroom. And for being… undressed.”

His eyes did a slow, deliberate sweep down my body, the heat in his gaze almost predatory. “I’m definitely not complaining about the view,” he said, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “In fact, I might need to thank my mother for her excellent staffing choices.”

Did he just—? Was that—? No, impossible. Jace Carmichael was not flirting with me. The lack of oxygen to my brain was clearly causing hallucinations. Next, I’d be seeing flying unicorns.

“I’ll just…” I gestured vaguely toward my shirt, still draped over the towel rack. It was still soaking wet. Perfect. Just perfect. The universe wasn’t content with just embarrassing me—it wanted to prolong the agony.

Jace followed my gaze, then looked back at me with that same amused expression. “Wait here,” he said, turning to leave the bathroom with a deliberate slowness that felt like a private show just for me. His perfectly sculpted back and shoulders flexed with each movement, drawing my eyes downward to what could only be described as artwork in human form.

The view of him walking away, all smooth skin, flexing muscles, and perfect backside, nearly short-circuited what remained of my brain function. I stood frozen, dripping on the marble floor, wondering if I could possibly die from embarrassment. The medical journals would have a field day with that case study: “First Documented Case of Fatal Mortification: Man Expires After Meeting Celebrity Crush While Half-Naked.”

He returned moments later, still completely naked and completely unconcerned about it, with a dark-blue t-shirt in hand. Like he was delivering room service, except the room service was clothing and he was the naked one, which is pretty much the opposite of how service industry standards typically work.

“Here,” he said, offering it to me. “It’ll be big, but at least it’s dry.”

I stared at the shirt, then at him, then back at the shirt, desperately trying to keep my eyes above waist level. It was like trying not to look at the sun during an eclipse—you know it’s dangerous, but the temptation is almost impossible to resist. “I can’t take your clothes.”

“Would you prefer to walk through the house shirtless?” he asked, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “Not that I’d object, but I imagine it might cause quite a stir.”

My cheeks burned hotter than the surface of Venus. “When you put it that way…” I took the shirt, careful not to let our fingers touch. One more point of contact and I might spontaneously combust. “Thank you.”

I pulled it over my head, immediately engulfed in soft cotton that smelled like expensive cologne and something uniquely him—a scent I’d probably be able to identify blindfolded for the rest of my life. The shirt hung almost to my knees and the sleeves reached my elbows, making me look like a child playing dress-up in their parents’ clothes. Or worse, like I was wearing my boyfriend’s shirt after a night together. Which was definitely not what happened here, brain, so please stop conjuring those images immediately.

“Better?” he asked, that amused half smile playing on his lips while his eyes conveyed something far more dangerous than amusement.

“Less naked,” I agreed, then winced at my own words. Smooth, Eli. Real smooth. “I mean—yes. Better. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome…” He paused, clearly waiting for my name.

“Eli,” I supplied. “Eli Harper. Tricia and Thomas’ son.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes. “The groundskeeper and housekeeper’s son? I didn’t know they had a son.”

“Adopted,” I clarified, suddenly self-conscious about the difference between my platinum-blond hair and my parents’ darker coloring. It was like having a neon sign above my head flashing NOT BIOLOGICALLY RELATED in case anyone missed the obvious. “About nine years ago, when I was twelve.”

He nodded, processing this information with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “Well, Eli Harper, this is certainly an unexpected welcome home.”

“Not exactly how I planned our first meeting,” I admitted, then immediately wanted to kick myself. Way to sound like a stalker, Harper. Why don’t you just confess about the shrine in your bedroom while you’re at it?

“You planned our meeting?” he asked, amusement deepening.

“No! I mean—not planned, exactly. Just… imagined. Generally. With more clothes and less water and definitely not in your bathroom.” I was babbling again, words tumbling out like I was being paid by the syllable. “I should really stop talking now.”

He laughed—a rich, genuine sound that transformed his face from movie-star handsome to breathtakingly human. “Please don’t,” he said, stepping slightly closer. “This is the most entertaining homecoming I’ve had in years. Usually, I just get fruit baskets and awkward small talk.”

I couldn’t help but smile back, some of my mortification easing in the face of his good humor. “Glad I could provide the entertainment. Though I usually charge for my comedy routines.”

“Put it on my tab,” he suggested, making absolutely no move to cover himself. His stance widened slightly, a subtle but unmistakable display. “Though I should warn you, I’m very thorough about paying my debts.” The double entendre hung in the air between us, thick as the steam. “Now, as much as I’m enjoying this unexpected meet-cute, I should probably shower and get dressed before someone comes looking for either of us. Unless…” He let the invitation linger, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

“Right. Yes. Shower. Clothes. Good idea.” I backed toward the door, nearly tripping over the forgotten mop. At this rate, I’d break my neck before I made it out of this bathroom. “I’ll just… go. And let you… not be naked. I mean, get dressed. In private. Which is what normal people do.”

“Normal people are overrated,” he countered, his voice a silky caress. “And they rarely have stories worth telling.”

“As opposed to me, who apparently gives impromptu shower performances for Hollywood stars,” I clarified, edging toward the door. “I’m really sorry about the mess. I’ll come back later to clean up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “I think you’ve done enough cleaning for one day.”

I nodded, desperate to escape before I could embarrass myself further. “Right. Well. Welcome home. To your home. Not my home. I mean, I live here, but not here-here. In the cottage. Which is technically your property. Or your family’s. I’m going to stop talking now.”

His laugh followed me as I turned and fled—there was no other word for my strategic retreat—toward the door, my face burning and my heart racing like I’d just run a marathon. While being chased by wolves. Uphill. In the snow.

Jace Carmichael was here. He’d seen me at my absolute worst—half-naked, dripping wet, babbling like an idiot—and he’d laughed. Not at me, but with me. He’d caught me when I fell. Given me his shirt.

And he’d been completely, gloriously naked the entire time, showing not a hint of self-consciousness while I’d been ready to spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

I was so, so screwed. And not in the fun way that involves less clothing and more bed.

I made it halfway down the hall before my brain decided to function again. The cleaning supplies. I’d left them all in the shower. The very shower Jace would want to use after his long drive.

“Damn it,” I muttered, hesitating. I could just leave them. It wasn’t like Jace Carmichael had never seen a bottle of cleaning solution before. But my professional pride, and my mother’s voice in my head, wouldn’t let me abandon my job half-finished. Mom had instilled in me a work ethic that would make drill sergeants weep with pride.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and turned back. I’d just knock politely, explain the situation, grab my supplies, and leave. Simple. Professional. No problem. Just a normal human interaction that absolutely wouldn’t end with me making a complete fool of myself again.

I tapped lightly on the suite door. No answer. I knocked again, slightly louder. Still nothing. Either he was ignoring me (understandable), or he couldn’t hear me (more likely).

“Jace?” I called through the door. “It’s Eli again. Sorry to bother you, but I left my cleaning supplies in the shower.”

Silence. Great. He was probably already in the bathroom and couldn’t hear me. I’d have to come back later when he was fully clothed and I’d regained at least a shred of my dignity. So, sometime next century, then.

Just as I turned to leave, I heard the faint sound of running water. The shower. Of course he was already in the shower. I should definitely leave and come back later. That would be the rational, sensible thing to do.

Instead, my hand reached for the doorknob, apparently operating independently from my brain. The door wasn’t locked. Because why would a celebrity bother locking their door in their own home? It’s not like some weird staff member might walk in on them naked. Oh, wait.

“Jace?” I called, stepping hesitantly into the suite. “I’m just going to grab my cleaning stuff real quick. Sorry to interrupt.”

The bathroom door was partially open, steam billowing out like a special effect in a music video. I could hear the shower running at full blast. I should leave the supplies. I should definitely, absolutely leave the supplies and run away as fast as my legs could carry me.

“I’ll just grab my things and go,” I announced, louder this time, as I approached the bathroom. “Not looking, just grabbing.”

I pushed the door open wider, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor like it contained the secrets of the universe. The steam was thick, carrying the scent of expensive soap and shampoo. I risked a glance toward the shower, just to locate my supplies. That was all. Just a quick, professional glance.

The glass enclosure was fogged, but not enough to completely obscure the figure inside. Water cascaded over Jace’s body, running in rivulets down his back, over the curve of his—

I jerked my gaze away so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash, scanning the shower floor for my cleaning caddy. It wasn’t there. Neither was the mop or any of my supplies. They had vanished like my dignity and self-control.

“Looking for me?” Jace’s voice came from inside the shower, amused and echoing slightly.

I looked up reflexively, because apparently I’m a masochist who enjoys torturing myself. He had pushed open the glass door and was standing there, water streaming down his body, one hand braced against the doorframe in a pose that belonged on the cover of Wet Hollywood Gods Monthly. My cleaning supplies were nowhere in sight.

“I, uh—” My mouth went dry. Desert dry. Sahara during a drought dry. “The cleaning supplies?”

“I moved them,” he said, that half smile playing on his lips again. “Didn’t want them getting wet. Again.”

“Right. Smart. Good thinking.” I was babbling again, my eyes desperately trying to find somewhere safe to land. The ceiling? Too obvious. The floor? Too submissive. The wall? Boring. His face? Dangerous. Anywhere else? Fatal. “Where did you put them?”

“Under the sink,” he replied, making absolutely no move to close the shower door or cover himself. “Or… you could join me instead. The water pressure is excellent. Your cleaning job was very thorough.”

All I could think about was minutes ago, how it felt to be pressed against all that muscle and heat, how my body had basically thrown a parade when he touched me. Even now, with several feet of bathroom tile between us, that same scent hit me like a truck—sandalwood and cedar and pure, concentrated bad decisions. My pulse went haywire, and some traitorous part of me actually whined—literally whined—at the distance between us. Like I was a puppy being denied treats. Except the treat was six-foot-something of naked movie star, and what the hell, brain? We are NOT doing this right now.

I tried not to stare at the water running down his body, following trails I’d felt against my skin just moments before when he caught me. I failed miserably. My throat went desert dry, and I had to physically stop myself from doing that weird neck-baring thing again.

My brain short-circuited like someone had poured coffee on a laptop. Smoke practically billowed from my ears as I tried to process what I’d just heard. “Join—? I— What—?”

He laughed, the sound bouncing off the marble walls. “Your face right now is priceless.”

His eyes flashed again—that impossible gold color briefly overtaking the blue—and my body was responding to him in ways I didn’t understand, like it recognized something about him that my conscious mind couldn’t perceive. It was unsettling yet somehow… right?

“I’m just— I wanted to finish… the shower—” I stammered, then realized how that sounded. “Cleaning! Finish cleaning the shower!”

“It’s perfectly clean,” he assured me, running a hand through his wet hair in a gesture that should be illegal. “But if you’re concerned about your professional reputation, feel free to inspect it. From inside, perhaps?”

Was Jace Carmichael, Hollywood star and literal Greek god made flesh, actually flirting with me? No. Impossible. This was just how obscenely attractive people interacted with the world—with easy confidence and casual invitations they never expected anyone to take seriously. Like when gorgeous people say “we should totally get coffee sometime” and never mean it. Except he was naked and wet and looking at me like I was dessert.

“I think I’ll pass,” I managed, finally locating my voice somewhere in the vicinity of my kneecaps. “But thanks for the offer. Very… hospitable of you.”

“Hospitality is a Carmichael family value,” he replied, his eyes gleaming with wicked intent as water cascaded down the ridges of his abs. “The offer stands. For the shower or…” His gaze flickered to my lips. “…anything else you might need. Anytime.”

I backed toward the door, my face burning hotter than the steam around us. If my cheeks got any warmer, the fire sprinklers would activate. “I’ll just… get those supplies later. Enjoy your shower. Not that you need my permission. It’s your shower. I’ll stop talking now.”

His laugh followed me out the door again, rich and genuine. I didn’t stop moving until I was all the way down the hall, around the corner, and safely hidden in a linen closet, where I pressed my forehead against a stack of freshly laundered towels and tried to remember how to breathe. In, out. In, out. See? Easy. Just like riding a bike, except the bike was your lungs and you’ve forgotten how to use them.

I couldn’t understand what was happening to me. One minute I’m cleaning a shower, the next I’m having some weird primal reaction to Jace freaking Carmichael like I’m in some bizarre nature documentary. “And here we see the awkward graphic design student, exposing his throat to the alpha in a display of submission.” Absolutely not. That’s not me. I don’t do submission. I do sarcasm and avoiding eye contact and occasionally stress eating an entire pint of ice cream.

Even with a wall between us, I could still smell him, that stupidly perfect scent that was probably going to ruin all other smells for me forever. Great. Add “can’t enjoy normal scents anymore” to my growing list of problems. And why did I suddenly feel like I’d lost something important? Like I’d walked away from something essential? Probably just my dignity. Or my sanity. Both seemed equally likely at this point.

And what the hell had just happened? Had Jace Carmichael actually invited me to shower with him? As a joke, obviously. It had to be a joke. Men like him didn’t seriously proposition people like me. That would be like a lion asking a mouse on a date. Or a star inviting a telescope to dinner. Or a—okay, I’m out of metaphors, but…

Did they?

I looked down at myself, still wearing his oversized t-shirt, my jeans still damp and uncomfortable. The shirt smelled like him—expensive cologne with undertones of something uniquely Jace. Something I’d probably be able to identify in my sleep for the rest of my life.

One thing was certain: my carefully cultivated celebrity crush had just gotten a lot more complicated. Like, advanced calculus complicated. Quantum physics complicated. “Explaining to my therapist why I’m having panic attacks” complicated.

And I still didn’t have my damn cleaning supplies.

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Ian

Lord Edward led me to his private sitting room, a masculine space adjacent to his bedroom. The room was furnished with leather and dark wood, the walls lined with bookshelves, and a fireplace casting a warm glow over everything. Lord Edward settled onto a chaise lounge while I perched on the edge of a nearby sofa.

“Ah, this is nice,” he sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “A moment of peace in what has been an exceedingly trying day.”

“You must have had a really tough evening, my lord,” I said, noting the lines of tension around his eyes. “Was it the business matter Kevin mentioned?”

“Indeed,” he confirmed. “Damn, my head is pounding. Nothing like a roomful of panicking investors to induce a migraine of biblical proportions.”

“A headache?” I asked, concerned. “Not due to that incident back in Cheswick, I hope? I remember Dr. Webb mentioned that you might get headaches from the injury now and again.”

A dark frown crossed his features, making me regret bringing up the attack. “It’s not from that,” he assured me. “It’s a tension headache. Probably just exhaustion from work and the particular joy of dealing with my cousin’s more questionable business decisions.”

“Lady Samara mentioned you tend to work yourself too hard,” I said carefully. “I know I’m not one to preach since I tend to overwork myself too when it comes to family matters, but perhaps taking time to rest would help? Or are earls genetically incapable of relaxation? Some sort of aristocratic curse passed down through the generations?”

Lord Edward snorted. “You sound like Mother, though with considerably more sarcasm. She’s convinced I’ll work myself into an early grave like my father did.”

“Sorry,” I murmured. “I tend to mask concern with poor attempts at humor. It’s a character flaw I’m working on, along with my inability to fold clothes properly and my tendency to befriend feral animals.”

He opened one eye to regard me. “Since you’re so concerned about my well-being, why don’t you be a good boy and help ease this tension headache of mine? Unless your therapeutic skills are limited to livestock and woodland creatures.”

“I’m actually quite proficient at human ailments too,” I replied, moving to sit on the edge of the chaise beside him. The furniture was clearly designed for one person, forcing me to balance precariously on the narrow space available. “My talents extend beyond coaxing sick lambs back to health, though I draw the line at birthing calves, which I’ve done exactly once and promptly vowed never to repeat.”

Lord Edward stared at me, his surprise evident. “You’re actually going to help? I was half-expecting a witty refusal followed by a lecture on proper boundaries.”

I chuckled at his expression. “I’ve learned this technique from a book I read on Eastern medicine. I’ve already applied the method to Grandma Eliza, and she had nothing but praise for it. She often gets tension headaches too, though hers typically follow extended arguments with the village council about proper road maintenance.” I leaned closer, my voice dropping naturally. “It helps ease the tension if you gently massage the temples and the back of the neck and shoulders. Though I should warn you, my bedside manner has been described as ‘alarmingly direct’ and ‘lacking appropriate reverence for social status.’”

“Really, now?” he asked, one eyebrow arching elegantly. “How fortunate that I prefer directness to sycophantic fawning. Proceed with your country healing, Dr. Harrison.”

“Hardly a doctor,” I corrected, positioning my fingers at his temples and beginning to apply gentle pressure in circular motions. “Just someone who’s read too many texts when I should have been studying more practical subjects, like how to smile convincingly at tedious social gatherings.”

Being this close to Lord Edward was both thrilling and terrifying—I could smell his distinctive alpha scent, stronger now that we were alone, and feel the warmth radiating from his skin. The texture of his hair against my fingers was finer than I’d imagined, like silk threads woven through my fingers.

Lord Edward’s eyes remained open, his gaze fixed on my face with an intensity that made my heart race. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, transforming his features from tired to devastatingly handsome.

“Does it feel any better, my lord?” I asked after a moment, suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny. “Or am I just rearranging your headache into more interesting patterns?”

“Mm...” he replied softly, lifting a hand to brush a strand of hair from my face. “You’re such a good boy, Ian. So attentive, so... unexpected.”

The simple touch sent a current of warmth through me that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth. I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my composure. “Were you not a good boy when you were around my age? I find that difficult to believe. I imagine you emerged from the womb already perfectly composed and issuing directives to the staff.”

He snorted, the sound unexpectedly inelegant from someone usually so refined. “Far from it. I’ll admit I was wild and wicked. My mother despaired of me ever developing a sense of responsibility, and my father threatened to disown me at least twice a month.”

“Oh my,” I teased, continuing the gentle massage along his temples. “What could you have possibly been up to back then? Improper table manners? Unauthorized novel reading? The occasional scandalous ankle display?”

A dark grin spread across his face, transforming him from distinguished nobleman to something far more dangerous and enticing. “Many wicked things, Ian, things you can’t possibly imagine with that delightfully innocent mind of yours.”

“Try me,” I challenged, surprising myself with my boldness. “I grew up on a farm, remember? Nature isn’t exactly subtle about certain aspects of life.”

“Have you ever heard of The Wild Wicked Gentlemen?”

I shook my head, wondering if this was some sort of club or society. “Sounds like the title of one of your sisters’ novels. ‘Lord Wicked and the Gentleman’s Scandalous Proposition,’ perhaps?”

“Thought so,” he said, his expression softening. “You are a fairy from a faraway land, after all.”

“Is that... supposed to be a compliment?” I asked, unsure how to take the strange description. “No, it’s not. I will not take that as a compliment. You’re saying I’m naive and gullible, aren’t you? As if I wandered out of an enchanted forest with flowers in my hair and woodland creatures following in my wake.”

He burst out laughing, the sound rich and genuine. “No, my dear Ian. I certainly am not implying that you are any of those things. I’m implying just how pure you are, and it marvels me. You’ve managed to maintain a certain... untainted quality despite life’s hardships. It’s rare and rather beautiful.”

“Oh...” I blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected praise. “Well, that’s... thank you, I suppose. Though I’m not sure ‘pure’ is the right word. ‘Slightly less corrupted than the average person’ might be more accurate.”

His fingers moved to trace the outline of my lips, the touch so light it was almost imperceptible yet somehow sent shockwaves through my entire body. “So pure and innocent and angelic,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a register that made my insides quiver, “uncontaminated by the evil of men and their greed.”

Our eyes locked, and I felt myself drawn toward him as if by some invisible force. The space between us seemed charged with electricity, making it difficult to breathe. I wanted—needed—to be closer to him, to feel his lips against mine again. We were mere inches apart, his breath warm against my skin, when a sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.

I jerked back, my heart hammering in my chest as a maid’s voice called from the hallway, “My lord, I’ve got your snack for you, sir.”

Lord Edward made a sound that might have been a curse before calling, “Come in.”

The maid entered with a silver tray, set it on the tea table, and departed with a curtsy, oblivious to the moment she’d interrupted. I wondered if she noticed my flushed cheeks or Lord Edward’s darkened eyes, but if she did, she gave no indication.

“Be a dear and pour me some tea, will you, Ian?” Lord Edward requested, his voice carrying a hint of resignation. “Since the opportunity for more interesting activities has been so thoroughly ruined by the punctuality of the kitchen staff.”

“Of course,” I replied, grateful for something to do with my trembling hands. There was a full tea service along with a plate of club sandwiches that looked appetizing despite the late hour. I poured two cups, handed one to Lord Edward, and was about to return to the sofa when I felt his arm snake around my waist.

“Don’t sit so far away,” he said, gently pulling me onto his lap. “It’ll make me too damn lonely. Besides, you’re far more effective at headache relief when you’re close enough that I can actually smell that intriguing herbal concoction you use.”

I froze, teacup in hand, suddenly very aware that I was sitting on an earl’s lap like a child—or something far less innocent. “You can smell my scent-masking herbs?” I asked, horrified at the thought that my attempts at concealing my omega nature might be failing.

“Of course,” he replied casually, as if discussing the weather. “Lavender, rosemary, and something else I can’t quite identify. It’s pleasant, though I suspect what’s beneath it is even more so.”

This was... highly improper. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to move. The warmth of his body against mine, the security of his arm around my waist—it felt right in a way I couldn’t explain. As if I belonged exactly where I was, perched on the lap of the most powerful alpha I’d ever encountered.

“Would you like a club sandwich, my lord?” I asked, desperate to maintain some semblance of normalcy despite our decidedly abnormal seating arrangement.

“Mm-hmm,” he nodded, his eyes never leaving my face.

I reached for one and was about to hand it to him when he said, “My hands are full and occupied. Feed me.”

I glanced at his hands—one holding the teacup, the other still wrapped firmly around my waist. They were indeed occupied, though I suspected he could easily free one if he truly wanted to.

Turning slightly, I held the sandwich to his mouth, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach as he took a bite. His eyes never left mine as he chewed, a glint of amusement—or was it something else?—in their depths.

“Mm. Nice,” he pronounced before leaning forward to take another bite. This time, his lips and tongue brushed against my fingertips, sending a jolt of heat through my body that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. The contact felt deliberate, a silent acknowledgment of the tension building between us.

Another knock at the door interrupted what was becoming an increasingly intimate moment. Lord Edward’s expression darkened with unmistakable annoyance as the door opened to reveal Marcus lounging against the frame.

“Am I disturbing your little me time with Ian there, Edward?” he asked, his smirk suggesting he knew exactly what he was interrupting. “How charmingly domestic. I had no idea you’d developed such paternal instincts.”

“Yes, you are,” Lord Edward replied bluntly. “So scoot, you annoying cousin. This is precisely why people celebrate when you leave and mourn when you arrive.”

Instead of leaving, Marcus sauntered into the room and made himself comfortable on the sofa. “I know you’re comfortable there sitting on Edward’s hard and uncomfortable lap,” he said to me, “but would you be a darling and pour me a cup of tea, Ian? I find myself in desperate need of refreshment after an evening of watching Edward terrorize innocent businessmen.”

The casual reference to my position made me suddenly aware of how inappropriate it must look—a nineteen-year-old omega perched on an alpha’s lap like a child or a... I couldn’t even complete the thought.

“Uh, of course, my lord,” I stammered, attempting to rise. Lord Edward’s arm tightened around my waist, preventing my escape.

“There’s no need for you to pour him tea, Ian,” he said firmly. “Marcus can do it himself. You sit right here on my warm and comfortable lap where you belong. Besides, I’m not finished with my sandwich, and you’re the only one qualified to feed me.”

Where I belonged? The possessive statement sent a thrill through me that I tried desperately to ignore. This was dangerous territory we were entering, a place where the lines between ward and guardian, omega and alpha, became dangerously blurred.

Marcus rolled his eyes dramatically. “Fine, I’ll do it myself since I have no little darling to serve me tea. How terribly unfair that you’ve monopolized the only omega in the house, Edward. Some might call it selfish.”

“Some might call your interruption intrusive,” Edward countered smoothly. “Yet here we are.”

Marcus leaned forward to pour himself a cup before settling back with a contented sigh. “Ah, that’s nice. Though I admit I prefer whiskey for my nightcap. Tea is so... civilized.”

“Too much alcohol is bad for your liver, my lord,” I found myself saying, then immediately regretted the presumption. “Or so I’ve read in several journals. Though I suppose earls have superior organs that can withstand such abuse. Some sort of aristocratic evolutionary advantage.”

“You a doctor, Ian?” Marcus asked, his tone more curious than offended. “You certainly have the bedside manner for it—equal parts concern and impertinence.”

“No,” I admitted. “Though I’m always interested in science and the human body.”

Emboldened by his receptive response, I decided to satisfy my curiosity about something that had been mentioned earlier. “Do you know anything about The Wild Wicked Gentlemen, my lord? Lord Edward mentioned it but refused to elaborate, which naturally makes me suspect it’s something scandalous and therefore worth knowing.”

Lord Edward burst into laughter while Marcus’s eyes widened in surprise. “Did Edward tell you about that?” he asked. “I’m shocked. He typically guards those stories like a dragon hoarding gold.”

“He mentioned it,” I confirmed. “That he was quite wild and wicked during his younger days. I find it difficult to imagine, given his current state of perpetual propriety.”

Marcus nodded, his expression turning nostalgic. “Indeed, Ian, Edward was one of the wildest and most wicked. He ran amok with his wickedness to such an extent that half of St. Louis society locked up their daughters—and quite a few of their sons—whenever he appeared.” He winked conspiratorially.

“Do elaborate,” I encouraged, fascinated by this glimpse into Lord Edward’s past. “I need details for future blackmail purposes, of course.”

“The Wild Wicked Gentlemen,” Marcus announced with theatrical gravitas, “was Edward’s most brilliant creation. Not a mere club, my dear Ian, but a secret society of aristocratic vigilantes who solved the mysteries Scotland Yard couldn’t touch—or wouldn’t, due to the inconvenient social status of the perpetrators.”

“A vigilante society?” I echoed, leaning forward despite myself. “With actual cases and investigations? Or was it just an elaborate excuse to drink expensive brandy and make trouble?”

“Both, naturally,” Marcus replied with a rakish grin. “The brandy fueled our genius, and the trouble was merely an unfortunate byproduct of our methods. We had code names, disguises, and a network of informants that would make the royal intelligence service weep with envy.”

“Our headquarters was the back room of Madame Laveau’s,” Edward added unexpectedly, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “A questionable establishment where no respectable gentleman would admit to frequenting, which made it perfect for our purposes.”

“Tell me about your cases,” I prompted, fascinated by this glimpse into Lord Edward’s hidden past. “Were there actual mysteries, or did you just terrorize the local constabulary for sport?”

“Oh, we solved genuine crimes,” Marcus assured me, warming to his subject like an actor finding his spotlight. “There was the notorious Professor Blackwood affair—a distinguished academic who was drugging the sons of nobility with opium-laced tea during ‘special tutoring sessions,’ then blackmailing their families. The man had half the aristocracy paying him to keep their precious heirs’ newly acquired habits secret.”

“How did you catch him?” I asked, imagining Edward and his friends in deerstalker hats, sneaking around campus with magnifying glasses.

“Edward went undercover as a student with a particular taste for rebellion,” Marcus revealed with obvious relish. “He attended these ‘sessions’ for weeks, building evidence while pretending to succumb to addiction. When we finally exposed Blackwood in the St. Louis Chronicle, the scandal rocked the university to its foundations. The professor now enjoys far less prestigious accommodations in the royal prison.”

“Then there was the Midnight Sapphire case,” Marcus continued, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he glanced at Edward. “One of Queen Josephine’s most valuable crown jewels, stolen during a royal ball. The investigation led us from the palace to the bedchamber of one Lady Cunningham—a countess with expensive tastes and flexible morality.”

Edward’s body tensed beneath me. “Marcus—” he warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.

“Edward had to... shall we say... get close to the lady to determine if she was involved,” Marcus continued, ignoring the warning. “Unfortunately, the countess’s husband returned unexpectedly from a diplomatic mission just as Edward was conducting a thorough search of her private quarters. The ensuing confrontation involved a toppled oil lamp, a half-burned manor house, and Edward fleeing across the Scottish border with the sapphire and a bullet graze on his shoulder.”

“Lord Edward got shot?” I gasped, instinctively tightening my grip on his shoulder as if I could retroactively protect him. “And set fire to a countess’s bedroom? While in a compromising position with her? Good Lord, and here I thought your rebellious phase involved nothing more scandalous than drinking too much champagne at society balls.”

“The fire was an accident,” Edward muttered, though his lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “And the compromising position was purely investigative.”

“Of course it was,” Marcus agreed with exaggerated solemnity. “Just as your investigation of the ambassador’s three daughters was purely diplomatic. And the incident with the Duke of Harrington’s prize thoroughbred and the fountain in Queen’s Square was an equestrian research project.”

“Would you please shut your infernal trap, Marcus?” Edward growled, though there was more exasperation than genuine anger in his tone. “Or shall I enlighten Ian about your own colorful exploits? Perhaps the ambassador’s daughter incident? Or the time you were discovered in the university fountain at dawn, naked as the day you were born, with three—”

“Point taken!” Marcus interrupted hastily, raising his hands in surrender. “Some adventures are best left shrouded in merciful obscurity. Particularly those involving Hungarian diplomats and their extraordinarily vengeful fathers.”

I tried to process this information, feeling an unexpected pang of... something. Jealousy? But that was absurd. Lord Edward’s past escapades had nothing to do with me, and besides, it sounded like his intimate encounter with Lady Cunningham was merely part of his investigation. Wasn’t it?

“Let me get this straight,” I said, narrowing my eyes at Marcus. “You expect me to believe that the Earl of Eastwood—the most proper, controlled, business-minded nobleman in Northland—was once a reckless vigilante who seduced countesses, stole royal jewels, exposed criminal conspiracies, and fled across international borders with bullets flying past his head?”

“When you put it that way, it does sound rather far-fetched,” Marcus admitted with a grin that suggested it was anything but. “Though you’ve forgotten the part where he also challenged three marquesses to duels in a single season and won them all, despite being spectacularly drunk during the third.”

I turned to Edward, searching his face for confirmation. His expression remained carefully neutral, but there was a gleam in his eyes that told me there was at least some truth to these outlandish tales.

“You should write a novel series,” I suggested to Marcus, shaking my head in disbelief. “I’d buy every volume, especially if you include the part where Lord Edward transforms from international jewel thief to respectable businessman without anyone noticing. The character development alone would be worth the price.”

Marcus’s laughter filled the room. “I should, shouldn’t I? Though I fear the actual truth would strain credibility even for fiction. Reality, dear Ian, has a delicious way of being far more outrageous than anything we mere mortals could invent. Isn’t that right, Edward?”

Lord Edward ignored the question, turning to me instead. “It’s getting late, Ian. Why don’t you retire for the night? Before Marcus decides to share any more stories from our misspent youth—most of which have been heavily embellished, I assure you.”

The dismissal stung slightly, but I recognized it as his way of ending conversations he no longer wished to have. “Yes, it is rather late,” I agreed, rising from his lap with as much dignity as I could muster. “And I should check on Waffle. He gets terribly anxious when I’m out after dark, convinced I’ve abandoned him for a more obedient, less flatulent companion.”

“Nighty night, Ian,” Marcus called, his tone dripping with suggestive amusement. “Sweet dreams of dashing earls, stolen jewels, and compromising positions with countesses. Or perhaps something closer to home?”

I had reached the door when a sudden surge of courage—or perhaps foolishness—overcame me. I turned back to Marcus, my hand still on the doorknob.

“One more thing, Lord Marcus,” I said, meeting his surprised gaze directly. “I realize I’m overstepping every possible boundary of propriety here, but I feel compelled to point out that whatever game you’re playing with Alec is causing him genuine distress.”

The room went suddenly, dangerously quiet. Marcus’s expression shifted from amusement to something far more guarded. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me perfectly well,” I continued, my heart hammering against my ribs but my voice remarkably steady. “Every time you enter a room, Alec looks like he’s been simultaneously stabbed and offered the world’s most tempting dessert. It’s painful to witness, and I suspect it’s not particularly pleasant to experience either.”

Lord Edward made a strange choking sound that might have been suppressed laughter or shock at my audacity.

“You have quite the way with metaphors, don’t you?” Marcus said, his voice deceptively casual. “And an even more impressive talent for inserting yourself into matters that don’t concern you.”

“Perhaps not,” I acknowledged, “but I’ve grown rather fond of Alec, and watching him transform from charming, witty companion to silent, wounded shadow whenever you appear is, frankly, exhausting. Whatever history exists between you—and I neither need nor want the details—perhaps consider that five years is long enough to punish someone for whatever transgression you believe they committed.”

Marcus’s expression was unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes—something that looked suspiciously like pain before it was quickly masked. “You presume a great deal for someone who’s known Alec for all of what, two weeks?”

“Sometimes an outsider sees more clearly precisely because they lack the history,” I replied. “And what I see is someone who matters to you causing you enough distress that you avoided your family for five years, and someone who matters to me suffering every time you’re in the same room. It seems unnecessarily dramatic for two grown men, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“You tell him how it should be, Ian,” Edward encouraged, not bothering to hide his amusement now. “The ongoing melodrama between these two has been the family’s most tedious entertainment for half a decade. Like watching a particularly depressing play where the actors refuse to read the final act and resolve the plot.”

Marcus turned to Edward, his expression darkening. “Is that so? How fascinating that you’ve appointed yourself theater critic of my personal affairs when your own romantic life has been a desert of disinterest punctuated by strategic retreats from any omega who shows genuine interest. At least until recently.”

The implication hung in the air between us, charged and dangerous.

“And on that illuminating note,” I said hastily, recognizing I’d ventured into territory far more complicated than I’d anticipated, “I’ll bid you both good night. Enjoy your tea and unresolved tensions—they seem to pair quite nicely.”

I slipped out the door before either man could respond, my heart pounding with the audacity of what I’d just done. Had I really just lectured an earl about his personal relationships? After sitting on another earl’s lap and nearly kissing him? Twice?

Clearly, life in St. Louis was having a detrimental effect on my sense of self-preservation.

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Ian

If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be riding through Queen Josephine Park in a barouche-landau with an earl at my side while the aristocracy of St. Louis stared at us like we were exotic zoo specimens, I’d have laughed myself sick. Yet here I was, trying not to fidget as what felt like the entire population of the capital’s upper crust pretended not to gawk at us.

It felt surreal to not only see Lord Edward, who had returned from his overseas trip earlier than expected, but to have him right here beside me. I thought I had forgotten what it felt like to have him near, but now that he was here, the warmth and comfort flooding through me made me realize just how significant he’d become in the short time we’d known each other. His scent—that intoxicating blend of sandalwood, leather, and something uniquely him—washed over me with each breeze, and I found myself inching closer, trying to capture more of it without being obvious.

“Cold?” Lord Edward asked, his dark eyes dancing with amusement at my pathetic attempts at subtlety. “Or are you simply trying to determine whether I bathed this morning?”

I jerked back slightly, mortified at being caught. “Neither, my lord. I’m conducting a scientific study on how aristocratic pheromones differ from those of us mere country mortals. So far my findings suggest that expensive cologne does wonders for masking natural alpha musk.”

“Is that so?” he replied, his lips twitching. “And what other observations has your scientific inquiry yielded?”

“That St. Louis nobility spend more on a single handkerchief than my entire village did on road repairs last year,” I quipped, gesturing subtly toward a passing carriage where a woman was dabbing her nose with what appeared to be embroidered silk. “Though I suppose smooth roads are less important when one never actually walks on them.”

The park was surprisingly crowded for a winter afternoon. Elegant couples strolled along the pathways, ladies with parasols despite the distinct lack of sunshine, gentlemen with walking sticks they clearly didn’t need. Other carriages rolled past, their occupants nodding or calling greetings with practiced casualness that couldn’t quite hide their curiosity about us.

I was painfully aware of how I must look in my Sunday best—a pair of dark trousers, white shirt, dark jacket, and thick overcoat that Dorothy had tailored for me before we moved. Compared to the finely cut attire surrounding us, I probably resembled a farmer dressed up for market day. At least my hair provided a convenient excuse for the attention; its perpetual state of dishevelment likely made me look like I’d been dragged backward through a hedge.

Not that I particularly cared at the moment. Lord Edward was beside me, and that simple fact had put me in an inexplicably buoyant mood.

“Are you enjoying yourself there, Ian darling?” Lady Samara asked from across the carriage, where she sat with Lady Scarlet. The latter was sketching furiously in her notebook, her pencil moving with the confidence of someone capturing a scene they found particularly inspiring.

“Yes, my la... I mean, Samara,” I replied, catching myself just in time. After nearly a week at Tyndall Manor, I was still struggling with the twins’ insistence on informal address.

Lord Edward chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I see Sam and Letty have already dragooned you into their first-name conspiracy. They’re remarkably efficient at dismantling social barriers when it suits them.”

“It’d be an abomination against the English language to force poor Ian to address us as ‘my lady’ every time we converse,” Lady Scarlet replied without looking up from her sketch. “Besides, he’s practically family now. One doesn’t stand on ceremony with family, unless one is desperately dull or harboring deep-seated resentment.”

Lord Edward turned to me, a peculiar expression crossing his features. “Then how about it, Ian?”

I raised my brows. “How about what, my lord?”

“How about you call me by my first name, too?” he suggested, his voice dropping slightly. “Unless, of course, you’re harboring that deep-seated resentment Letty mentioned.”

The idea sent a thrill through me that I quickly suppressed. “And risk the collective gasps of horror from the entire St. Louis aristocracy? I’d sooner attempt to teach Waffle table manners, my lord. Besides, someone in this family should maintain at least a pretense of proper etiquette—the twins have certainly abandoned it entirely.”

“Such dedication to propriety,” he remarked, his eyes gleaming with something that might have been disappointment or amusement—possibly both. “Though I suspect it’s less about etiquette and more about maintaining a comfortable distance. Far easier to keep someone at arm’s length when addressing them by title rather than name.”

Lady Samara giggled from across the carriage. “I see Edward feels left out. Poor brother, relegated to ‘my lord’ while we enjoy the casual intimacy of first names. Perhaps we should start calling you ‘Your Most Magnificent Earlness’ to soothe your wounded pride.”

“That would be entirely appropriate,” Lord Edward replied dryly. “Though I prefer ‘His Supreme Magnificence’ when the occasion calls for formality.”

Suddenly, a chorus of female voices called out to us.

“Sam! Letty! What absolute divine fortune to encounter you today!”

I turned to see another elegant carriage approaching, this one carrying four young women dressed in the height of fashion. Their ensembles probably cost more than everything I owned combined, including Waffle.

As their carriage pulled alongside ours, Lady Samara’s face lit up with recognition. “Oh my, Tiff, Fifi, Georgy, Matty, you girls are on an outing, too?”

“Of course,” the blonde one replied with a theatrical flourish of her hand. “We couldn’t possibly miss the Saturday promenade. It’s practically a constitutional requirement for ladies of quality to be seen looking fabulous while pretending not to notice everyone else looking fabulous.”

I didn’t miss that all four women were studying me with the intensity of scientists examining a newly discovered species. I resisted the urge to check if I had something on my face or if perhaps my ears had suddenly grown to twice their normal size.

Lady Scarlet finally set aside her sketchbook. “Let me introduce,” she announced with a flourish. “Ladies, this is Ian Harrison.”

“Ian Harrison?” the dark-haired one echoed, her eyes widening to comical proportions. “As in the Ian Harrison? The mysterious country ward who’s caused such a stir in St. Louis society?”

“Your new brother?” the redhead asked, leaning forward so eagerly I feared she might topple from the carriage. “The one with the cheekbones that could cut glass and eyes like summer skies?”

“Yes, yes,” Lady Samara confirmed with obvious pride. “The Ian Harrison, our new little brother, Edward’s ward. Though I don’t recall mentioning his cheekbones in our correspondence, Matty.”

At the mention of Lord Edward, all four women straightened slightly and inclined their heads. “My lord,” they chorused with practiced precision that suggested they’d rehearsed this particular greeting.

“Ladies,” Lord Edward acknowledged with a curt nod that somehow managed to be both polite and dismissive. “I see the gossip mill continues to operate with its usual efficiency.”

“Ian,” Lady Scarlet continued, “let me introduce you to my friends and work colleagues. In order from left to right: Lady Georgina Wright, who writes the most scandalous love scenes; Lady Tiffany Bailey, our marketing genius; Lady Matilda Phillips, who creates our most beloved villains; and Lady Sophia Wang, whose artistic talents rival my own, though I’d never admit it to her face.”

“A pleasure to meet you all,” I offered with a slight bow of my head. “I’d say I’ve heard so much about you, but that would be a blatant lie. I have, however, apparently become infamous without any effort on my part, which is quite an achievement for someone who’s spent most of his life being mistaken for a particularly well-dressed scarecrow.”

Lady Matilda burst into delighted laughter. “Oh, he’s perfect! Sam, Letty, you’ve been holding out on us. You never mentioned he was witty as well as beautiful.”

“A dangerous combination,” Lady Sophia agreed, studying me with renewed interest. “Sam said you have twin siblings, a little brother and sister? And that they’re as adorable as puppies but twice as destructive?”

“Reuben and Rosie are to household tranquility what typhoons are to sailing ships,” I confirmed. “They appear innocent enough until you turn your back, at which point they transform into agents of chaos with a particular talent for finding expensive things to destroy.”

“Oh my, I can’t wait to meet them,” she gushed. “I adore children, especially the destructive ones. They make the best artistic subjects—all that raw emotion and complete lack of self-consciousness.”

“We’ll meet them at the Tyndalls’ Christmas dinner party,” Lady Tiffany interjected, as if this were common knowledge. “I’ve already designed my outfit specifically to withstand small, sticky hands and potential food projectiles.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” Lady Sophia agreed, nodding enthusiastically. “The annual event where half of St. Louis society pretends they haven’t been desperately angling for an invitation all year.”

After a few more minutes of pleasantries that felt more like a subtle interrogation, the ladies bid us farewell and continued on their way. I watched their carriage disappear down the path, wondering what they’d report back to their social circle about the mysterious new ward of the Tyndall family.

“I didn’t know there’s a Christmas dinner party,” I remarked, turning back to Lord Edward. “Should I start preparing my escape route now, or wait until the day before?”

“We do one every year,” he replied with a sigh that suggested the event was more duty than pleasure. “Mother invites half of St. Louis society, the twins use it as an opportunity to gather ‘research’ for their novels, and Alec typically hides in the library after the first hour, emerging only when the dessert is served or when someone starts a sufficiently entertaining scandal.”

“So I should position myself near the library,” I noted. “And perhaps keep something incendiary in my pocket for when the conversation becomes unbearable.”

“A sound strategy,” Lord Edward agreed with a hint of a smile. “Though I’d recommend against actual fire. The last time someone attempted to liven up Mother’s Christmas dinner with pyrotechnics, we had to rebuild the east wing.”

An hour later, our carriage rolled to a stop in front of Tyndall Manor. As we prepared to disembark, Lady Samara’s attention was caught by another vehicle parked ahead of ours.

“Do you have business with Kevin, Edward?” she asked, nodding toward the carriage. “On a Saturday, no less? How dreadfully inconvenient for your plans to do absolutely nothing of importance.”

As if summoned by her words, a man emerged from the manor and hurried down the steps. He nodded politely to the twins before turning to Lord Edward with obvious urgency.

“It’s urgent, my lord,” he announced without preamble. “And before you ask, yes, it genuinely requires your immediate attention, not like last month’s ‘crisis’ with the silk shipment that turned out to be merely delayed rather than lost at sea.”

Lord Edward’s expression darkened as he stepped down from our carriage. “What could be so urgent that it needs my attention on a Saturday afternoon? Has the Queen abdicated? Has war been declared? Has Alec finally set fire to the university?”

The man—presumably Kevin—leaned close and whispered something in Lord Edward’s ear. The effect was immediate; Lord Edward’s face transformed from mild irritation to something much darker. A knot formed in my stomach at the sight. Whatever news he’d received, it wasn’t good.

Lord Edward turned back to us, his expression now carefully controlled. “I’ll be dealing with business affairs. Inform Mother I will be late tonight.”

Lady Samara nodded her understanding while Lady Scarlet called out, “Take care, Edward. Try not to terrorize the entire business community in one evening—save some for tomorrow.”

He gave me one last glance—a look I couldn’t quite decipher—before hurrying to the waiting carriage. Within moments, he and Kevin were gone, leaving me with an inexplicable sense of loss.

“Lord Edward looks worried,” I said, unable to keep the concern from my voice.

“He does, doesn’t he?” Lady Scarlet agreed, watching the departing carriage. “I’m always worried too whenever he wears that expression. It’s his ‘someone is about to lose their fortune and possibly their dignity’ face.”

“It just means whatever it is requires the full force of his terrifying business acumen,” Lady Samara added reassuringly. “But knowing Edward, whatever it is will be sorted out before midnight. There’s no need to worry. And that was Kevin Brown, by the way, Ian. He’s a longtime family friend and Edward’s personal secretary, also known as ‘the only man brave enough to interrupt Edward’s brooding time.’”

We made our way into the manor and spent a pleasant hour taking afternoon tea with the rest of the family. As the gathering began to disperse, I headed upstairs, my thoughts still lingering on Lord Edward’s abrupt departure. I was approaching my bedroom when I spotted Alec emerging from his own room, looking as withdrawn as he had since Lord Marcus’s arrival.

“Alec,” I called, pausing in the hallway.

He turned, his expression brightening slightly when he saw me. “Ah, Ian. Sorry I abandoned you to the social vultures today. Was it terrible?”

“It’s fine,” I assured him. “Lord Edward took your spot and proved remarkably effective as a social shield. One glance from him and even the most determined gossip-seekers scattered like startled chickens.”

He chuckled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s surprising. Edward usually avoids the Queen Josephine parade like it’s carrying the plague. He typically considers such outings a frivolous waste of valuable time.”

“Well, he seemed almost... eager to join us,” I said, studying Alec’s reaction. “Though he did spend most of the time looking vaguely annoyed at everyone who approached our carriage.”

“How intriguing,” Alec replied, a knowing smile playing at his lips. “Either our stoic Edward has developed a sudden appreciation for fresh air and social niceties, or there was something—or rather, someone—in that carriage he found particularly compelling.”

I felt heat rush to my cheeks at the implication and quickly changed the subject. “By the way, how are you holding up? You’ve been about as cheerful as a funeral director since Lord Marcus arrived.”

“That obvious, is it?” Alec sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s just say Marcus and I have a... complicated history. Nothing worth discussing on a perfectly good Saturday.”

I nodded, not wanting to pry further. “Fair enough. We all have our ghosts.”

“By the way,” Alec continued, checking his pocket watch with exaggerated casualness, “how about I take you for that tour of St. Louis University tomorrow? We could explore the campus, terrorize some freshmen, perhaps vandalize a statue or two—you know, the usual scholarly pursuits.”

My eyes widened with excitement. “Really? That’d be fantastic! Though I should warn you, my statue vandalization skills are woefully underdeveloped. Farm life offers limited opportunities for defacing public monuments.”

“Eager as usual,” he said with a genuine smile this time. “Your enthusiasm for education is both refreshing and slightly concerning. I really must go, though.”

“Where are you going?” I asked, unable to curb my curiosity.

“Just an outing with some friends,” he replied with a vague wave of his hand. “Nothing particularly exciting—just the usual debauchery and questionable life choices that define the university experience.”

“Oh.” The simple statement reminded me of how little I knew about life in the capital. Alec had friends—real friends, not just siblings and servants who were obligated to tolerate him. The realization must have shown on my face, because Alec’s expression softened.

“Want to come along?” he offered. “Fair warning: my friends are marginally less civilized than a pack of wolves, but they’re surprisingly entertaining once you get past the terrible jokes and questionable hygiene.”

I nodded eagerly before propriety caught up with me. “If I’m not intruding? I’d hate to be the awkward country bumpkin who ruins your evening by not understanding any of the sophisticated city references.”

“No, of course not,” he assured me. “My friends will only be too pleased to meet you. They’ve been pestering me for details about Edward’s mysterious new ward ever since word got out. They think you’re either a long-lost prince in disguise or a rural genius with three PhDs and a secret laboratory.”

“Then, please let me tag along,” I replied, suddenly enthusiastic about the prospect of meeting people my own age who might become friends. “Though I should warn you, I’ve never been particularly good at maintaining my royal disguises, and my secret laboratory is currently being renovated after an unfortunate incident involving a goat and some highly unstable chemicals.”

“Come on,” he said with a laugh, leading me back toward the stairs. “We’ll have to inform Mother and Grandma Eliza first that you’re coming out with me. Mother will be delighted—she’s been worried you might become as much of a hermit as Edward.”

“Of course,” I agreed, already wondering what one wore to a social outing with university students. Somehow I doubted my Sunday best would make the right impression.

Three hours later, I found myself in a part of town I’d never seen before, surrounded by beautiful Eastern-style buildings adorned with red lanterns and ornate decorations. Alec had brought me to what he called “Little Shanghai,” a neighborhood established by Chinese immigrants that had grown into a vibrant cultural center.

We were seated in what I had initially assumed was a restaurant, though the extravagant decor and beautiful women in exotic, revealing outfits suggested something more... specialized. Alec’s friends—Rowan, Bryan, Colin, and Erick—were boisterous and welcoming, all of them students at St. Louis University. Unlike my former classmates at Greenhill, they treated me like an equal rather than a curiosity or a target.

“So, Ian,” Colin asked, refilling my teacup with a flourish that sent half the liquid splashing onto the table, “what do you think of St. Louis so far? Bit different from country life, I imagine? Less cow manure, more human nonsense?”

“It’s like I’ve stepped into one of those novels where someone travels to a foreign land and discovers everything they thought they knew was wrong,” I admitted. “The buildings are taller, the people are louder, and there’s food I’ve never even heard of before, much less pronounced correctly. Yesterday I attempted to order something called ‘foie gras’ and the waiter nearly collapsed from laughter at my pronunciation.”

“But you like it?” Bryan pressed, his expression suggesting my answer was of vital importance to the future of civilization.

“I do,” I nodded. “Though I miss the quiet sometimes. And being able to see the stars at night without having to squint through a layer of coal smoke and questionable moral decisions.”

“You won’t see many stars in St. Louis,” Rowan laughed, slapping my shoulder with unnecessary force. “Too much coal smoke and gas lighting. But we make up for it with entertainment you’d never find in the countryside. Tell me, do the village girls back home wear outfits like these?” He gestured toward a passing server whose dress left little to the imagination.

“Only on harvest festival days,” I replied with a straight face. “Though they typically pair them with sensible boots and pitchforks. Makes dancing somewhat hazardous, but excellent for keeping overeager suitors at bay.”

As if to illustrate his point about entertainment, Erick—the most outgoing of the group—was currently engaged in what appeared to be a flirtatious negotiation with one of the establishment’s employees. The woman, dressed in a silk gown that clung to her curves like a second skin, was perched on his lap, laughing at something he’d whispered in her ear.

“Just a little kiss, Desiree,” Erick pleaded with exaggerated desperation. “I’ve been thinking about it all week. My studies are suffering. My professors are concerned. My future hangs in the balance.”

The woman—Desiree—chuckled merrily, tapping his nose with a perfectly manicured finger. “My, you’re a naughty one, aren’t you? Using your education as emotional blackmail. What would your poor mother say?”

Without further preamble, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his in a kiss that seemed designed more for the audience than for Erick himself.

The casual intimacy of the exchange caught me off guard, reminding me of that night at Cheswick when Lord Edward had kissed me. The memory sent a wave of longing through me so intense it was almost physical. I found myself sighing, wishing I could experience that again—the warmth of his mouth, the gentle pressure of his lips, the way my entire body had seemed to melt at his touch.

“Ian?” Alec’s voice pulled me from my reverie. “You’ve gone somewhere far away. Hopefully somewhere more interesting than this establishment, though that wouldn’t be difficult.”

“Sorry,” I said, blinking myself back to the present. “Just contemplating the cultural differences between St. Louis and Greenhill. In the village, public displays of affection typically involve awkward hand-holding and perhaps a stolen kiss behind the church if one is feeling particularly rebellious.”

“You look a little down there, Ian,” Colin said, studying me with unexpected perceptiveness. “This place not to your liking? Too decadent for country sensibilities?”

I shook my head quickly. “No, that’s not it. I’ve seen more shocking things in a farmyard at breeding season, believe me.”

Bryan jabbed Colin with his elbow. “I told you this isn’t the right place for Ian. We should have dined in a family-friendly establishment. This place is too... mature for him.”

“But he’s nineteen,” Colin protested. “It’s not like he doesn’t know this is a courtesan house.”

I blinked in confusion. “A what now? Is that a fancy word for ‘restaurant with questionable dress code requirements’?”

There was a moment of silence as the four friends exchanged looks that ranged from amusement to concern. Finally, Erick grinned and turned to the woman still perched on his lap.

“I have an idea,” he announced. “Why don’t you give Ian a kiss to lift his spirits? I think he’s down because you’re ignoring him, Desiree.” He added hastily, “He’s a country bumpkin, so go easy on him. We don’t want to shock him into a permanent state of wide-eyed innocence.”

Desiree’s eyes lit with interest as she studied me, her gaze traveling from my face down to my lap and back up again with professional assessment. “With such a beautiful boy, I will never go easy on him. I wasn’t planning on ignoring him for long. I was merely biding my time, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.”

“Now, now, go easy on him I say,” Erick insisted, though his grin suggested he was enjoying this immensely. “We can’t have you ruining him for all other women. It wouldn’t be fair to the female population of Northland.”

Before I could process what was happening, Desiree had slipped from Erick’s lap and settled herself beside me on the settee, wedging between Alec and me. She draped an arm around my shoulders, bringing with her a cloud of perfume that was pleasant but overwhelming compared to the natural scents I was accustomed to.

“Um, hello,” I managed, suddenly feeling like a rabbit cornered by a particularly elegant fox. “Lovely establishment you have here. The, uh, decor is quite... red.”

Alec leaned across her, his expression concerned. “Just tell her to—”

Desiree silenced him with a finger to his lips, shaking her head playfully. Turning to me, she leaned close enough that I could feel her breath on my cheek.

“It’s a service, darling,” she explained, her voice a practiced purr. “My, but you’re even more beautiful up close. I swear you’d turn this house upside down if you were to work here. Those eyes alone would have patrons lining up around the block.”

“Do they hire boys?” I asked, genuinely curious despite my discomfort. “I mean, not that I’m looking for employment. I’m quite happy with my current career trajectory of ‘professional ward and occasional botanical enthusiast.’”

“Of course they do,” she replied with a knowing smile. “Especially enchanting ones like you. Men would fall to their knees at the sight of you—and I do mean that quite literally.”

The implication finally penetrated my consciousness, and I felt heat rush to my face as understanding dawned. “Oh! This is a... I mean, you’re a... Oh.”

Alec rolled his eyes. “That’s enough, Desiree. Stop corrupting Ian with your professional insights.”

Desiree turned to him with a pout. “Are you his guardian, sir? So protective of this lovely creature. Perhaps you are jealous? Should I give you a kiss first then?”

“No, thank you,” Alec replied firmly. “I’m quite content with my current kissing arrangements, limited though they may be.”

“I can’t believe I’m being rejected by such a gorgeous young man,” Desiree sighed dramatically before turning her attention back to me. “But you wouldn’t reject me, would you, country boy? Just one little kiss to remember the city by?”

Before I could formulate any kind of response, she pressed her lips to mine in a kiss that was technically proficient but emotionally vacant. The room erupted with hoots and encouragement from the others, but all I could think was how... underwhelming the experience was. Her lips were soft, yes, but there was no spark, no warmth spreading through me, none of the dizzying sensation I’d felt when Lord Edward kissed me. It was just flesh against flesh, a mechanical act without meaning.

When she pulled back, she studied my face with newfound curiosity. “Strange,” she mused. “Most enjoy my kiss since I’m one of the best in the house, but you, my dear boy, don’t seem to feel a thing.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Is it just me, or could it be that your interests lie elsewhere? Perhaps with someone a bit more... masculine?”

The question landed like a stone in still water, rippling through my consciousness with implications I wasn’t prepared to consider. Was it that obvious? Was there something about me that signaled to the world that I found Lord Edward far more compelling than any woman, no matter how beautiful or skilled?

“That’s enough,” Alec interjected firmly, coming to my rescue. “I’m taking Ian to a nice Chinese restaurant where the only thing being served is actual food. You guys enjoy yourselves, and when you’re done, come find us.” He stood and motioned for me to follow. “Come on, Ian. You like Chinese food, don’t you? Or would you prefer to continue your cultural education with Desiree?”

“Food sounds wonderful,” I replied, standing so quickly I nearly toppled the tea table. “I’ve always wanted to try authentic Chinese cuisine. Much more interesting than, um, other cultural experiences.”

Alec laughed as we made our way out of the establishment. “Your face is approximately the color of those lanterns, Ian. Don’t worry—your virtue remains intact, and Edward need never know you were nearly corrupted by the most expensive courtesan in Little Shanghai.”

“Is that what she is?” I asked as we stepped into the cool night air. “I thought courtesans were something from historical novels, not actual professions in modern Northland.”

“The oldest profession in the world never quite goes out of style,” Alec replied with a shrug. “Though in St. Louis, it’s considerably more elegant and discreet than in most places. The House of Celestial Pleasure caters to the wealthier gentlemen of the city—and occasionally curious university students with more money than sense.”

As he promised, we found a quiet restaurant where we enjoyed a meal of dumplings, noodles, and dishes I couldn’t pronounce but thoroughly enjoyed. The others never joined us, which didn’t surprise me—they seemed quite content with their evening’s entertainment.

After dinner, Alec showed me the central part of the city, which was festively decorated for the approaching holiday. The Octagon—St. Louis’s city center, named for its distinctive eight-sided layout—boasted a magnificent three-story Christmas tree near the Town Hall, its branches laden with ornaments that glittered in the gaslight. Despite the late hour, the streets were crowded with revelers enjoying the brass band and choir performing traditional carols.

“This is magnificent,” I breathed, taking in the spectacle. “We had a Christmas tree in Greenhill, of course, but it was barely taller than Grandma Eliza and decorated with whatever we could salvage from previous years. This is like something from a fairy tale.”

“St. Louis does Christmas with particular enthusiasm,” Alec agreed. “Wait until you see Tyndall Manor decorated. Mother spares no expense—every room gets its own tree, and the main hall centerpiece makes this one look like a sapling.”

It was nearly midnight by the time we returned to Tyndall Manor. As we entered the foyer, another carriage pulled up, and Lord Edward emerged, followed by Marcus and Henry. All three looked exhausted, but it was Lord Edward’s dark expression that caught my attention. Whatever business had called him away clearly hadn’t been resolved to his satisfaction.

“Ian. Alec,” he acknowledged, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary. “Out enjoying the city nightlife, I see.”

“Edward. Henry,” Alec replied, pointedly omitting Marcus’s name. “Just showing Ian the Octagon and some of Little Shanghai’s less scandalous offerings.”

“Alec, Ian,” Henry nodded before hurrying past us toward the stairs, no doubt eager to see his wife and children.

Marcus, never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, ruffled Alec’s hair as he passed. “I’m so special that my name is being left out on purpose?” he asked, his face inches from Alec’s. “I’m wounded, truly wounded. And after I defended your honor so gallantly in London society.”

Alec’s cheeks flamed as he batted Marcus’s hand away. “As if my honor needed defending by you of all people,” he muttered, the words barely audible.

The older man merely smirked before following Henry up the stairs, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake.

“You took Ian out and showed him about town?” Lord Edward asked once Marcus was out of earshot. When Alec nodded, Edward turned to me, his severe expression softening into something warmer. “Did you enjoy yourself, Ian?”

“It was illuminating in more ways than I anticipated,” I replied, wondering if my earlier encounter with Desiree was somehow written across my face. “We visited the Octagon—there’s a magnificent Christmas tree and a brass band and choir that would put Greenhill’s tone-deaf ensemble to absolute shame.”

“Sounds lively,” Lord Edward said as we began climbing the stairs together. I noticed that Alec had fallen silent behind us, his earlier good humor fading now that Marcus had made an appearance.

“It was,” I agreed, casting a concerned glance at Alec. “Though I’ve discovered that city entertainment comes with certain... educational elements I wasn’t expecting.”

“Oh?” Lord Edward’s eyebrow arched with interest. “And what unexpected education did St. Louis provide tonight?”

“That’s a conversation for another time,” I replied diplomatically. “Preferably after I’ve processed the cultural differences between Greenhill and the capital. Suffice it to say, our village festivals suddenly seem quaintly innocent by comparison.”

When we reached the second floor, Alec muttered a hasty goodnight and retreated to his room, his demeanor completely transformed from our enjoyable evening. I was about to enter my own room when Lord Edward’s voice stopped me.

“Care to join me for a midnight snack, Ian? I find myself in need of pleasant company after an evening of tedious business negotiations.”

The invitation was unexpected but not unwelcome. I nodded eagerly, my fatigue forgotten at the prospect of spending more time with him. “I’d be delighted, my lord, though I should warn you my conversation skills deteriorate significantly after ten o’clock. I may resort to discussing the weather or the comparative merits of different fertilizers.”

He chuckled, the sound warming me more effectively than any fire. “I’ll take my chances. Besides, after the evening I’ve had, agricultural discourse would be a welcome respite.”

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Edward

Edward Tyndall, Earl of Eastwood and now Cheswick, was not a man accustomed to restlessness. Yet for the past fortnight, he had been plagued by an irritability that defied explanation. London, with all its sophistication and opportunities, had felt like a prison. Business meetings that should have consumed his full attention had become exercises in restraint as he fought the urge to simply walk out. Elaborate dinners with English nobility—events he typically found stimulating—had become torturous ordeals to be endured rather than enjoyed.

Now, standing on the deck of his private steam yacht as it cut through the Celtic Sea, Edward found himself calculating the remaining distance to St. Louis with the obsessive precision of a man counting the minutes until his release from captivity.

“Still plotting the fastest route home?” Marcus Theo Halifax, Earl of Ravensbourne, appeared at his side with the casual elegance that had broken hearts across two continents. “If you glare at the horizon any harder, I fear it might burst into flames.”

Edward cast a sidelong glance at his cousin. The family resemblance was striking—they shared the same dark hair and eyes, the same aristocratic features that caused people to mistake them for twins despite being merely cousins. What they did not share was Marcus’s notorious reputation as London’s most accomplished rake.

“I’m not plotting anything,” Edward replied, his tone deliberately cool. “I’m contemplating all the work awaiting me in St. Louis—work I could have been attending to these past two weeks had you not dragged me to London on what turned out to be a laughably minor matter.”

“Laughably minor?” Marcus pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “The potential collapse of our entire East India trading operation hardly qualifies as minor. How was I to know you’d resolve it with two meetings and a strongly worded letter? Most men would require weeks to untangle such a mess.”

“Most men aren’t me,” Edward replied without a trace of modesty. “And don’t pretend your telegram wasn’t deliberately worded to sound apocalyptic. ‘Urgent crisis requires immediate attention’ suggested something considerably more dire than a shipping clerk’s accounting error.”

Marcus shrugged, unrepentant. “Perhaps I embellished slightly. But admit it—you enjoyed being back in London. The balls, the dinners, the parade of eligible young ladies practically throwing themselves at your feet. The gossip columns are already predicting your engagement to Lady Clara Peterson.”

“Lady who?” Edward asked, genuinely drawing a blank.

Marcus stared at him in disbelief. “Lady Clara Peterson? The dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty I personally introduced to you at Lord Ashburn’s dinner? The one whose father, the Earl of Cromwell, spent half the evening dropping hints about her substantial dowry? The ‘Sunshine of London’ that every bachelor in England is pursuing?”

Edward vaguely recalled a slender young woman with striking blue eyes that had reminded him of... someone else. “Ah. Her.”

“Yes, her,” Marcus said with exaggerated patience. “The most sought-after debutante of the season, who couldn’t take her eyes off you all evening. I swear, Edward, sometimes I wonder if you’re even human. What man notices nothing when surrounded by London’s most beautiful women?”

A man whose thoughts are occupied elsewhere, Edward thought but didn’t say. Instead, he deflected: “Speaking of noticing things, have you seen the latest London Gazette? Apparently, I’m now ‘The Ultimate Catch of Northland Lords,’ complete with a wildly inaccurate estimate of my annual income.”

“Five million pounds, wasn’t it?” Marcus asked innocently. “I thought they were rather conservative, myself.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed. “And I suppose you had nothing to do with that ridiculous article?”

“I may have mentioned your approximate worth to a particularly persistent journalist,” Marcus admitted. “The man was going to print a number anyway—I merely ensured it was somewhat accurate.”

“Somewhat?”

“I rounded down,” Marcus assured him with a wink. “Wouldn’t want to appear boastful.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Henry Tyndall and Kevin Brown, returning from their inspection of the ship’s engines.

“The captain estimates we’ll reach St. Louis by tomorrow morning,” Henry announced, his expression brightening at the prospect. “I can’t wait to see Daisy and the children. It feels like we’ve been away for months rather than weeks.”

“You’ve said that every day since we left,” Marcus said dryly. “I can’t imagine being so thoroughly captivated by a single woman that the mere thought of her absence causes physical pain. The monotony would be unbearable.”

“That’s because you’ve never met the right person,” Henry replied, exchanging a knowing glance with Kevin. “When you do—and I pray for that poor woman’s sake that you eventually do—you’ll understand why I’d rather be at home with Daisy than surrounded by all the exotic beauties of London.”

“Yes, yes,” Marcus interrupted with a dismissive wave. “The skies will open, angels will sing, and I’ll suddenly find the prospect of bedding the same woman for the rest of my life utterly thrilling. I’ve heard the speech before.” He turned to Edward with renewed interest. “Speaking of domesticity, Henry mentioned something about the Harrisons settling in at Tyndall Manor. I gather they’re connected to your mysterious new earldom?”

Edward cast an accusatory glance at Henry, who merely shrugged. “Daisy has been sending telegrams,” his half-brother explained. “She wanted you to know the Harrisons are adjusting well to life at Tyndall Manor.”

“The Harrisons?” Marcus repeated, his interest visibly piquing. “You’ve inherited an earldom and acquired wards, and somehow failed to mention any of this to your favorite cousin? I’m wounded, Edward, truly wounded.”

“Had you bothered to visit Northland at any point in the past five years, you might have been better informed about family matters,” Edward replied coolly.

A flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or guilt—crossed Marcus’s features before his customary charm reasserted itself. “A fair point, cousin. My absence has been inexcusable.”

“Inexplicable, certainly,” Edward agreed. “Sam and Letty were devastated when you stopped coming for Christmas. And Alec—” He broke off, noting the subtle tension that entered Marcus’s posture at the mention of his adopted brother. Interesting.

“I’ve apologized, haven’t I?” Marcus said, his tone losing some of its lightness. “And I’m here now, ready to make amends. So tell me about these Harrisons who have you so eager to return home. Is there a beautiful Lady Harrison in the mix? Perhaps that explains your complete indifference to London’s finest offerings.”

Edward’s expression remained carefully neutral, though the mere thought of Ian sent a wave of warmth through him that had nothing to do with the midday sun. “Lady Dorothy Harrison is indeed lovely,” he conceded, “but Daniel has already staked his claim there. I’d advise you to direct your notorious charm elsewhere during your stay.”

“So protective,” Marcus said with a knowing smile. “One might almost think you have your own interest in the Harrison family.”

Edward turned away, his gaze returning to the horizon where, somewhere beyond the endless blue, Ian Harrison awaited. “The Harrisons are under my protection now,” he said simply. “I take my responsibilities seriously.”

Marcus studied him for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “I see,” he said finally, though his tone suggested he saw far more than Edward had intended to reveal.

The journey from the docks to Tyndall Manor passed in a blur of impatience for Edward. By the time their carriage rolled through the iron gates, he could no longer contain himself. Without waiting for the vehicle to come to a complete stop, he threw open the door and leapt down with the agility of a man half his age.

“Edward!” Henry called after him in alarm. “That’s dangerous! For God’s sake, you’re an earl, not a circus performer!”

“I’m fine,” Edward replied over his shoulder, already striding toward the manor’s entrance. “No need to worry.”

Inside the carriage, Marcus shook his head in exasperation. “Still jumping from moving vehicles. Some things never change.”

“Unlike you, who’s the very model of restraint?” Henry asked with a raised eyebrow. “If I recall correctly, you two were practically feral as children. Wasn’t it you who convinced Edward to race horses through the conservatory?”

“That was strategic recklessness,” Marcus corrected him with a smirk. “There’s an art to misbehaving without giving your mother heart palpitations. Edward still hasn’t mastered it. He seems to forget he’s responsible for an entire family empire, not to mention those new wards of his. His neck is worth considerably more than mine.”

“And yet it’s you who’s nicknamed ‘The Notorious Earl’ in London gossip columns,” Henry pointed out as the carriage finally came to a halt. “I’ve heard tales of your exploits that would make even Edward blush.”

“All greatly exaggerated, I assure you,” Marcus replied with a wink that suggested precisely the opposite.

The two men disembarked to find Edward already embracing Lady Victoria Tyndall in the foyer, the elegant woman’s face alight with surprised delight.

“Edward!” she exclaimed, her voice breathless as she pulled back to examine him. “What a wonderful surprise! We weren’t expecting you for another week at least.”

“I wrapped up business early,” Edward replied, the half-truth coming easily. “And guess who I encountered in London?”

He stepped aside, revealing Marcus who stood with the practiced nonchalance of a man accustomed to making dramatic entrances. Lady Tyndall’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth in shock.

“Marcus?” she whispered, as though afraid speaking too loudly might cause him to vanish. “Is that really you?”

Marcus stepped forward, his expression softening into genuine warmth. “Hello, Aunt Victoria. I know it’s been inexcusably long—”

Whatever else he might have said was lost as Lady Tyndall engulfed him in an embrace that belied her slender frame. “Oh, my dear boy,” she murmured, tears glistening in her eyes. “How you’ve grown! And looking so much like Edward now—I’d scarcely be able to tell you apart if I didn’t know better.”

“What can I do?” Marcus replied with a self-deprecating shrug. “Mother is your identical twin, after all. The resemblance was bound to catch up with me eventually.”

Lady Tyndall stepped back, keeping hold of his arms as she examined him with the thoroughness of a woman determined to catalog every change since his last visit. “You must tell me everything,” she insisted. “But first—Henry!”

She released Marcus to embrace her eldest son, who had just entered the foyer. “How was your journey? You all look exhausted—shall I have tea brought to the sitting room? Oh! And you must meet the new additions to our household. The most delightful twins—not identical, of course, not like Samara and Scarlet, but the sweetest children...”

As Lady Tyndall continued her enthusiastic description of the Harrison twins, Edward’s attention wandered. He scanned the foyer and adjacent rooms, searching for a glimpse of brown hair and blue eyes. Two months was too long to be away from Ian. Two days would have been too long.

“Mother,” he interrupted, unable to contain himself any longer. “Where is Ian?”

Lady Tyndall paused mid-sentence, her expression shifting to one of amused understanding. “Ian? I believe he’s in the conservatory with Sam and Letty. They’ve been inseparable since his arrival—something about him being the perfect model for their illustrations.”

Edward felt a peculiar tightening in his chest at this information. The twins’ illustrations were notorious for their romantic themes and occasional risqué poses. The thought of Ian serving as their model sent a surge of possessiveness through him that was as unexpected as it was powerful.

“I see,” he said, his voice carefully controlled. “Thank you.”

“Why don’t you take Marcus with you?” Lady Tyndall suggested brightly. “I’m sure Sam and Letty would be thrilled to see him after all this time.”

Before Edward could object, Marcus nodded his agreement. “An excellent idea. I’ve been looking forward to seeing my little cousins again—especially after hearing about their literary exploits.

Edward led the way through the manor with the confident stride of a man who knew every inch of his domain. As they approached the conservatory, Marcus said, “So the twins still use this place as their artistic sanctuary? Some things never change.”

“Alec is usually their primary model,” Edward replied, reaching for the door handle. “Though apparently they’ve found a new muse.”

He pushed open the door, and the warm, humid air of the conservatory enveloped them. The space was filled with exotic plants and bathed in golden sunlight that streamed through the glass ceiling. Edward’s gaze immediately sought and found the tableau at the center of the room.

What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

Ian Harrison lay reclined on a settee, his shirt partially unbuttoned to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. Above him, in a position that could only be described as intimate, was Alec, similarly disheveled, his face mere inches from Ian’s. The morning light cast them in a romantic glow, transforming the scene into something from one of the twins’ more explicit novels.

Edward felt the blood rush to his head, a roaring in his ears drowning out all sound. For a moment, he could only stare, transfixed by the sight of Ian’s exposed skin and the easy intimacy between the two young men. Desire and jealousy warred within him, both so powerful that he felt physically ill with their intensity.

The alpha in him—the primal, possessive creature that lurked beneath his civilized exterior—surged forward with a single demand: Mine.

“What the hell are you two doing?” The words erupted from his throat before he could stop them, harsh and commanding, laced with alpha authority that made everyone in the room freeze.

The effect was immediate. Alec, startled by the sudden interruption, collapsed entirely onto Ian, his face burying against the omega’s neck in a manner that only intensified Edward’s irrational jealousy.

“My goodness, Alec has expired from artistic exertion,” Samara exclaimed, rushing toward the settee with dramatic concern.

“Alec, please postpone your demise,” Scarlet implored, following close behind her twin. “We still haven’t finished the climactic illustration. Die after page sixteen, I beg you.”

“Don’t just casually announce my death like it’s a minor inconvenience to your schedule,” Alec muttered against Ian’s neck, his breath visibly stirring the fine hairs there.

But Edward’s attention was fixed solely on Ian, whose wide blue eyes had found his across the room. The boy’s lips parted in surprise, a flush spreading across his cheeks that Edward found impossibly endearing despite his anger.

“Lord Edward?” Ian breathed, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty and—was it possible?—pleasure at the sight of him.

Edward strode forward, his alpha instincts screaming at him to separate Alec from the omega who had occupied his thoughts for two long months. “Alec,” he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous register that made everyone in the room instinctively straighten, “get your backside off of Ian, you brat.”

Alec lifted his head slightly, his expression pained. “I would if I could,” he replied with a grimace. “Help me, Edward. I swear my spine has declared independence from the rest of my body. I’ve been in this position for an hour.”

Edward reached down, grasping Alec’s arm with perhaps more force than strictly necessary, and hauled him upright. His brother groaned dramatically as he was settled back onto the settee, Scarlet hovering solicitously at his side.

“You’ve killed him, Edward,” Scarlet accused, though her eyes danced with amusement. “Just when we were about to capture the perfect moment of breathless anticipation.”

“He’ll recover,” Edward replied dryly. “His capacity for dramatic suffering rivals yours.”

With Alec removed, Edward had an unobstructed view of Ian, still reclined on the settee with his shirt open. The sight of that smooth, pale chest sent a surge of heat through him that had nothing to do with the conservatory’s tropical climate. Without thinking, he knelt beside Ian and began fastening the buttons, his fingers brushing against warm skin.

“My lord?” Ian questioned, his voice tinged with confusion and something else—a breathlessness that sent Edward’s pulse racing.

“I know you’re a country bumpkin,” Edward said, his tone sharper than he intended as he struggled to control his body’s reaction to Ian’s proximity, “but for goodness’ sake, there’s a limit to how unworldly you can be. This is St. Louis, not Cheswick. Don’t go exposing yourself like that in front of people.”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Ian replied, though the spark in his blue eyes suggested he was more amused than contrite. “Though I should point out that I wasn’t exactly given a choice in the matter. Lady Samara can be quite persuasive when she’s wielding artistic integrity as a weapon.”

“Edward!” Samara protested indignantly before he could respond. “How dare you speak to Ian that way? You’ve just arrived unannounced and started barking orders like some territorial—” She broke off, her eyes widening slightly as though a realization had just struck her.

“Like some territorial what, dear sister?” Edward asked, his voice deceptively mild.

“Like some territorial... earl,” she finished lamely. “Ian was only helping us with our illustrations for—”

“No,” Edward interrupted, his voice firm as he turned to face his sister. “Ian will not be in any of your illustrations for your book covers. Understood?” The authority in his tone was unmistakable, causing both twins to exchange a significant look.

“So that’s why you were so eager to return to St. Louis,” a familiar voice said from behind them. “The mystery finally reveals itself.”

Edward turned to see Marcus approaching, his cousin’s gaze fixed on Ian with an interest that immediately set Edward’s teeth on edge. Before he could respond, however, the twins spotted their long-absent cousin and let out identical shrieks of delight that would have done a pair of banshees proud.

“Marcus!” Samara exclaimed, throwing herself into his arms with the exuberance that characterized everything she did. “I can’t believe you’re actually here! In the flesh! Not dead or kidnapped by pirates or locked in a French dungeon!”

“None of the above, I’m afraid,” Marcus confirmed, embracing her warmly. “Though I did have a rather tense negotiation with a Russian duchess that nearly ended in bloodshed.”

“You’re making that up,” Scarlet accused as she claimed her own hug. “You always make up outrageous stories when you’ve been boring and respectable.”

“You wound me, Letty,” Marcus replied, pressing a hand to his heart. “When have I ever been boring or respectable?”

As the twins fawned over Marcus, Edward settled himself on the settee between Ian and Alec, a placement that was far from accidental. He noted with satisfaction that Ian’s buttons were now properly fastened, though the memory of that exposed skin lingered tantalizingly in his mind.

“You look well,” he said to Ian, keeping his voice low. “St. Louis seems to agree with you.”

Ian raised an eyebrow, a hint of his usual sass returning now that the initial shock of Edward’s arrival had worn off. “As opposed to looking unwell? Were you expecting me to waste away in your absence, my lord?”

The corner of Edward’s mouth twitched. “I’m merely observing that the capital suits you. Though I see my sisters have wasted no time in corrupting you with their artistic endeavors.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Ian asked innocently. “I thought it was more akin to artistic kidnapping. They ambushed me after breakfast and declared I was ‘perfect for the climactic reunion scene.’ I wasn’t aware I’d have to be half-naked for said scene.”

Edward’s expression darkened slightly. “Yes, well, that particular scene won’t be featuring you. I’m sure Marcus will be more than happy to take your place.”

“Marcus, would you please be our model?” Samara was asking, as if on cue. “Edward refuses to let us draw him, that lout. But you love us, don’t you, Marcus dear? Unlike Edward. So would you please be our model?”

Marcus laughed, the sound rich and confident. “I don’t mind at all. Draw me to your hearts’ content. I’ve been told I have an excellent profile for artistic endeavors.”

“Yes!” Scarlet exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. “Thank you, Marcus! You are a darling.” She embraced him again, her enthusiasm making him chuckle.

“That means you can be Alec’s model partner again, right?” Samara asked, turning toward the settee. “Alec?”

Edward glanced at his adopted brother, surprised to find Alec suddenly tense, his fingers nervously adjusting his collar as though to hide his exposed skin. His gaze darted around the room, conspicuously avoiding Marcus until, with visible reluctance, he finally looked up.

“Alec,” Marcus said, his voice dropping to a register that Edward had never heard from his cousin before. “Long time no see. My, but you’ve really grown in the last five years. What a fine young man you’ve become.”

Alec swallowed visibly, his complexion paling. “Mar... Marcus,” he managed, his voice uncharacteristically strained.

“Alec?” Samara asked, concern evident in her tone. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you all right?”

“I’m... uh, fine,” Alec replied, rising abruptly from the settee. “Ex... Excuse me.” Without another word, he hurried toward the door.

Marcus watched him go, his expression unreadable. “I’ll see to him,” he announced, following Alec from the room with purposeful strides.

A brief silence fell over the conservatory before Scarlet voiced the question they were all thinking: “Do you think Alec is still angry at Marcus for not visiting for so long?”

“They were close, after all,” Samara mused. “I’d be angry too if you’d gone off on your merry way and never visited me for five long years, Letty.”

“Never mind them,” Edward said dismissively, though his mind was already cataloging the peculiar interaction for later consideration. “They’ll make up sooner than you’d expect.” He turned to Ian, who had remained quiet throughout the exchange. “How do you like St. Louis, Ian?”

Ian met his gaze, those remarkable blue eyes reflecting the conservatory’s light. “It’s... a busy city,” he replied, “Though I’m starting to think the real entertainment is right here in Tyndall Manor. No one mentioned the family drama would be quite so theatrical.”

Edward chuckled despite himself. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Wait until Christmas when everyone gathers for the annual Tyndall traditions. Last year, Henry ended up hanging from the chandelier after losing a bet to Anthony.”

“I look forward to witnessing such dignified aristocratic customs,” Ian replied solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.

Edward rose to his feet, suddenly eager to have Ian to himself after two months of separation. “Come with me for a bit. I’d like to speak with you privately.”

“Oh? Are you planning to lecture me further on the impropriety of public shirtlessness?” Ian asked, though he stood to follow. “Because I should warn you, I’ve spent nineteen years changing clothes in a room I shared with two six-year-olds. My sense of modesty may be beyond repair.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Edward replied dryly. “Though in St. Louis, such casual disrobing is generally reserved for more... intimate settings.”

He caught the slight widening of Ian’s eyes at his words, a faint blush coloring the omega’s cheeks. Good. Let him think about that.

As they left the conservatory, Edward was acutely aware of the twins’ speculative gazes following them. No doubt they were already constructing elaborate theories about his interest in Ian—theories that, if he were honest with himself, might not be far from the truth.

“Hmm,” Samara murmured as the door closed behind them. “Did you see that, Letty?”

“Edward practically growling at Alec to get off Ian?” Scarlet replied. “Or the way he positioned himself between them like a jealous lover?”

“Both,” Samara confirmed with growing excitement. “I think we may have stumbled upon the perfect inspiration for our next series.”

“‘The Earl and the Omega’?” Scarlet suggested, already reaching for her sketchbook. “Or perhaps ‘Beauty and the Alpha’?”

“We’ll workshop the title,” Samara decided. “But first, I think we need to conduct some discreet observation. For artistic purposes only, of course.”

“Of course,” Scarlet agreed solemnly. “The integrity of our craft demands nothing less.”

Edward led Ian through the manor to his private study on the third floor, a spacious room dominated by a mahogany desk and featuring a comfortable sitting area with a view of the gardens. He settled onto the sofa, stretching one arm along its back in a deliberately casual pose that belied the tension thrumming through him.

Ian remained standing, his gaze wandering around the room with undisguised wonder. “This is larger than our entire sitting room at Cheswick,” he said. “Do all the rooms in Tyndall Manor require their own postal code, or is it just yours?”

Edward chuckled, charmed by Ian’s irreverent humor. He’d missed this—the sharp wit, the refusal to be intimidated by wealth or status. “The architect did have rather grandiose ambitions,” he replied. “I believe his original plans included separate climate zones and possibly its own moon. Come, sit before you strain your neck admiring the ceiling frescoes.”

Ian obeyed, though he perched on the edge of the sofa with his back ramrod straight, hands resting primly on his thighs. The nervous energy radiating from him was palpable, and Edward found himself wondering if the boy’s heart was racing as fast as his own.

“How was the journey to St. Louis?” he asked, deliberately keeping his tone casual. “I trust the railway managed not to misplace you between stations?”

“Pleasant enough,” Ian replied. “Though I’m still not convinced that what they served on the train qualified as food. It had the general appearance of beef, but the consistency of boot leather.”

“Ah yes, the famous Northland Railway cuisine,” Edward nodded sagely. “I believe they employ former blacksmiths as chefs—individuals who understand the importance of thoroughly beating one’s meat into submission. And the move itself? Has Tyndall Manor managed to intimidate you into proper aristocratic behavior yet, or are you still stubbornly clinging to your country manners?”

“I’m adjusting,” Ian nodded. “Everyone has been kind, if occasionally overwhelming. Your sisters seem determined to turn me into some sort of living art project, and your mother keeps trying to fatten me up like a Christmas goose.” His lips curved into a small smile. “It’s... nice, actually. Being fussed over.”

“The Tyndall women have elevated affection to an art form,” Edward replied with a wry smile. “My father used to claim they could simultaneously coddle you and organize an invasion of a small country without missing a beat. It’s a particular talent that runs in the family.”

Ian turned to face him then, those blue eyes meeting his directly. “So you like showing affection too, my lord? I wouldn’t have guessed from your typically stoic demeanor.”

The question, delivered with such innocent curiosity belied by the mischievous glint in Ian’s eye, sent a jolt of heat through Edward’s body. “I’m selective with my affections,” he confirmed, unable to resist reaching out to touch Ian’s hair. “Quality over quantity, you might say. I reserve genuine warmth for those rare individuals who merit it. Those I care about. Those I find... intriguing.”

The strands felt like silk against his fingers, and he found himself stroking them with a tenderness that surprised even him. Ian’s cheeks flushed a delightful pink, his eyes widening slightly at the intimate gesture.

“So, um, is that all you wanted to talk about, my lord?” he asked, his voice taking on a breathless quality that sent Edward’s pulse racing. “Your family’s affectionate nature?”

“I find there are more interesting subjects between us,” Edward murmured, his hand moving from Ian’s hair to trace the slender column of his neck, then along the curve of his back. The boy stiffened beneath his touch, and Edward was suddenly, painfully reminded of the scars that marred that pale skin—evidence of cruelty that still filled him with cold rage whenever he thought of it.

Who had dared to hurt this precious boy? The marks had been deliberate, systematic—each lash a calculated act of violence against a child who deserved nothing but protection and love. Edward had promised himself he would discover the identity of the perpetrator, and when he did... Well, there would be a reckoning.

Forcing his thoughts away from such dark paths, Edward focused on the present. “I’ve opened a bank account for you,” he said, his voice deliberately casual as though he weren’t still fighting the urge to pull Ian closer. “You’ll receive a monthly allowance. Consider it your first step toward financial independence in the capital.”

“A bank account?” Ian repeated, surprise evident in his tone. “I get an allowance, my lord? Are you sure that’s wise? I’ve been told I have expensive tastes. Why, just last week I considered purchasing a second pair of socks.”

“How scandalously extravagant,” Edward replied, his lips twitching with amusement. “Next you’ll be telling me you’ve developed a taste for eating three meals daily. I may need to reconsider the entire arrangement if your demands continue to escalate at this alarming rate.”

He struggled to maintain his composure as Ian’s tongue darted out to wet his lips—a nervous habit that never failed to captivate him. The memory of their kiss at Cheswick surfaced unbidden, sending a surge of desire through him so powerful it was almost painful.

“My lord?” Ian prompted when he remained silent. “Have I shocked you with my extravagant sock ambitions?”

Edward took a deep breath, forcing himself to lean back and create distance between them. “Your aspirations toward multiple pairs of footwear are perfectly reasonable,” he replied, his voice rougher than he intended. “Though I must warn you that in St. Louis society, one is expected to change socks at least daily, sometimes more often if engaging in particularly vigorous social climbing. The monthly sum should cover your basic expenses with enough left over for the occasional sartorial indulgence.”

Ian’s brow furrowed slightly. “But won’t it put a burden on you, my lord? I don’t want to be a charity case.”

The question was so absurd that Edward nearly laughed aloud. A burden? The paltry sum he had allocated for Ian’s expenses wouldn’t even register against his vast fortune. What was truly burdensome was sitting here beside the object of his desire, unable to act on the impulses that grew stronger with each passing moment.

“Ian,” he said, meeting those blue eyes directly, “the Tyndall shipping fleet loses more in loose change between sofa cushions than your entire annual allowance. If it eases your conscience, consider it compensation for having to endure my sisters’ artistic enthusiasm and my mother’s relentless hospitality.”

He wanted to pull Ian into his arms, to taste those lips again, to explore every inch of the body that had haunted his dreams for months. He wanted to claim the omega in every way possible, to mark him as his own so thoroughly that no one would ever question to whom Ian Harrison belonged.

The intensity of his own desires frightened him. This was his ward, for God’s sake—a young man under his protection. Yet the alpha in him recognized Ian as something else entirely: a potential mate, a compatible omega whose scent and presence called to him on a primal level.

“It’s not a burden, Ian,” he managed, running a hand through his hair as he stared fixedly at the tea table rather than risk meeting those blue eyes again. “That’s all for now. You can leave before I forget myself entirely.”

“Oh.” Ian’s confusion was evident in that single syllable. He rose to his feet, hesitating for a moment before adding, “You look tired, my lord. It must be the long journey from England. Please rest well.” With a small nod, he turned and left the study.

As the door closed behind Ian, Edward slumped back against the sofa, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Fuck,” he muttered, the crude word inadequate to express the turmoil within him.

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Ian

It had been five days since we arrived in St. Louis and took up residence in Tyndall Manor. Since the house was approximately the size of a small principality, I hadn’t yet committed all its rooms to memory, nor had I ventured into some of the smaller, rarely used ones. My favorite areas so far were my bedroom (which could comfortably house a small village), the sitting room where the family gathered, the breakfast room where we took our meals, the library with its thousands of books, and the gardens where Waffle and I could escape when the sheer opulence became overwhelming.

My morning routine hadn’t changed despite the dramatic shift in circumstances. I’d rise early to watch the sunrise—though in St. Louis, this meant staring at a thick wall of industrial smog that gradually lightened from charcoal to pewter—then take Waffle for his morning constitutional before breakfast. Today was going to be no different, and I was just slipping out the back door when I heard my name called.

“Ian.”

I turned to see Alec approaching, and once again found myself momentarily struck by his appearance. He was undeniably handsome, with silky dark hair that I couldn’t help wondering about. Was it an inheritance from his mother’s or father’s side? I had no doubt there was Asian ancestry in his lineage, perhaps Chinese? From my limited education, I recalled that Northland and China had been trading partners for over a century, primarily in tea and spices, with significant immigration as a result.

“Alec,” I greeted him. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he replied with a smile that revealed that fascinating dimple. “Mind if I join your dawn expedition? The twins are already plotting artistic mischief, and I find strategic absence is the best defense against becoming their next creative victim.”

“Of course,” I nodded, genuinely pleased by the offer. “Though I should warn you that Waffle’s idea of a ‘walk’ more closely resembles a military training exercise designed by a sadistic general.”

“Perfect,” Alec quipped. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to avoid Lady Montgomery’s dance instruction. Nothing says ‘sorry, can’t waltz’ quite like legs that feel like overcooked noodles.”

Soon we were circling the perimeter of the garden, with Waffle sprinting back and forth like a furry pendulum on a broken clock. The air had a particular bite to it now that winter had fully established its reign, and Christmas loomed just around the corner.

“I’ve pretty much explored every nook and cranny of the garden,” I remarked, gesturing to the immaculately maintained grounds. I’d also become acquainted with all the gardeners, who seemed perpetually shocked by my insistence on addressing them by their first names. Was that not the done thing in the capital? Perhaps I was committing some terrible social faux pas without realizing it.

“Ah yes, the Tyndall horticultural fortress,” Alec said dryly, “where plants are arranged with military precision and the gardeners faint if a leaf dares fall out of formation. Don’t you find it terribly boring going around the same perfectly manicured paths every day?”

“Not really,” I replied. “I always did the same route back at Cheswick. There’s something comforting about routine when everything else in life seems determined to throw you off balance.”

“How delightfully philosophical for this ungodly hour,” Alec remarked with a grin. “Since you’ve already mastered the art of navigating the Tyndall botanical labyrinth, how about we stage a daring escape beyond these gilded gates? There’s a whole city out there just waiting to judge us harshly.”

Exploring the neighborhood? I hadn’t ventured beyond the iron gates yet. The past five days had been a whirlwind of activity, with Lady Samara and Lady Scarlet dragging Dorothy and me on grand excursions through the city. It had been entertaining, I had to admit—the famous landmarks were impressive, and the high-class restaurants served food that would make even Martha weep with envy. Oddly enough, though, my favorite discoveries had been the humble street vendors at the market and tiny hole-in-the-wall establishments. Curry and naan bread from India, kebabs from Turkey, stir-fried noodles from China, and sushi from Japan had all earned places of honor on my personal list of culinary revelations.

“Why not?” I agreed. “Though if we’re kidnapped by rival aristocrats, I’m blaming you entirely.”

“Fair enough,” Alec nodded solemnly. “Though I should warn you that kidnapping in this neighborhood is frightfully expensive. The ransom notes alone require premium stationery and proper calligraphy.”

The streets beyond Tyndall Manor were immaculate, with evenly spaced gas lamps and not so much as a fallen leaf marring the pristine walkways. The neighborhood was eerily quiet—perhaps it was considered uncouth in the capital to rise before noon? Most of the properties were grand manors similar to the Tyndalls’, though none quite matched its imposing grandeur.

“I heard Edward said Cheswick is beautiful in autumn,” Alec remarked as we walked.

I nodded, a pang of homesickness catching me off guard. “Mm-hmm. When the leaves turn russet and gold, it’s quite spectacular. It’s beautiful in summer and spring, too. In winter, when everything’s blanketed in snow, it’s breathtaking—though also cold enough to freeze the whiskers off a polar bear.”

“Sounds like you love Cheswick,” Alec said, his tone softening.

“It was... my home,” I said simply, the words inadequate to express the depth of my attachment. “I’m sad to have lost it.”

“I’m sorry that you lost it,” Alec said, his tone genuinely sympathetic. After a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “Do you... wish that you were born... legitimate? That was terribly forward of me—feel free to push me into that ornamental pond for asking.”

I turned to look at him and nodded. “Every day since Father passed away. But it’s not meant to be.” I sighed, then deliberately changed the subject, unwilling to wallow in melancholy on such a fine morning. “What about you? How did you come to be adopted by the Tyndalls? I imagine there’s a dramatic tale involving pirates or at least one runaway hot air balloon.”

“Alas, no pirates,” Alec replied with a theatrical sigh. “My biological father worked for the Tyndalls when he was alive. He was half-Chinese, born in Shanghai. Being of mixed heritage, he wasn’t fully accepted there—apparently not being purely one thing or another offends people on every continent. When he had the chance, he immigrated to Northland.”

He continued, his tone lightening, “When I was eight, both my parents died in a carriage accident, and with no living relatives on either side, the late Lord Eastwood adopted me as his son. It was largely thanks to Sam and Letty, who decided they simply must have me as their little brother. Edward says they threw a tantrum of such magnificent proportions that Father feared for the structural integrity of the house. So you see, I’ve been at the mercy of the Tyndall twins since childhood.”

So that was Alec’s story. No wonder the twins adored him, and he them in return.

“I became Lord Alec Tyndall a month after my parents died,” he continued. “Though having ‘Lord’ in front of my name is merely a courtesy title and quite bothersome really. Nothing says ‘please treat me normally’ like a hereditary title that’s been around since the Middle Ages.”

“I see,” I said, impressed by his humility. The Alec I was coming to know seemed remarkably grounded despite his privileged upbringing.

We were just rounding a corner when Waffle suddenly erupted into frenzied barking and took off without warning, leaving me to sigh in exasperation.

“And there he goes,” I muttered. “I swear he has the attention span of a particularly distracted butterfly.”

“The Tyndall gardens do have that effect,” Alec remarked. “Even humans have been known to dash off suddenly in pursuit of shiny objects.”

We followed Waffle’s trajectory and found him enthusiastically investigating another dog—a tiny, fluffy creature with pristine white fur. Waffle had positioned himself over the smaller dog and was engaged in what could only be described as a thorough inspection of its hindquarters. The little pup wiggled and whimpered in protest before finally managing to escape, darting to hide behind its master’s legs.

“Aki!” the young man exclaimed, looking mortified. “I’m so sorry about this. He’s usually much better behaved.”

“Haru Ono,” Alec called out, recognition brightening his features. “Out for your morning constitutional despite your brother’s dire predictions of imminent pneumonia?”

The young man looked up with a smile that transformed his delicate features. If Alec was handsome, this boy was stunning—fine-boned with dark hair and warm brown eyes that seemed perpetually surprised.

“Alec!” Haru exclaimed, his voice musical with delight. “What perfect timing. Aki and I were just discussing how dreadfully boring these perfectly symmetrical trees are as conversation partners.” He glanced down at the dogs. “Though I see your canine friend has decided formal introductions are entirely unnecessary.”

“That’s Waffle,” Alec explained with a grin. “He believes in a direct approach to social situations—rather like the twins but with considerably more fur and slightly better manners.”

Haru laughed, the sound unexpectedly bright in the morning air. “Waffle? What a marvelous name! Is there a story behind it, or does he simply have an affinity for breakfast foods?”

“He’s named after his greatest passion in life,” I interjected, stepping forward. “The first time I gave him a waffle, he developed an immediate and profound devotion to them that borders on religious fervor.”

“How delightfully straightforward,” Haru replied, studying me with open curiosity. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new to the neighborhood?”

Alec performed the introductions. “Haru, this is Ian Harrison, Edward’s new ward and the latest addition to the Tyndall menagerie. Ian, meet Haru Ono, botanical enthusiast and owner of the only dog in St. Louis with a more ridiculous name than ‘Waffle.’”

“Aki is a perfectly respectable name,” Haru protested, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. “It means ‘autumn brightness’ in Japanese.”

“Which is precisely why it’s ridiculous,” Alec teased. “The poor creature needs three interpreters just to understand his own name.”

I extended my hand, uncertain of the proper greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Haru.”

Haru waved away the title with a grimace. “Please, just Haru. All those formal addresses make me feel like I should be wearing ceremonial robes and making profound statements about cherry blossoms.”

“Aren’t you technically a ‘young master’?” Alec asked innocently.

“Only when Uncle Jin is feeling particularly traditional,” Haru replied with an eye roll. “Which, admittedly, is most of the time. But ‘young master’ makes me sound like I should be the protagonist in some gothic novel, discovering family secrets in a dusty attic.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I said, surprised by the parallel. “Complete with a mysterious governess who knows more than she’s telling.”

“Precisely!” Haru agreed enthusiastically. “I keep expecting to discover I’m secretly heir to a cursed estate with at least three ghosts and a forbidden wing no one will explain.”

“So you’re living with the Tyndalls now?” Haru asked, smoothly changing subjects. “How are you finding it? I imagine it’s quite lively compared to most households.”

“Ian and his family moved in last week,” Alec explained. “They’ve been valiantly adjusting to the twins’ artistic ambushes and Mother’s social scheming.”

“How wonderful to have a full house,” Haru said with genuine warmth. “Ono Manor feels positively sepulchral most days—just Uncle Jin, my brother Reo, and me.” His expression suddenly shifted to one of comical alarm. “Speaking of Reo, he’s approaching with that expression that means I’ve committed some grievous offense against propriety. Again.”

I followed his gaze to see a tall, lean Japanese man striding purposefully toward us. Despite the thunderous scowl etched into his features, he was strikingly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and a graceful bearing that spoke of careful discipline.

“Haru!” he called, his voice carrying the crisp edge of exasperation. “Out in the cold morning air again? Should I start planning your funeral now, or would you prefer to give me a few days’ notice?”

Haru sighed with the patience of someone who’d had this particular argument many times before. “Good morning to you too, brother. I’m perfectly fine—the fresh air is good for my constitution.”

“Your constitution,” Reo replied dryly, “is about as robust as a soap bubble in a rainstorm. Need I remind you of last month’s incident when you caught a chill because someone mentioned snow in your presence?”

“That was a complete coincidence,” Haru protested. “And I’m not as fragile as you insist on making me out to be.”

“So speaks the shrine maiden who requires three blankets in summer,” Reo retorted, though I caught the underlying affection beneath his sharp tone.

“If you call me ‘shrine maiden’ one more time,” Haru threatened, “I’ll tell Uncle Jin who really broke his favorite tea bowl.”

Reo’s expression momentarily flickered with alarm before he smoothly changed subjects, turning to acknowledge us. “Alec,” he nodded, then shifted his attention to me. “And you must be Ian Harrison. Your arrival has provided this neighborhood with enough gossip to last through winter. The quality of scandals has been disappointingly mediocre lately.”

“Happy to be of service,” I replied with a slight bow. “If conversation starts to wane, I can always create a fresh scandal. Perhaps riding backward through the park or challenging someone to a duel using baguettes as weapons.”

A hint of amusement softened Reo’s stern features. “I’d appreciate advance notice of such performances. The entertainment value would be considerably enhanced by proper anticipation.”

“How does everyone already know who I am?” I asked, glancing between them. “I’ve barely been in St. Louis a week.”

“Aristocratic gossip travels faster than light,” Alec explained. “It’s the one area where the nobility demonstrates true efficiency.”

“The Harrisons moving into Tyndall Manor was the most exciting news since Lady Pembrooke eloped with her riding instructor,” Reo added. “Most households received detailed reports before you’d even unpacked your bags. Except for Haru,” he continued, giving his brother a pointed look, “who remains blissfully ignorant of social matters because he believes leaving the house might result in unexpected conversation.”

“I had no idea we were such fascinating subjects,” I said, genuinely surprised. “I’d have worn better clothes had I known I was providing entertainment.”

Reo’s attention returned to his brother. “Didn’t Dr. Whitman explicitly instruct you to avoid early morning excursions during winter? Or did that medical advice somehow slip your mind along with every other recommendation he’s ever made?”

“Aki needed his walk,” Haru replied, as if this explained everything. “His delicate constitution requires fresh air and regular exercise.”

“His delicate—” Reo began incredulously, then stopped himself with visible effort. He sighed, the sound of a man who had long since accepted his fate. “Come along home before Uncle Jin notices your absence and subjects me to another lecture on my failures as a responsible guardian.”

Haru turned to me with an apologetic smile. “I’m being summoned back to captivity, it seems. We should have tea sometime soon, Ian. I make an excellent jasmine blend that will change your understanding of what tea can be.”

“I’d like that,” I replied, already looking forward to it. “Fellow prisoners of overprotective households should stick together.”

“Come on, Aki,” Haru called to his dog, who seemed only too happy to escape Waffle’s continued attentions. “Time to retreat with dignity while we still can.”

As the brothers walked away, their conversation drifted back to us.

“Waffle was behaving very strangely with Aki,” Haru was saying. “Is that normal canine socialization?”

“Waffle?” Reo asked, clearly confused. “You’re talking about breakfast food now? Your conversational transitions grow more baffling by the day.”

“No, no—Waffle is Ian’s dog,” Haru explained patiently. “Though now that you mention it, waffles with honey do sound delicious.”

“You named your dog after breakfast?” Reo asked, glancing back at us. “Well, I suppose it’s more dignified than ‘Sir Fluffington the Third,’ which you initially wanted to call Aki.”

“That was a perfectly respectable name,” Haru protested. “But seriously, why was Waffle so interested in Aki’s... personal regions? Is that normal dog behavior?”

“That,” Reo replied with finality, “is absolutely not a conversation I’m prepared to have before noon. Or ever, preferably.”

Beside me, Alec burst into laughter as the brothers disappeared around a corner. “Oh, that was magnificent. The look on Reo’s face when Haru started questioning canine mating behaviors—priceless!”

“Wait,” I said, finally understanding his amusement. “Are you suggesting Waffle was... making romantic overtures toward Aki?”

“Your dog appears to have developed quite the infatuation,” Alec confirmed, eyes dancing with mirth. “Though I fear any formal courtship would require Reo’s approval, and he seems the type to demand an extensive background check and substantial dowry.”

I looked down at Waffle, who gazed back at me with complete innocence. “You scoundrel,” I told him. “At least buy him dinner first.”

Waffle barked happily, tail wagging as if he were quite proud of himself.

“Well,” Alec said as we resumed our walk, “at least we know Waffle has excellent taste. Aki is quite the aristocratic catch in canine circles.”

“By the way, Lord Edward mentioned you attend St. Louis University.”

Alec nodded. “Ah yes, my daily escape from Tyndall madness. Edward mentioned you’re interested in Wellington Academy for botany studies?”

“Yes,” I confirmed, unable to hide my eagerness. “Lord Edward told me about their botanical research program. When might we tour the campus? I’m trying not to appear overly enthusiastic, but I fear I’m failing miserably.”

“Your scholarly enthusiasm is refreshingly genuine in a city where most young men your age consider ‘education’ to mean learning which fork to use for fish,” Alec replied with a warm smile. “How about next week? Wellington offers introductory courses for the winter session—excellent way to test the waters without drowning in academic expectations.”

“I’d like that,” I said, already imagining walking through actual university halls, surrounded by books and learning. “Though I’d be curious to see St. Louis University as well, if only to understand the differences.”

“We can certainly visit both,” Alec agreed. “Though Wellington is truly the better fit for you—not just because of your omega status, but because their botanical gardens are spectacular. Edward was quite right about that. I’ve visited them myself several times for their remarkable collection of Asian specimens.”

“What are you studying at St. Louis University?” I asked, genuinely curious about his academic pursuits.

“Business,” he replied with a dramatic sigh. “The practical choice for a younger son determined to be useful. I help Edward navigate the labyrinthine Tyndall enterprises—properties across Northland, trading companies with headquarters in England, France, China, India, and America. My contribution primarily involves looking serious during meetings and occasionally making insightful comments that surprise everyone, including myself.”

My eyes widened at this information. The scale of the Tyndall family’s enterprises was staggering. “What sort of trading do they do? Besides world domination, obviously.”

“Tea and spices, silk, various other commodities that people with too much money simply must have,” Alec explained with a wry smile. “Edward is the head of the Tyndall and Halifax Group—nothing gets approved without his blessing, and his ventures typically triple in profit. He has an uncanny instinct for business that makes the rest of us look like children playing with toy coins.”

He continued, “The headquarters is downtown, where Edward works when he’s not busy rescuing damsels or acquiring new wards. His office overlooks Queen Josephine Park—the famous promenade where St. Louis society engages in the competitive sport of pretending not to notice each other while cataloging every detail of everyone’s appearance.” He winked conspiratorially. “I’d wager my monthly allowance that Sam and Letty will drag you there tomorrow for your official society debut.”

“Why tomorrow?” I asked, dreading the answer. The last thing I wanted was to be paraded around like some exotic specimen for the aristocracy to gawk at.

“Because it’s the weekend,” Alec explained with mock solemnity. “And weekends in Queen Josephine Park are the aristocratic equivalent of a livestock exhibition—everyone displaying their finest specimens and hoping for blue ribbons in the form of advantageous marriage proposals.”

“Ah,” I said, already contemplating which mysterious illness I might develop by tomorrow morning. Perhaps something exotic involving unexplained rashes and peculiar odors?

Half an hour later, we returned to the manor for breakfast. I was halfway through a particularly excellent waffle, having just tossed a piece to my namesake canine, when Lady Samara pounced.

“Ian dear,” she began with a smile that immediately put me on guard, “would you like to go for a delightful, absolutely voluntary, not-at-all-obligatory walk with us tomorrow?”

Even though I already knew the answer, I asked, “Where?”

“Where else?” Lady Samara chuckled, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Queen Josephine Park—the stage upon which all of St. Louis society performs their carefully rehearsed roles.”

Lady Scarlet leaned forward eagerly. “It’s the place to see and be seen, Ian dear. And we want you to be seen—our magnificent new brother with the face that launched a thousand sketches.” Turning to her brother, she added, “You too, Alec. We need you to look intimidating and ward off the more aggressive admirers.”

Alec sighed with the resignation of someone facing an inevitable fate. “If Ian goes, then I’ll come along. Someone needs to protect him from your artistic ambitions and society’s collective curiosity.”

The twins turned to me with expectant expressions that reminded me of Waffle when he wanted a treat. “Ian?”

From across the table, Lady Tyndall offered her own encouragement. “It’ll be quite entertaining, Ian dear. The expressions on the Wellington ladies’ faces alone will be worth the effort of getting dressed. Besides, it’s not good to be cooped up in the house all the time, you know.”

Cooped up? When had I been cooped up? I’d been dragged across half of St. Louis since our arrival, subjected to more social interaction in five days than I’d experienced in the previous five years at Cheswick.

But resistance, I’d learned, was futile where the Tyndall women were concerned. “All right, I’ll come along,” I conceded, mentally cataloging which of my woefully inadequate outfits might be least embarrassing for a public appearance.

“Wonderful!” Lady Samara exclaimed with such enthusiasm that I immediately regretted my acquiescence. “Oh, and please don’t forget we have an appointment today after breakfast.”

Damn. I had indeed forgotten about that particular commitment. Today was the day I was to model for their illustrations alongside Alec—a prospect I approached with the same enthusiasm one might feel for a public flogging.

“How could I possibly forget such a highlight of my social calendar?” I replied dryly. “I’ve been practicing my ‘tortured hero’ expression all week.”

The twins were evidently eager to begin, as breakfast wasn’t even concluded before they whisked Alec and me away to the conservatory. The morning sun streamed through the glass, bathing the luxurious room in golden light as I found myself reclining on a settee, my shirt partially unbuttoned in what Lady Scarlet had described as “artistic dishabille.” Leaning over me, in a position that seemed designed to induce maximum discomfort, was Alec, his own shirt similarly undone to reveal a toned chest.

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” Alec muttered under his breath. “And why our poses always seem to involve me developing muscle cramps in places I didn’t know had muscles?”

“Because you’re a good brother who can’t say no to those two,” I whispered back. “And because they threatened to use Edward as their model if you refused, which would apparently involve him posing in even more compromising positions.”

“Ah yes, brotherly blackmail—the foundation of all Tyndall family dynamics,” Alec replied with a grimace. “Still, this particular tableau seems designed specifically to destroy my spine.”

What in heaven’s name was this pose meant to represent? And more importantly, how had I allowed myself to be manipulated into it?

I glanced up, acutely aware of Alec’s proximity. If it had been Lord Edward in this position—so close I could feel his breath on my skin—I was certain my heart would have burst from my chest, my body temperature would have soared to dangerous levels, and my more intimate regions would have...

I hastily banished thoughts of Lord Edward from my mind. This was neither the time nor place for such fantasies. It was broad daylight, there were witnesses, and dwelling on him would only lead to embarrassing physical reactions.

Though if I were being honest with myself, Lord Edward had occupied my thoughts every night since that evening at Cheswick when he’d taught me how to find relief from my omega urges. Now that I was living under his roof, knowing his bedroom was somewhere in the same wing as mine, the situation had only intensified. Each time his face appeared in my mind’s eye, my body responded with embarrassing eagerness. I would employ the techniques he’d taught me, but it was never the same—never as satisfying as when his hands had been on me.

I forced my attention back to the present, noting that Alec looked distinctly uncomfortable in his awkward pose. His face was strained, and I worried he might injure himself maintaining such an unnatural position.

“Are you all right?” I asked. “You look like you’re being slowly tortured by invisible thumbscrews.”

“I think I can manage a couple more minutes,” he replied through gritted teeth, “but my back is staging a full rebellion against this position. I may never stand upright again.” Raising his voice, he called to Lady Scarlet, “Are you capturing my slow death by artistic sacrifice, or can I collapse now?”

“Just a bit more time, please,” she replied cheerfully, her pencil moving rapidly across the paper. “Your suffering is creating such beautiful art—it’s practically a noble sacrifice.”

“You both are doing magnificently,” Lady Samara encouraged from beside her sister. “This will be our finest illustration yet—the moment of breathless anticipation before the declaration of undying devotion!”

“The only declaration coming is my spine announcing its immediate resignation,” Alec muttered under his breath.

I could see beads of sweat forming on Alec’s temples and sensed he was reaching his limit. Just as I was about to suggest a break, a deep, commanding voice thundered through the conservatory:

“What the hell are you two doing?”

At the sound, Alec collapsed entirely, his full weight landing on top of me as his face buried against my neck. “Freedom at last,” he mumbled against my skin as his body went limp.

“My goodness, Alec has expired from artistic exertion,” Lady Samara exclaimed, rushing toward us with dramatic concern.

“Alec, please postpone your demise,” Lady Scarlet implored. “We still haven’t finished the climactic illustration. Die after page sixteen, I beg you.”

“Don’t just casually announce my death like it’s a minor inconvenience to your schedule,” Alec muttered against my neck, his breath warm on my skin.

But I barely registered any of this, my attention entirely captured by the figure striding into the conservatory with thunderous purpose. Lord Edward Tyndall, in all his imposing glory, was advancing toward us with an expression that made my stomach twist into knots and cold sweat break out across my skin.

“Lord Edward?” I managed, my eyes wide with surprise and—though I was loath to admit it—delight at his unexpected appearance. He wasn’t supposed to return for weeks. Why was he here now, and why did he look ready to commit fraticide?

“Alec,” he growled, his voice a dangerous rumble that sent an inappropriate shiver down my spine, “get your backside off of Ian, you brat.”

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Ian

It turns out that life has a peculiar sense of humor. Just when I’d finally come to terms with losing Cheswick, I found myself stepping into a world so far removed from my previous existence that it might as well have been on another planet entirely.

St. Louis train station was a seething mass of humanity that made the modest crowds of Warlington seem like a quiet Sunday gathering. Bodies pressed against bodies, voices competed with the shriek of train whistles, and the air was thick with coal smoke, perfume, and the particular aroma that arises when too many people occupy too small a space. I clutched Reuben’s hand tightly, afraid he might be swept away in the tide of travelers if I loosened my grip for even a moment.

“This way,” Mr. Ford called over the din, gesturing toward a line of waiting carriages.

The journey to reach this point had been lengthy—two months of packing our meager belongings, saying goodbye to the only home I’d ever known, and enduring a two-day train journey that left me with a newfound appreciation for solid ground. Throughout it all, I’d maintained a brave face for the twins, pretending that relocating to the capital was a grand adventure rather than the terrifying leap into the unknown that it actually was.

Reuben tugged at my sleeve, his eyes wide as dinner plates as he took in the chaotic scene around us. “Ian! So many people! Where they all going?”

“Everywhere and nowhere,” I replied, steering him through the crowd with one hand while keeping a watchful eye on Dorothy, who carried a wide-eyed Rosie. “That’s city life for you—everyone rushing about as though the fate of the kingdom depends on them reaching their destination five minutes sooner.”

I couldn’t blame the twins for their wonderment. None of us had ventured farther than Greenhill Village before this journey, and the train itself had been a novelty that had Reuben pressing his face against the window for hours, watching the countryside transform from the familiar rolling hills of Cheswick to increasingly unfamiliar terrain.

Mr. Ford had been a godsend during our journey, navigating the complexities of train schedules and luggage transfers with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to such matters. I suspected his eagerness to assist us had less to do with Lord Edward’s instructions and more to do with the lingering glances he kept casting toward Dorothy when he thought no one was looking. Their correspondence over the past two months hadn’t escaped my notice—nor had the way Dorothy’s face brightened whenever a letter bearing the Tyndall seal arrived.

I couldn’t begrudge her this happiness. After years of shouldering responsibilities that would have crushed a lesser woman, Dorothy deserved whatever joy life might offer her. If that joy came in the form of a handsome lawyer with kind eyes and impeccable manners, so be it.

As for my own correspondence with Lord Edward... well, that was a matter I preferred not to examine too closely. Each letter that arrived bearing his bold handwriting sent my pulse racing in a manner that defied rational explanation. I told myself it was merely anticipation of news about our future arrangements, but the warmth that spread through me when I read his words suggested something far more complicated.

The carriage ride from the station to Tyndall Manor offered my first real glimpse of St. Louis proper. The city sprawled in every direction, a bewildering maze of wide boulevards and narrow side streets, grand buildings and modest shops, all teeming with more people than I’d seen in my entire life combined. The air carried a peculiar mixture of coal smoke, baked goods, horse manure, and some indefinable essence that I supposed was simply the smell of civilization concentrated in one place.

“Look, Ian!” Reuben exclaimed, bouncing on the seat beside me. “That building touches the sky!”

“Almost,” I agreed, following his pointing finger to a structure that indeed seemed to stretch improbably upward. “Though I imagine the people who built the Tower of Babel thought the same thing, and look how that turned out.”

“What’s a Tower of Babel?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

“A cautionary tale about hubris that I’ll explain when you’re older,” I replied, ruffling his hair. “Or perhaps when I’m feeling particularly masochistic.”

The carriage turned through an imposing iron gate, and suddenly the clamor of the city fell away, replaced by the orderly serenity of manicured grounds. As we proceeded up a winding drive, Tyndall Manor came into view, and I felt my jaw slacken despite my best efforts to maintain my composure.

“Good Lord,” I muttered under my breath. “Either we’ve taken a wrong turn into a royal palace, or the Tyndalls have a serious case of architectural overcompensation.”

The structure before us wasn’t a manor—it was a monument to aristocratic excess. Three stories of pale stone rose majestically against the winter sky, with more windows than I could count at a glance and a façade that stretched wider than the entire village of Greenhill. Ornamental gardens surrounded it on all sides, dormant now in the winter chill but promising spectacular beauty come spring.

“It’s a castle, Ian!” Reuben breathed, his little face pressed against the carriage window. “A real castle!”

For once, I couldn’t muster a clever retort. The boy wasn’t wrong—the place did bear more resemblance to a royal residence than any home I’d ever imagined.

As our carriage rolled to a stop before the grand entrance, Reuben could contain himself no longer. The moment the door opened, he burst forth like a cork from a shaken bottle, Waffle hot on his heels. The pair tore across the immaculate lawn, a blur of boyish energy and canine enthusiasm.

“FREEDOM!” Reuben shrieked, arms spread wide as he spun in circles before tumbling into a perfectly manicured flower bed. Waffle, interpreting this as an invitation to play, pounced on the boy, tail wagging furiously as he showered Reuben’s face with enthusiastic licks.

Reuben’s peals of laughter rang out across the grounds as he rolled through what I was certain were prize-winning tulip bulbs, sending clumps of dirt flying. Waffle, not to be outdone, began digging with the single-minded determination that only dogs possess, dirt spraying in all directions.

Four gardeners appeared as if summoned by the sound of botanical destruction, their faces masks of horror as they beheld the carnage. One clutched his chest as though experiencing heart palpitations, while another seemed on the verge of tears as Reuben and Waffle trampled what was likely months of painstaking work.

“The winter hyacinths!” one cried, his voice breaking with emotion. “They’re massacring the winter hyacinths!”

The gardeners advanced cautiously, clearly torn between saving their beloved plants and avoiding the whirlwind of boy and dog that showed no signs of slowing. When they drew near, Reuben interpreted their approach as an invitation to a new game.

“Can’t catch me!” he challenged, leaping up and darting away with Waffle bounding joyfully alongside him. The gardeners gave chase, their expressions shifting from horror to determination as they pursued the tiny tornado across the lawn.

“Reuben Harrison!” I called, attempting to inject authority into my voice despite the laugh threatening to escape. “Cease and desist this botanical terrorism immediately!”

The boy skidded to a halt, chest heaving and face flushed with excitement. Dirt smudged his cheeks and grass stained his knees, but his grin was incandescent. “Did you see me running, Ian? I was fast as lightning!”

“More like a force of nature,” I replied dryly. “I believe you’ve just reduced several men’s life work to mulch in under five minutes. Quite an accomplishment.”

Waffle, however, continued his celebratory circuit of the grounds, now with all four gardeners in pursuit. The dog treated it as a splendid new game, darting between their outstretched hands with the gleeful evasiveness of a creature who knows exactly how much trouble he’s causing.

“Waffle!” I employed my sharpest tone—the one reserved for genuine misbehavior. “Heel! Now!”

The dog skulked back, tail between his legs, though his contrition lasted only until I scratched behind his ears. “I’ll take you for a proper run later,” I promised quietly. “Preferably somewhere without horticulturists who look ready to use you as fertilizer.”

Mr. Ford chuckled beside me, surveying the disheveled gardeners who were now attempting to salvage what remained of their flower beds. “Looks like Reuben and Waffle are already making themselves at home.”

“Yes, nothing says ‘we’ve arrived’ quite like decimating the landscaping within the first five minutes,” I replied. “I’d hoped we might wait at least until dinner before causing irreparable damage to Tyndall property, but apparently Reuben had other plans.”

“It’s a castle, Mr. Ford!” Reuben exclaimed, bouncing on his toes with uncontained excitement. “A real castle with a moat and dragons and everything!”

“It is rather impressive,” Mr. Ford agreed, his expression suggesting he found the child’s enthusiasm endearing. “Though I believe the moat and dragons were modernized out during the last renovation.”

“Pity,” I said. “A dragon would have added a certain dramatic flair to our arrival. Though I suppose Waffle’s impromptu gardening has provided enough spectacle for one day.”

A small army of uniformed servants emerged from the manor, moving with the synchronized precision of a military unit as they began unloading our luggage. Among them appeared two women who were clearly not servants—one middle-aged with an air of quiet authority, the other younger but with the same regal bearing.

To my astonishment, the older woman—who could only be Lady Victoria Tyndall herself—crouched before Rosie with a warm smile that transformed her aristocratic features into something approachable and kind.

“Hello there,” she said, her voice gentle but carrying the unmistakable polish of aristocracy. “You must be Rosie. I’ve heard such charming things about you that I feel we’re already acquainted.”

Rosie, who had been clinging to Dorothy’s hand like a lifeline, looked up for reassurance. At Dorothy’s encouraging nod, she executed a perfect little curtsy that we’d practiced for weeks.

“Hello,” she replied softly. “Yes, I’m Rosie.”

“What a perfectly executed curtsy,” Lady Tyndall remarked, taking Rosie’s tiny hand in her own. “I see you have natural grace as well as beauty. Tyndall Manor has been in desperate need of both.”

Not to be outdone, Reuben darted forward to stand beside his twin, leaving a trail of soil in his wake. “Hello, I’m Reuben!” he announced, practically vibrating with excitement. “I just killed some flowers but I didn’t mean to!”

Lady Tyndall’s laughter rang out, bright and genuine. “Ah, a budding landscape artist with revolutionary ideas about garden design. How refreshing. Welcome to Tyndall Manor, Reuben. Our head gardener has been getting entirely too complacent lately.”

“Tyndall Manor is a castle,” Reuben informed her seriously. “It’s huge. Will my room be huge, too? Can I have a dragon in it?”

Lady Tyndall’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Your chambers are quite spacious, and as for dragons—they’re only permitted in the east wing on alternate Thursdays. House rules, I’m afraid, though I’ve been lobbying for more liberal dragon policies for years.”

The twins exchanged a look of such profound delight that I couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps this transition wouldn’t be as difficult as I’d feared, at least for them.

Mr. Ford proceeded with formal introductions, presenting Grandma Eliza, Dorothy, and finally myself to Lady Tyndall and Lady Daisy, her daughter-in-law. Throughout the exchange, I found my gaze drifting toward the manor entrance, half-expecting—hoping, if I’m honest—to see Lord Edward emerge. But the doorway remained occupied only by servants, and I felt a peculiar hollow sensation in my chest at his absence.

Foolishness, of course. Lord Edward was a man of business and responsibilities, not some lovestruck swain awaiting our arrival with bated breath. Still, after two months of letters and the memory of that parting kiss, I’d harbored a secret hope that he might be present to welcome us.

“And this is Ian Harrison,” Mr. Ford said, drawing me back to the present.

Lady Tyndall’s eyes widened as she regarded me, her expression shifting to something I couldn’t quite interpret. “My goodness,” she said, her keen eyes taking in every detail of my appearance, “what an extraordinary contradiction you present. Beauty that would make Venus herself envious, yet there’s something distinctly masculine in your bearing that’s quite fascinating.”

I blinked, uncertain how to respond to such an ambiguous observation. “My lady,” I said, offering a slight bow rather than the curtsy she apparently expected. “I assure you, despite my regrettably delicate features, I am thoroughly male. I have the appropriate anatomical evidence, though I’d prefer not to display it on the front lawn.”

“Mother,” Lady Daisy interjected with a wry smile that suggested she found the situation more amusing than awkward, “perhaps we should remember that Master Ian is indeed a gentleman, regardless of how divine his bone structure might be.”

“A gentleman?” Lady Tyndall recovered smoothly, barely missing a beat. “Of course. I was merely momentarily captivated by such remarkable features. How refreshing to meet a young man who hasn’t been carved from the same dreary mold as most of society’s eligible bachelors.” She studied me with renewed interest. “How old are you, Ian dear?”

“Nineteen, my lady,” I replied, trying not to fidget under her scrutiny. “Though I’ve been told I have the jaded cynicism of someone twice that age.”

“Nineteen,” Lady Tyndall mused with a knowing smile. “The perfect age for making advantageous connections. Edward will certainly have his hands full fending off unsuitable suitors.”

Lady Daisy observed me with intelligent eyes. “Indeed, Mother. Though Ian is a gentleman, his particular combination of beauty and wit will attract potential suitors from all quarters, conventional or otherwise.”

I stared at her, momentarily speechless. “Suitors? For me?”

Lady Tyndall brightened with sudden inspiration. “We simply must have a proper introduction for the Harrisons. A dinner party at minimum, though I’m inclined toward something more substantial. The social elite of St. Louis should meet you all at once, like a magnificent theatrical reveal.”

Mr. Ford made a strangled sound beside me. “Is there... any need for that?” he asked, his usual composure slipping. “Perhaps a quiet introduction to a select few friends would be more appropriate?”

“My dear Daniel,” Lady Tyndall replied with the air of someone explaining a fundamental truth to a well-meaning but misguided child, “one doesn’t acquire such fascinating new relations without properly showcasing them. The gossips will be beside themselves with anticipation, which is precisely why it must be a grand affair. Perhaps even a ball.”

“A ball even?” Mr. Ford repeated faintly, casting a worried glance toward Dorothy. “I’m not sure that’s—”

“A ball would be ideal,” Lady Tyndall confirmed, turning on her heel to lead us into the manor with the clear expectation that we would follow. “Nothing announces one’s arrival in society quite like having three hundred people scrutinize your every move while pretending to enjoy tepid champagne.”

I leaned close to Mr. Ford as we walked. “Don’t worry,” I murmured. “Dorothy only has eyes for you. Though if you wait much longer to declare yourself, I may have to lock you both in a closet until you sort things out.”

His startled expression was worth the impropriety of my comment.

The interior of Tyndall Manor was even more impressive than its exterior—a symphony of marble, polished wood, and gilt accents that made Cheswick’s modest elegance seem positively rustic by comparison. We were ushered into a drawing room that could have comfortably housed our entire dining room, kitchen, and pantry combined, and served tea on china so fine I feared it might shatter if I breathed too forcefully.

“Is everything in this house designed to make visitors feel like clumsy giants?” I whispered to Grandma Eliza as I gingerly accepted a teacup that appeared to be made from eggshells and dreams.

“Hush, boy,” she replied under her breath. “And for heaven’s sake, use the tiny fork for the tiny cakes. The last thing we need is for you to commit a cutlery faux pas within the first hour.”

As Lady Tyndall and Grandma Eliza exchanged pleasantries, I found myself wondering again about Lord Edward’s absence. Surely he knew we were arriving today? The thought that he might have deliberately arranged to be elsewhere sent an unexpected pang through me.

“Mother,” Lady Daisy prompted with subtle emphasis, “shouldn’t we inform our guests about Edward’s whereabouts? They might be wondering why he isn’t here to welcome them personally.”

“Ah yes,” Lady Tyndall said, her expression turning regretful. “I was rather hoping to delay this particular disappointment. Edward was called away to England on urgent business—railway investments that simply couldn’t wait. He was quite vexed about missing your arrival after having arranged everything so meticulously.”

“He left three separate sets of instructions for your comfort,” Lady Daisy added with a hint of amusement. “Each more detailed than the last. I believe the final version specified the exact temperature at which your rooms should be kept and the precise fluffiness required for your pillows.”

“When will Lord Edward return?” Dorothy asked, voicing the question I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

“Friday fortnight,” Lady Tyndall replied. “Assuming the Channel behaves itself and the English weather doesn’t live up to its dreary reputation. Though knowing Edward, he would swim back if necessary once he learns you’ve arrived safely.”

“How refreshing,” Grandma Eliza remarked dryly. “Most people work so hard to conceal their thoroughness. His attention to detail is commendable.”

“It’s one of his most endearing qualities,” Lady Tyndall agreed with a warm smile. “Though I suspect you’ll discover many more once he returns. Edward has a way of surprising even those who think they know him well.”

Nearly three weeks until Lord Edward’s return. I tried to ignore the disappointment that settled in my chest at this news. What did it matter? I had survived nineteen years without Lord Edward Tyndall; surely I could manage another three weeks.

Though, if I were being honest with myself, the thought of navigating this strange new world without his steadying presence was more daunting than I cared to admit.

After tea, we were shown to our respective rooms, scattered throughout the manor according to some logic I couldn’t quite discern. Grandma Eliza was installed on the ground floor, presumably in deference to her cane and arthritic joints. Dorothy and the twins were placed in the east wing, while I was led to a suite in the west wing that was larger than our entire first floor at Cheswick.

“This is... mine?” I asked the footman who had escorted me, certain there had been some mistake. “All of it? You haven’t accidentally shown me to the royal guest chambers reserved for visiting dignitaries?”

“Yes, sir,” he confirmed with admirable composure. “Lord Edward selected it personally for you before his departure.”

I stood frozen in the doorway, trying to absorb the reality of my new accommodations. The room was a study in understated luxury—a massive four-poster bed draped in blue and gold, a sitting area with a settee positioned to catch the afternoon light, a desk that appeared to be made from a single piece of mahogany, and windows that offered a spectacular view of the gardens below.

Once the footman departed, I explored further, discovering a dressing room larger than my bedroom at Cheswick and a bathroom that left me momentarily speechless. A porcelain bathtub with actual hot water taps, a modern flush toilet, and a basin with its own supply of hot and cold water—luxuries I’d only read about in novels.

“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I murmured, running my fingers over the smooth edge of the bathtub. “Or at the very least, I’ve been transported into one of Dorothy’s romance novels where the heroine always has mysteriously perfect hair despite primitive grooming facilities.”

I returned to the bedroom and flopped onto the bed, testing its softness. The mattress yielded beneath me like a cloud, so different from my sturdy but unyielding bed at Cheswick. Everything about this room spoke of comfort and elegance, from the silk damask curtains to the plush carpet beneath my feet.

As I lay there, staring up at the canopy, I noticed a set of double doors on the right side of the room that I hadn’t yet investigated. Curiosity piqued, I crossed to them and tried the handle, only to find it locked.

“Odd,” I muttered, jiggling the handle again. “A locked door in my own room? Either they’re hiding something scandalous in there, or it’s where they plan to stash my body after I inevitably commit some horrific social blunder.”

Shrugging off the mystery, I returned to the dressing room to begin the task of unpacking my woefully inadequate wardrobe. My modest collection of shirts and trousers looked positively shabby when hung in the spacious closet, barely occupying a fraction of the available space. I had just finished storing my empty luggage when a commotion in the hallway caught my attention—running footsteps followed by what could only be described as feminine shrieks.

Curiosity overcoming propriety, I ventured into the hallway, following the sounds toward the east wing where Dorothy and the twins were quartered. As I approached the twins’ room, the shrieking intensified, punctuated by rapid-fire chatter that reminded me of a pair of excited magpies.

I paused in the doorway, taking in the scene before me. Two identical young women—presumably the infamous Samara and Scarlet Tyndall—were fawning over Reuben and Rosie with an enthusiasm that bordered on manic. One had Rosie’s face clasped between her hands, cooing over her “adorable cheeks,” while the other bombarded Reuben with questions at a pace that left the poor boy looking dazed.

“Oh my goodness, look at these perfect little creatures!” one twin exclaimed, her eyes widening with delight. “They’re absolutely divine! Like living dolls, but with actual personalities—which is so much better for character development!”

“The cheekbones! The eyes! The adorable little hands!” the other gushed, circling the twins like an excited butterfly. “Letty, can you imagine them in our spring storyline? The innocent children who witness the secret garden tryst?”

“Yes! Exactly what I was thinking!” her sister agreed enthusiastically. “Who designed these charming outfits? They’re wonderfully quaint—so refreshingly different from the stuffy nonsense children wear in the capital.”

“We simply must sketch you immediately,” one declared, pulling a small notebook from her pocket. “Don’t move an inch! The light is catching your hair perfectly!”

“Do you like stories?” the other asked Reuben directly. “We write the most thrilling tales. There’s kissing and sometimes fighting and lots of dramatic confessions in the rain. Would you like to be in our next book? You could be the plucky orphan who discovers the duke’s secret!”

“We’re going to be your new sisters and spoil you absolutely rotten,” one promised, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “You’ll have so many sweets you’ll be bouncing off the walls. Edward will be furious, which makes it even better!”

The twins looked utterly overwhelmed, Rosie frozen like a startled rabbit while Reuben’s eyes darted around seeking escape. Even Waffle had retreated behind Dorothy’s skirts, his ears flattened against his head as though the women’s high-pitched enthusiasm caused him physical pain.

“Sam, Letty, you both are scaring the children,” Mr. Ford interjected from his position near the window, where he stood with Dorothy and Lady Daisy.

The Tyndall twins turned to him with identical expressions of exasperation.

“Daniel!” one exclaimed with a dramatic gasp. “How terribly rude of you to interrupt! Can’t you see we’re having a critical creative moment here? These children are pure inspiration!”

“Exactly!” the other agreed with a theatrical pout. “And you’ve completely shattered the mood. Now we’ll have to start all over again, and the lighting won’t be nearly as perfect.”

“We need to draw them before they grow an inch taller,” the first declared, waving her hands expressively. “Childhood is fleeting! It’s practically our duty to capture it!”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely,” her sister nodded emphatically. “For posterity and for our next book. The readers will adore them!”

Reuben, seizing his opportunity, slipped free from his captor’s grasp and bolted toward me, wrapping his arms around my leg like a limpet.

“Ian,” he pleaded, his voice muffled against my trousers. “Save me from the scary ladies. They talk too fast and they want to kiss me and put me in a book!”

I ruffled his hair reassuringly. “It’s all right. They don’t mean you any harm. They’re just excited to meet you—rather like Waffle when he spots a particularly juicy rabbit, except with more expensive clothing and slightly better manners.”

“But I’m scared,” he whispered. “They’re gonna eat me up.”

The Tyndall twins, apparently noticing Reuben’s escape, followed his trajectory with their eyes until their gazes landed squarely on me. The effect was immediate and disconcerting—both women froze as though they’d spotted a ghost.

“Sam,” one whispered, clutching her sister’s arm. “Pinch me right now. I think I’m hallucinating the most perfect heroine we’ve ever imagined.”

Her sister obliged, eliciting a yelp. “Ouch! Not that hard!”

“We’re not dreaming,” the pincher—presumably Samara—announced with breathless wonder. “There’s an actual angel standing right there in our house!”

“A living, breathing muse,” her sister agreed, eyes shining. “Edward has been holding out on us!”

Before I could process what was happening, they had crossed the room and were standing directly before me, their faces mere inches from my own. I blinked, wondering if I’d somehow missed their approach or if they’d simply materialized there through some arcane magic.

“Darling Reuben called you Ian,” Samara said, her eyes wide with fascination. “Are you Ian Harrison? The mysterious ward Edward wrote about?”

“Yes, my lady,” I confirmed, fighting the urge to step backward. “Though I’m beginning to wish I’d adopted a disguise and a false identity before arriving.”

“You’re absolutely perfect,” she breathed, circling me once. “Those eyes! That hair! That beautifully tragic expression! Are you sure you’re not secretly a fairy tale princess under some terrible curse that makes everyone think you’re a boy?”

I stared at her, momentarily speechless. “I’m sure I’m a boy, my lady,” I replied. “I’ve had nearly two decades to confirm this fact, and I’ve yet to discover evidence to the contrary.”

“Then you’re our new brother,” the other twin—Scarlet, I presumed—declared with a delighted clap of her hands. “This is wonderful! Edward has finally brought home someone interesting instead of those dreadfully dull business associates.”

I wasn’t entirely clear on the logic that transformed guardianship into siblinghood, but before I could question it, Samara seized my hand in hers.

“You’re an ideal hero,” she announced, eyes sparkling with excitement. “You’re exactly what we’ve been searching for! The perfect face for Lord Winterley in our new series!”

Scarlet leaned even closer, her nose nearly touching mine. “There’s a beauty mark, Sam! Right there under his eye—it’s exquisite!”

“Oh my, you’re right, Letty!” Samara gasped, joining her sister in my personal space. “It’s like a teardrop frozen in time. So poetic! So perfect for a character with a tragic past!”

“It’s destiny,” Scarlet agreed fervently. “Ian, darling Ian, would you be our model? Our readers will fall madly in love with you!”

“Model?” I echoed, wondering if I’d somehow stumbled into an alternate reality where nothing made sense. “For what, exactly? A study in discomfort? A portrait titled ‘Man Desperately Seeking Escape’?”

“For our illustrations,” Samara explained eagerly, bouncing slightly on her toes. “Our books need faces, and yours is absolutely divine! Our readers will swoon by the thousands!”

“You don’t have to do much,” Scarlet added breathlessly. “All you need to do is sit, and I draw. Sometimes looking tragic, sometimes looking wistful. You already do both perfectly!”

“Erm...” I hesitated, licking my lips nervously. How does one politely decline being immortalized by women who looked ready to kidnap me for artistic purposes if I showed the slightest hesitation?

“That’s enough, you two,” a male voice interrupted, accompanied by a long-suffering sigh. “Before you completely terrify our new houseguest into fleeing back to Cheswick.”

I glanced over my shoulder to find a young man watching the proceedings with an expression that suggested he was all too familiar with the Tyndall twins’ enthusiastic ambushes. Dark-haired and handsome, with striking features that hinted at mixed heritage, he carried himself with the easy confidence of someone comfortable in his own skin.

“I have to apologize for Sam and Letty’s forward behavior,” he said, offering me a sympathetic smile that transformed his serious face. “They tend to treat new people like exotic specimens they’ve discovered on an expedition. Last month it was the ambassador’s son—poor fellow still flinches when he hears the word ‘inspiration.’”

“I see,” I replied, feeling slightly less overwhelmed knowing I wasn’t their first victim. “And here I thought inspiration typically came from sunsets or birdsong, not traumatized country boys.”

“Their muses take many forms, usually unwilling ones,” he quipped, his dark eyes twinkling with humor. “I’m Alec Tyndall, by the way. Edward’s brother and fellow survivor of the Tyndall twin tornado. You must be Ian Harrison?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir... I mean, my lord. Though at this point, I’m open to assuming a new identity if it would simplify matters.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Please, just Alec. ‘My lord’ makes me look over my shoulder for my father’s ghost. Besides, we’re close in age, and since you’re Edward’s ward, we’re practically brothers already—fellow soldiers in the battle against these two creative menaces.”

The notion of suddenly acquiring multiple siblings was bewildering, but I found myself warming to Alec’s easy manner. “Then Alec,” I agreed. “I’ll call you Alec. Though I should warn you that brotherhood with me primarily involves sarcastic commentary and occasional acts of minor rebellion.”

“Perfect,” he replied, his smile revealing a dimple in his left cheek. “I specialize in both myself. Edward will be thrilled to have another voice of reason in the house—he’s been outnumbered for years.”

“You two, please stop flirting in front of everyone,” Lady Daisy interjected dryly. “You’re going to make Sam and Letty swoon.”

“We definitely will not swoon,” Scarlet protested with a dramatic hand to her heart. “Please continue flirting. Do it all day, every day if it pleases you. The chemistry is absolutely perfect for chapter three!”

“Call us by our first names from now on, too, Ian,” Samara added, linking her arm through mine as if we were already the best of friends. “Since we’re going to be family now. And family sits for portraits when their sisters ask nicely.”

“If you don’t,” Scarlet threatened with a mischievous grin, “we’ll have to take drastic measures. Perhaps a character suspiciously like Edward in our next book will develop an embarrassing condition. Terrible boils. Very itchy.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” I replied. “Though I’m curious—what sort of ‘horrible deeds’ are we talking about? I might want to take notes for future reference.”

Mr. Ford cleared his throat. “It’s great that you’re here, Alec. Why don’t you accompany Ian while he takes Waffle out for a walk? The little guy looks desperate for some exercise.”

“He’s been stuck in the train for two days,” I explained, grateful for the escape route Mr. Ford had provided. “Poor fellow’s probably forgotten what grass looks like. Though after his earlier performance in the garden, I’m not sure the horticulturists will welcome his return.”

“A jail break? Excellent idea,” Alec agreed with evident relief. “I’ll show you the gardens that haven’t yet been demolished by your canine companion. But first—” He knelt before Reuben, who was still clinging to my leg like a barnacle. “Hello there, mighty destroyer of flower beds. You must be Reuben, right?”

Reuben nodded cautiously, eyeing this new adult with the wariness of a child who has recently been accosted by overenthusiastic females.

“Welcome to Tyndall Manor, Reuben,” Alec said warmly. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Edward mentioned you’re quite the adventurer.”

“Hello,” Reuben replied after a moment’s consideration. “Tyndall Manor is a castle. It’s huge.”

Alec chuckled. “It is rather enormous, isn’t it? Perfect for games of hide and seek. I know all the best hiding places from when I was your age.”

Reuben’s eyes widened with interest. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” Alec nodded solemnly. “There’s a secret passage behind the library bookcase that not even the servants know about. We could explore it sometime if you’d like.”

“Okay,” Reuben agreed, his earlier wariness melting away. “Can we hide from the scary book ladies?”

“That’s precisely what secret passages are for,” Alec promised with a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve been using them to escape those two for years.”

After ruffling Reuben’s hair, Alec turned to Rosie, who had remained frozen in place throughout the entire exchange. His gentle introduction earned only a whispered “Hello, Lord Alec sir” before she scurried to join Waffle behind Dorothy’s skirts.

I whistled for Waffle, who bounded to my side with such enthusiasm that you’d think I’d offered him a juicy steak rather than a simple walk.

“It’s a dog!” Scarlet exclaimed with delight. “A gorgeous, noble dog! Letty, we need a dog in the next book—the hero’s faithful companion who saves him from certain death!”

“And it’s a German shepherd,” Samara added, eyes bright with new ideas. “So majestic! So loyal! The perfect symbol of unwavering devotion!”

Waffle, displaying a wisdom I hadn’t previously attributed to him, promptly bolted for the door. Alec laughed. “Even your dog has excellent judgment. Shall we follow his example before they decide to include us in chapter four?”

As we escaped into the hallway, leaving the twins’ artistic enthusiasm behind, I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Are they always like that?” I asked. “Or did someone slip something unusual into the tea before we arrived?”

“Sam and Letty?” He grinned, leading me down a corridor adorned with ancestral portraits. “That was actually them on their best behavior. Wait until they get comfortable with you—then the real madness begins. Last month they tried to recreate a duel scene using Mother’s antique swords and nearly decapitated the butler.”

“Lord help me,” I muttered, wondering what I’d gotten myself into by agreeing to this new life. “And here I thought the worst thing about St. Louis would be the coal smoke and the crushing weight of aristocratic expectations.”

Alec laughed, a genuine sound that made me smile despite my misgivings. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to them. And they’re actually quite wonderful once you get past the initial... intensity. Their hearts are as big as their imaginations, which is saying something.”

“Like a thunderstorm is wonderful once you get past the part where it nearly drowns you?” I suggested.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “Terrifying, overwhelming, but ultimately life-giving. Though I’d still recommend carrying an umbrella at all times, metaphorically speaking.”

As we made our way through the labyrinthine corridors of Tyndall Manor toward the gardens, I found myself thinking that perhaps this strange new world might not be so terrible after all. Different, certainly—bewildering and occasionally terrifying—but not without its charms.

And in just under three weeks, Lord Edward would return. The thought sent an unexpected flutter through my chest that I promptly attributed to nervous anticipation rather than anything more significant.

After all, what else could it possibly be?

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