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Lucas's Perspective

The car hadn't even come to a complete stop before I was already pushing the door open. The moment the tires crunched to a halt on the gravel driveway, I stepped out, feeling the cool air hit my face like a quiet wake-up call.

Patrick—Susan's driver-slash-bodyguard—was already moving. The man was fast, efficient, and gave off that unmistakable vibe of someone who'd seen too much to ever fully relax. He had the controlled stride of a soldier who was trying really hard not to look like one, though the effort only made it more obvious.

He was rounding the back of the car, already reaching for the trunk latch when I cut him off.

"I got it," I said quickly, stepping around him and pulling the trunk open myself.

He paused for a second, hand mid-air. One eyebrow quirked upward—just enough to register surprise, maybe a trace of curiosity. But he didn't question me. Smart guy.

I hauled out both bags before he could try again. One of them was just the usual: clothes, some toiletries, socks, my toothbrush. The kind of stuff anyone would pack when staying somewhere new. The other one, though... was different.

That second bag was heavier in more ways than one. It held weapons—real ones. Enchanted silver blades, a few custom throwing knives, a compact crossbow modified with ancient resin-tipped bolts. It wasn't the kind of luggage I wanted anyone poking around in, especially not some former Delta Force babysitter with just enough training to know he didn't understand what he was looking at. There were things in that bag that didn't belong in this world—or at least, not in this part of it.

Patrick gave a small nod. He didn't press. Again—smart.

I shifted the weight of the bags and started toward the front of the house—if you could even call it that. "House" felt like too modest a word. The Lockwood mansion stood before me like something out of a movie: towering columns, a sweeping staircase visible even from the outside, carved stone statues flanking the entrance like they were waiting for orders.

Susan appeared beside me as I walked. I didn't hear her come up, but I felt it—the subtle change in the air when someone steps into your personal space. Her hand brushed lightly against mine. At first, I thought she was trying to steady me, maybe help with the bags, or offer some silent show of support. But then her hands slid into mine and laced together.

Clever.

She knew I wouldn't drop the bags just to push her hand away.

I didn't say anything. I just looked down for half a second, noting the contact, and then forward again. Her grip was warm. Not weak or tentative, but firm. Like she was holding onto something important. Maybe she was. There was a quiet desperation in the way her hands clung to mine—as if she was afraid I might vanish if she let go.

We stepped through the front doors and into the heart of the mansion.

Despite the palatial exterior, the inside wasn't cold or sterile. It wasn't one of those places that screamed wealth at the cost of personality. Sure, the ceilings were high and the rooms were massive, decked out in antique wood, chandeliers the size of small cars, and oil paintings of people who probably never smiled in their lives. But there was something else, too. Something warmer.

There was music playing softly—something classical, but with a modern edge to it. Not stuffy. Fresh flowers rested on a side table, brightening the space in a way money alone couldn't fake. The lighting was warm and intentional, not clinical. Every detail said one thing clearly: this wasn't just a place people lived—it was a place someone was trying to make feel like home.

I wasn't sure if it was working. But I noticed the effort.

And then came the collision.

"Susan!" a voice shrieked with giddy excitement—and a blur of blonde launched itself into Susan.

The girl wrapped Susan in a tight hug, all arms and laughter and energy. Then, just as suddenly, she turned those sharp, excited eyes on me.

"This is Jennifer," Susan said with a soft smile. "My younger sister."

Younger sister? She couldn't have been more than fifteen. Maybe just barely. Her blonde hair was shoulder-length and a little messy, like she hadn't bothered with a brush in the last couple of hours. Her cheekbones were sharp—like Susan's—and her eyes matched, that same dark brown. But the similarities ended there.

Where Susan carried herself like someone who bore the weight of elegance and far too many regrets, Jennifer practically vibrated with life. She radiated joy like sunlight, completely unfiltered.

"I always wanted a nephew!" she beamed, then lunged at me in a hug like we were childhood best friends reunited after years apart.

My arms were full, but she didn't care—and honestly, neither did I. The weapons in the bag between us made the whole thing ironic, almost darkly funny. But I didn't pull away.

She pulled back, grinning. "You can call me Aunt Jenny."

Her tone made it sound like it was the greatest title anyone could ever have.

I felt it—somewhere deep under the surface—they shared blood. The same father. Different mothers, probably. She was a half-sister, but that didn't make her any less real. Still, I kept quiet about that. Not my place.

Susan gestured toward the stairs. "Let me show you your room."

Jenny followed us as we climbed the grand staircase. She bounced with every step, practically skipping, like she couldn't decide whether to walk or burst into dance.

The hallways were lined with reminders of the family legacy—framed photographs in heavy gold frames, oil portraits of ancestors who probably never imagined they'd one day share wall space with a rebellious sixteen-year-old werewolf dragging a bag full of weapons. The bookshelves looked like they could be straight out of an old university library—leather-bound volumes, some first editions tucked between thick copies of Tolstoy, Twain, and names I didn't recognize.

At the end of the hallway, Susan stopped in front of a door. She looked at it for a second, like it was important somehow, then slowly turned the knob and pushed it open.

"This is yours."

I stepped inside and took it all in.

The room was... a lot. Large. Polished. Ridiculously well put together. A queen-sized bed with rich, dark navy sheets. Oak furniture that looked like it had been custom-made. A window seat that overlooked the manicured garden. On one side of the room, a sleek new computer waited, complete with a mechanical keyboard and a high-end chair that looked absurdly expensive. To the side of the entertainment center were both a PS3 and an Xbox 360, still in pristine condition, games stacked neatly beside them, controllers still wrapped in plastic.

"I heard boys your age like sports and video games," Susan said, her voice a little hesitant. "I wasn't sure which sports you liked, so I didn't put up any posters yet."

I chuckled and finally set the bags down.

"I'm not really into sports," I said. "But I do play games sometimes."

She exhaled quietly—like she'd just avoided a minor disaster.

Jenny groaned and threw her arms up. "Ugh, I'm so jealous! I've been begging for an Xbox for months—but apparently I 'spend too much time staring at screens.'" She folded her arms with exaggerated frustration, then glanced at me, grinning. "Mind if I come over and play sometimes?"

I gave her a rare, honest smile. "Anytime, Aunt Jenny."

Her face lit up like Christmas morning.

And in the doorway, Susan stood silently, watching—not just the room, but me. Her eyes were soft, wet with something unspoken. She looked like she was trying to memorize the moment, imprint it into her memory like a photograph she never wanted to forget.

Maybe I should've been angry. Maybe part of me still was.

But there was something in her expression—raw, unguarded, scared—that made it harder to keep the walls up.

Harder to remember where the line between anger and something else was supposed to be.