Chapter 133

Chapter 133: Chapter 133

Lysander’s pov

I was halfway down the third aisle at The Master’s Mark, holding a bottle of ink, when the temperature suddenly dropped.

It was an instant, icy shock that made the fine hairs on my arms stand straight up, sending my pulse spiking straight into my throat.

I froze, my fingers tightening over the smooth glass.

The bottle in my hand was dark and polished, acting like a tiny, curved mirror. In its reflection, framed right between two tall racks of stretched canvas, was a shadow.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a worn leather jacket I would recognize anywhere. He was standing three feet behind me, completely silent, staring straight at the back of my neck.

My blood turned to slush in my veins.

Gideon.

I shook my head.

No. That’s impossible. Gideon is dead.

I watched him die and even Drake had helped me bury that nightmare for good. Dead stepbrothers didn’t show up in high-end art supply shops on rain-slicked Tuesday afternoons.

I stared at the distorted reflection, my chest heaving against my ribs.

He didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He just stood there, his dark, shadowed eyes locked onto me.

"Gideon...?" The name dragged out of my throat, barely a breath.

I spun around.

My boots scraped against the hardwood. The bottle slipped from my numb fingers, hitting the floor and shattering. Dark, muddy ink exploded over my shoes and the bottom of the canvas racks. I backed up hard, my shoulder slamming into a shelf and knocking a stack of sketchbooks to the ground.

The aisle was empty.

I stared down the narrow row of supplies, my chest hitching, my eyes darting frantically from rack to rack. Nothing. No shadow moving around the corner. No sound of boots on the wood. Just sable brushes, jars of oil paint, and dead silence.

"Sir? Everything okay back there?"

The old shopkeeper hurried around the corner, stopping short when he saw the mess on the floor. "Oh dear... did you cut yourself, Mr. Vale?"

"Did... did someone just walk past you?" My voice cracked. My hands were shaking so hard I had to shove them into my pockets. "Did a guy just leave this row?"

The old man blinked, looking past me toward the empty back wall. "A guy? No, sir. You’re the only one in the store. The chime on the front door hasn’t gone off since your guards stepped outside."

"No, he was right behind me," I insisted, my fingers digging into my palms. "I saw him in the glass."

"Sir, I promise you, no one came in," he said gently, his tone dropping into that careful, soft voice people use when they think you’re losing your mind. "It was probably just a reflection from the street lamps outside. The rain messes with the front display windows."

I stared at the black ink pooling around my boots, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth hurt.

A reflection. A shadow shaped exactly like my dead stepbrother.

"I’m sorry about the ink," I mumbled, pulling a wad of cash from my pocket without looking and tossing it onto the nearest counter. "Keep it. I have to go."

I didn’t wait for him to answer. I walked out fast, the front door chime ringing loudly overhead as the wet mountain air hit my face.

The two guards Drake had posted by the SUV straightened up immediately, their eyes locking onto my pale face as I stumbled out into the drizzle.

"Sir?" the lead guard asked, his hand moving toward his holster. "Is there a problem inside?"

"No," I choked out, wrapping my jacket tight around myself and staring at the store’s glass window.

Inside, the shopkeeper was already on his knees with a rag, wiping up the stain. The store was quiet. The street was dead. No Gideon. No ghost.

You’re losing it, a voice whispered in the back of my head. The trauma is finally catching up to you. You’re seeing things.

"Let’s go," I told the guards, my voice tight as I pulled open the car door and scrambled into the back seat. "Take me home to Drake."

The drive back to the cliffside estate was a blur of dark pine trees, wet asphalt, and the rhythmic thump-thump of the windshield wipers.

Every time the car took a sharp curve, I looked into the side mirror, half-expecting to see a pair of dark eyes staring back at me from the fog. But there was only the empty road behind us.

When the SUV pulled up the winding driveway of our new house, the massive iron gates slid open smoothly, pulsing with the faint red glow of Drake’s blood wards. The property was sealed tight. Nothing could cross the boundary without Drake knowing.

I got out of the car before the guards could even open my door, hurrying up the floating stone steps into the main entrance.

The house was warm, smelling faintly of cedar and the rich espresso Drake liked to drink in the afternoons. It was silent except for the faint hum of the rain hitting the glass roof.

I kicked off my ink-stained boots in the entryway, leaving them by the door, and walked straight into my new art studio.

The studio was bathed in the dim grey light of the stormy afternoon. My new wooden easel stood in the center, holding a blank, stretched cotton canvas. The jars of paint and sable brushes were arranged neatly along the teak shelves, exactly how I had left them before going to the shop.

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that looked out over the deep valley.

The view was stunning as always, dense pine forests rolling down toward the rushing river below, shrouded in a thick layer of white mountain mist. It was supposed to feel peaceful. It was supposed to feel like a sanctuary Drake had built just for me.

Instead, as I pressed my palm flat against the cool glass, a cold shiver ran up my spine.

I stared down into the tree line at the edge of our property. The pines swayed slowly in the wind, their dark silhouettes blurring into the grey fog.

Did I really see him?

I pressed my forehead against the window, my breath fogging the glass. Gideon was dead. There was no way he was standing in an art shop three miles away.

It was a hallucination, I told myself, closing my eyes tight. My mind is playing tricks on me because I finally feel safe. My brain is trying to drag the nightmare back.

A soft pair of heavy arms wrapped around my waist from behind, pulling me flush against a warm, broad chest.

I jumped, a small gasp escaping my throat before the comforting, familiar scent filled my senses.

"Easy, little bird," Drake’s deep voice rumbled softly against my ear, his cool lips pressing a gentle kiss into the curve of my neck. "It’s just me."

I let out a long, shaky breath, leaning back into his solid frame, my hands covering his large palms where they rested over my stomach. "You’re home early."

"The council meeting finished ahead of schedule," Drake murmured, turning me around in his arms so he could look down at my face. His crimson eyes narrowed slightly as he took in my pale skin and the faint tremor in my hands. "What happened? You’re cold, Lysander."

"Nothing," I lied quickly, forcing a soft smile as I looked up at him. "Just the rain. I missed you."

"Come," he said softly, sliding his hand down to weave his fingers with mine. "Let’s leave the studio for today."

As he led me out of the room, I couldn’t stop myself from glancing back over my shoulder one last time toward the glass wall.

Down in the dark tree line, right at the edge of the property, a single shadow stood motionless in the fog, watching the house.