November arrives like a warning, all skeletal branches and frost-kissed mornings that make the towers of Blackwood look like they're carved from bone. Leo finally wore me down about coffee, though I've expanded it to lunch and insisted on Saturday afternoon when Devon has his music lessons with the assistant instructor.
"You're quite the enigma, Jasmine Johnson," Leo says over his wine—because of course he ordered wine at lunch, probably something expensive that costs more than I used to make in a week. The restaurant he's chosen overlooks the lake, all white tablecloths and crystal that catches the weak November sun.
"I'm really not," I reply, cutting my salmon with unnecessary precision. "Single mother, English teacher, thoroughly boring."
"Boring women don't make Lord Byron sound like a personal friend. Boring women don't have sons who play piano like they were born to it." He leans forward, his cologne different from Vlad's—lighter, more citrus than smoke. "Tell me, where did you study? Your thesis on the Romantics was exceptional."
"University of Exeter," I lie smoothly. It's the story I've rehearsed, the transcripts Vlad's assistant will find if she looks. Not the truth—that I studied here, in this very city, walking distance from the Dickenson estate where my life imploded six years ago.
"Interesting. I would have guessed somewhere closer. You seem familiar with the area."
My wine glass pauses halfway to my lips. "I've never been here before the interview."
"Really?" His smile is all predator now. "Because I could swear I've seen you before. Maybe at one of our family gatherings? We used to host the most magnificent parties at the estate. University students would kill for invitations."
"I didn't move in those circles," I say carefully.
"No? Pretty girl like you? I can't imagine you spending your university years in the library."
"That's exactly where I spent them." With Nathan, reading poetry, believing in forever. Before Jessica dragged me to that party. Before everything burned down.
"Mom!"
Devon's voice saves me from whatever Leo was building toward. He runs into the restaurant, cheeks flushed from the cold, his instructor Mrs. Robbins trailing apologetically behind.
"I'm so sorry, Ms. Johnson, but Devon insisted—"
"That’s ok. Devon, how’s your lesson? Asked Leo.
"Mr. Leo!" Devon said, bouncing with excitement. "Guess what? I played the Dickenson Sonata! The one in the trophy room that was written by Mr. David's great-grandfather! Mrs. Robbins says only family members have ever played it before!"
Leo's eyebrows rise. "The Dickenson Sonata? That's... ambitious. It requires a very specific technique."
"The hand positioning, right?" Devon demonstrates eagerly. "It's natural for me. Mrs. Robbins says it's like I was born knowing it."
The silence that follows feels like standing on a frozen lake, waiting for the ice to crack. Leo looks from Devon to me, calculation sharp in his eyes.
"Remarkable," he murmurs. "Simply remarkable."
I stand abruptly, throwing cash on the table. "We need to go. Devon has homework."
"But Mom—"
"Now."
Leo doesn't try to stop us, but I feel his eyes following us out, feel the weight of questions forming in his mind.
Back at Blackwood, I'm helping Devon with his Latin homework when someone knocks. Vlad enters without waiting for permission, filling my small living room with his presence and that damned cologne.
"Ms. Johnson. A word?"
"Devon, go practice in your room."
"But—"
"Go."
When we're alone, Vlad moves to my bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines like he's reading secrets in the titles. "Interesting lunch with my brother?"
"He was persistent."
"Leo usually is, with beautiful women." He turns, and there's something dangerous in his expression. "Tell me, what exactly are your intentions regarding my family?"
"I don't have any intentions—"
"Don't lie to me." His voice drops to something that makes my skin prickle with memory. "My assistant did some checking. Your transcripts from Exeter are impressive. Too impressive. Almost like someone crafted them carefully."
"Are you accusing me of—"
"I'm not accusing. I'm observing." He moves closer, and I have to force myself not to step back. "You appear out of nowhere, your son plays our family sonata like he was born to it, and my brother is suddenly besotted. Forgive me if I find that... curious."
"Your brother is not besotted. He's bored and I'm new. It'll pass."
"Will it?" He's close enough now that I can see the amber flecks in his dark eyes—the same ones that appear in Devon's when the light hits just right. "Or are you counting on it not passing? Are you here for Leo, Ms. Johnson? Or are you after something else?"
"I'm here to teach. That's all."
"Everyone wants something more." His hand rises like he might touch my face, then drops. "The question is what you want, and what you're willing to do to get it."
"What I want," I say, my voice steadier than I feel, "is to do my job and raise my son in peace. If that's too much to ask, I can resign."
"No." The word comes out sharp, almost panicked. "That won't be necessary. But stay away from Leo. He's not... suitable for someone like you."
"Someone like me?"
"Someone with a son to think about. Leo doesn't do family, Ms. Johnson. He does conquest." His eyes hold mine, dark and unreadable. "And I protect what's mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should anger me. Instead, it sends something else through me—recognition, maybe, or memory. The ghost of that night six years ago when another man's possessiveness changed everything.
"Devon isn't yours to protect," I say quietly.
Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or suspicion. "All students at Blackwood are under my protection."
He leaves without another word, but his cologne lingers, mixing with the November cold seeping through the windows. I sink onto my sofa, shaking. He knows something. Not everything, not yet, but he's circling the truth like a wolf scenting blood.
That night, I dream of the party again. But this time, when the stranger catches me on the stairs, I see his face clearly—dark eyes, sharp jaw, that particular smile that Devon inherited along with his musical hands.
I wake with Vlad's name on my lips and the terrible certainty that our time is running out.