Chapter 2

The ride to the Sterling mansion was silent. I sat in the back of a black car that smelled of leather and nothing else. Blake was beside me, pressed against the opposite door, as far away as he could get. Mr. Sterling drove, his eyes fixed on the road, his jaw tight. It wasn' t the happy car ride I' d dreamed of. It was a transfer of custody.

The house wasn' t a home; it was a museum. Cold marble floors, high ceilings that swallowed sound, and furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. It was beautiful and completely empty of life.

Mr. Sterling didn' t even get out of the car. He just popped the trunk. "Blake, show her to the guest room." Then he drove away, tires screeching softly on the gravel.

Blake retrieved my single, worn-out suitcase. He didn' t say a word, just motioned for me to follow. He carried my bag up a grand, curving staircase, his footsteps echoing in the silence. My room was huge, with a four-poster bed and a window that looked out onto a perfectly manicured, lifeless garden.

He set my bag down. "The bathroom is through there. Dinner is... whenever the housekeeper makes it. Don' t go in my father' s study."

He turned to leave.

"Blake?" I said, the name feeling strange on my tongue.

He paused in the doorway, his back to me.

"Thank you for carrying my bag."

He just grunted and disappeared, leaving me alone in the cavernous room. I sank onto the edge of the bed. The mattress was soft, but I felt a deep, chilling loneliness that was worse than anything I' d felt at the orphanage. There, at least, there was noise. There was life. Here, there was only silence and ghosts. I hugged my knees to my chest and cried, certain I had made the worst mistake of my life.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke up, the room was dark. My stomach rumbled. I crept out of my room, my bare feet cold on the polished wood floor. The house was a maze of shadows. I found the kitchen, but it was dark and empty. Dejected, I turned to go back to my room when I saw it.

Outside my door, on the floor, was a glass of milk and a plate with a sandwich on it. It was simple, just ham and cheese on white bread, but it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I knew who had left it. I ate the sandwich right there in the hallway, the silence of the house feeling a little less hostile.

The next morning was my first day at Northwood Prep, an elite school that made the orphanage look like a palace. Blake drove me. He didn' t talk, just focused on the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"I' ll pick you up at three," he said as he pulled up to the imposing brick building. It wasn' t a question.

School was a nightmare. I was the charity case, the orphan the weird Sterling kid' s family had taken in. Whispers followed me down the hall. I saw Liam Henderson in the cafeteria. He was surrounded by friends, laughing. He saw me, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to come over. But his friends said something, and he turned away.

At lunch, a group of girls cornered me by the lockers.

"So, you' re the one living with the freak?" one of them sneered. Her name was Jessica. The text over her head was a nasty shade of yellow. [Insecurity masked by cruelty.]

"Leave her alone," a quiet voice said.

We all turned. Blake was standing there, his expression stormy. He wasn' t yelling, but his presence was a physical force. The girls took one look at his face and scattered.

He looked at me. "Are you okay?"

I nodded, unable to speak.

He just grunted. "Let' s go."

As we walked away, I saw the text over his head flicker.

[Protective instincts activated. Bond strength: 5%.]

That weekend, he took me somewhere. We drove for an hour, ending up at a quiet, green cemetery. He walked to a simple marble headstone.

ELIZA STERLING. BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER.

He didn' t say anything, just stood there, his shoulders slumped. This was his mother. The silence here was different from the silence at the house. This was a silence filled with grief. I stood beside him, not knowing what to do, just being there.

After a long time, he turned to leave. He didn' t look at me, but as we walked back to the car, he spoke.

"She was sick for a long time," he said, his voice rough. "The doctors couldn' t help."

That night, when we got back to the cold, empty house, he stopped in front of me. He held out a small, silver key.

"This is for the front door," he said. "You live here now."

I took the key. It was cold in my palm, but it felt like the first warm thing I had touched since coming here. It felt like a promise.