Page 38 of Salem's Fall
“Relax, Counselor,” he says, voice dripping with amusement. “I assure you it’s not poisoned.”
I roll my eyes, cracking the seal and taking a sip. “Ha ha. Very reassuring.”
When I glance up again, Damien is watching me, gaze locked on my hand. “You’re wearing it,” he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with undisguised delight.
I glance down at the ring on my finger, twisting it. “Oh. Right.” I clear my throat. “I brought it to give it back to you.”
He smirks. “And yet there it is, still on your finger.”
“So it is,” I sigh, holding my hand up so the black stone catches the light. It’s unprofessional and IknowI’m supposed to return it, but I just don’t think I can part with something so lovely.
“You deserve to have beautiful things, James. It looks good on you.”
“You shouldn’t go around giving your attorneys expensive jewelry, Damien. It’s highly inappropriate,” I huff, but I can’t stop the small, traitorous smile that tugs at my lips.
We both know, appropriate or not, I’m going to keep the ring. It’s a character flaw, but oh well.
“Inappropriate?I’m offended,” Damien says dramatically,resting an arm lazily across the back of my seat as the car pulls away from the Cottage. “Aren’t you offended, Bennett?”
“Don’t tease the lady, Mr. Blackhollow. Nice women like Miss Woodsen don’t like that.” Bennett gives me a big wink in the rearview mirror. “They like gentlemen.”
“Oh, what do you know about women, Bennett?” Damien scoffs, but he’s smiling at the older man, his affection clearly on display.
I stare out the window as we drive, my fingers playing with the soft, tailored seam of my lilac blazer. I’d taken extra care with my outfit this morning, knowing I was going to spend the day with Damien. Beneath the pretty blazer, I’m wearing a silky ivory blouse, its low-cut collar just a hint flirty, and high-waisted trousers that flatter my figure. The look strikes the right balance between polished and feminine.
The quaint streets of Salem’s Fall pass by in a blur as we head toward the countryside. Vibrant buildings and cobbled roads quickly give way to rolling hills and towering trees, their leaves shifting to brilliant shades of yellow, orange, red, and gold.
“So where are we meeting your brother Lucien?” I ask, looking over at Damien.
“Blackthorn Manor.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“My family’s ancestral estate,” he explains. “It’s been ours since Salem’s Fall was founded. Lucien lives in the old house just off the main grounds.”
Ancestral estate? Main grounds? I have no idea what to expect, but wherever we’re going, it sure sounds fancy.
Damien hasn’t said much about his older half-brother, Lucien, but what little I’ve found online hasn’t exactly been heartwarming. The brothers share the same father, but not the same mother. Lucien was the result of a one-night stand, a rare lapse in judgment from a young Ian Blackhollow beforehe became the cold, calculating man everyone would come to know.
Damien, though? He was planned. The perfect son, born to Ian’s wife and true love. The heir to the Blackhollow throne. The chosen one. And while I don’t know what that’s left Lucien with, I can’t imagine it’s anything good. I couldn’t find any connection to Blackhollow Industries. If Lucien plays a role in the company, it’s not one they advertise.
When I’d told Quinn about my witness interview, he’d been thrilled. Apparently, Lucien was already on Quinn’s potential witness list, but was even more prickly than his brother and impossible to pin down. Quinn had been trying for days to reach Lucien but hadn’t had luck.
Of course, I didn’t tell Quinn it was all thanks to Damien.
Something tells me Quinn wouldn’t be too happy about how much time I’ve been spending with Damien. Eventually, I’ll have to fess up, but for right now, I want to ride this wave and see where it takes me. I’ll have to ask Quinn for forgiveness later.
Bennett makes a sharp turn through grand, fortress-like gates, and a sprawling estate emerges from the thick New England woodlands. I can’t help but gawk. Blackthorn Manor is absolutely breathtaking.
Ancient oaks and towering maples line the driveway, their branches arching overhead. Sprawling, meticulously groomed gardens extend in all directions, filled with beds of beautiful orange-hued roses and lavender. A gardener pruning rose bushes waves at the car as we pass by. On the left, a private tennis court comes into view, its white lines sharp and freshly painted, a stark contrast to the ancient feel of the estate. On the right, I spot a large, well-maintained horse stable with open pastures. Thoroughbred horses with shiny coats and manes frolic in the grass.
Then we’re at the main house—a massive, centuries-oldmansion, rising up from the earth like something plucked from the pages of a gothic novel. Stone walls weathered by time and seasons, yet untouched by decay. Dark ivy wraps around the exterior, climbing all the way to the gabled rooftops and tall windows. Spires pierce the sky, casting shadows over the manicured lawns below.
“That’s the West House, where Lucien stays,” Damien says, pointing to a large, dark-bricked Georgian-style manor that flanks the main house. It’s more modern but still massive in size.
“And there?” I gesture to another building that’s as big as a country inn.
“That’s the guest quarters.”
