Bloodline

Chapter 1

Winter settled over Ashbourne with a quiet confidence.Not the dramatic sort that arrived in blizzards or swallowed entire streets beneath snow overnight. Winter in Ashbourne preferred patience. It crept into the city one breath at a time, frosting rooftops before dawn, silvering the bare branches that lined suburban roads, and leaving the air crisp enough to sting the lungs of anyone foolish enough to forget a scarf.

By ten o'clock, the city had begun folding into itself.Shopkeepers flipped signs from OPEN to CLOSED. Families hurried home beneath glowing streetlamps, balancing grocery bags and takeaway dinners. Apartment windows lit up one by one, warm rectangles scattered across the darkness like tiny promises that someone, somewhere, was waiting inside.Not every part of Ashbourne settled so peacefully.

Two streets east of Fenmore, where Holland and I rented our little one-bedroom apartment, the city changed its face.

The sidewalks grew narrower.

Streetlights became fewer.

The buildings , older.

Paint peeled from brick walls. Neon signs buzzed overhead with tired persistence, and conversations dropped to hushed murmurs whenever unfamiliar footsteps wandered too close.

Locals called it Blackwater.

Officially, it had another name.

No one used it.

Blackwater had earned its reputation long before I was born.

It was the sort of neighborhood parents warned their children about-not because monsters lived there, but because ordinary people could become them after dark.

And somehow...

It was also home to the best steakhouse in the country.

Papa Jo's.

The contradiction had never made sense to me.

Yet every evening, luxury sedans parked alongside battered motorcycles outside the restaurant. Men wearing tailored suits shared dining rooms with people whose expensive watches disappeared beneath tattooed wrists and leather gloves. Nobody stared. Nobody asked questions.

Inside Papa Jo's, everyone was simply another customer.

Outside...

You were on your own.

Warm amber light spilled through the restaurant's broad windows, softening the darkness beyond the glass. The rich aroma of charcoal-grilled meat, garlic butter and fresh rosemary drifted through the dining room, wrapping around conversations and clinking wine glasses until it almost convinced me I'd imagined everything people said about Blackwater.

Almost.

I nudged another piece of steak around my plate.

It had gone lukewarm several minutes ago.

Not because it wasn't delicious.

Quite the opposite.

Papa Jo's had somehow mastered the impossible art of making something as simple as steak taste unforgettable. Tender enough to cut without effort, perfectly seasoned, finished with a pepper sauce I'd once tried-and failed-to recreate at home.

Normally I'd have cleaned my plate.

Tonight...

I'd spent more time looking through the window than at my food.

Across the table, Holland didn't appear to notice.

Or perhaps he noticed and simply wasn't worried.

He sat comfortably in his chair, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, methodically cutting another piece of steak. Even something as ordinary as eating seemed organized when Holland did it. He finished one bite before preparing the next. Folded his napkin instead of crumpling it. Kept his elbows off the table because, according to him, his grandmother would've come back just to scold him if he didn't.

It had made me laugh the first time he'd said it.

Now it simply reminded me how different we were.

He caught me watching him.

One eyebrow lifted.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Mhm."

He wasn't convinced.

I reached for my glass instead, swirling the sparkling water more out of habit than thirst. Tiny bubbles clung stubbornly to the sides before floating lazily to the surface.

Outside, headlights swept across the window.

Instinctively, my eyes followed them.

The car slowed.

For one ridiculous second, my shoulders tensed.

It kept driving.

Only then did I realise I'd been holding my breath.

"I've said it before..." I murmured, still watching the street beyond the glass. "...I really don't like it here."

Holland finished chewing before speaking.

He always did.

It was one of those tiny habits I'd come to find oddly endearing.

He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin, set his cutlery neatly across the plate and leaned back just enough to study me properly.

"You've also said," he replied evenly, "that nowhere in Loeansburg makes steak like Papa Jo."

"That's completely beside the point."

"I think it's exactly the point."

"It isn't."

"It is."

The corner of his mouth threatened to curve upward.

Not quite a smile.

Just the faintest hint of amusement.

"You've barely eaten."

"I've barely stopped looking outside."

His gaze followed mine toward the window.

The street looked ordinary enough.

A man walked his dog.

Someone unlocked an old delivery van parked opposite the restaurant.

A young couple hurried past beneath a shared umbrella, laughing about something only the two of them understood.

Nothing looked dangerous.

That was almost worse.

Places like Blackwater rarely advertised when they were about to become dangerous.

"You know," Holland said, lowering his voice as though letting me in on some profound secret, "you spend more time watching the street than the people actually on it."

"Because I'm hoping nothing happens."

"And if nothing happens?"

"I'll happily admit I worried for no reason."

"Hmm."

He reached for his drink, taking an unhurried sip before setting the glass back exactly where it'd been.

"I still think you're borrowing trouble."

I let out a slow breath through my nose.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The Holland philosophy."

"And what's that?"

"If the problem hasn't happened yet..." I recited, pointing my fork at him.

"...then it deserves the benefit of the doubt," he finished with me.

"I knew you'd say that."

"Because you know me."

"I do."

Or at least...

I thought I did.

A brief silence settled comfortably between us.

Not awkward.

Just familiar.

The kind that comes after years of learning another person's rhythms.

Some couples filled every quiet moment with conversation.

We never had to.

The jazz drifting softly through the restaurant did enough talking for both of us.

A waiter passed carrying a tray of sizzling platters, the scent making my stomach remind me that I was, in fact, hungry.

I sighed.

"You're right."

"I usually am."

"Oh, don't start."

His expression shifted into something softer, almost boyish.

"I mean about the steak."

He nodded toward my plate.

"Take one bite."

"Holland—"

"One."

"I've lost my appetite."

"You haven't."

"I have."

"You've lost your concentration."

His voice remained gentle.

Patient.

Never mocking.

"You do this when you're anxious."

"I do not."

"You stir drinks you aren't drinking."

My fingers stopped moving around the glass.

"You rearrange food instead of eating it."

I looked down.

The vegetables had indeed migrated into one neat corner of the plate.

"And..." he continued quietly, "...you keep checking exits."

I blinked.

"I've been doing that since we got here."

"I know."

His gaze met mine, steady and warm.

"I noticed about five minutes after we sat down."

Something loosened unexpectedly in my chest.

He had noticed.

Of course he had.

Holland noticed almost everything about me.

The way I slept with one foot outside the blanket.

How I always forgot where I left my hair tie.

That I preferred my tea just warm enough to drink immediately instead of waiting.

He remembered little things without trying.

It was one of the reasons I'd fallen in love with him.

"I shouldn't have brought you here," he admitted after a moment.

The words surprised me.

"I thought..." He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly against the condensation on his glass. "I was thinking about the food, not the location."

"You really love this place."

"I really wanted to share it with you."

"I've been here before."

"Not like this."

His eyes drifted briefly around the restaurant.

"Not after getting engaged."

The reminder settled gently between us.

My gaze dropped instinctively to the ring on my left hand.

The diamond caught the candlelight, scattering tiny fragments of gold across the tablecloth.

A year and a half.

Sometimes it still felt unreal.

"I wanted tonight to be nice," Holland said quietly.

"It is nice."

"Is it?"

I looked at him.

Really looked.

There was no frustration on his face.

No irritation.

Only the faint disappointment of someone whose plans hadn't unfolded quite the way he'd hoped.

A small knot of guilt tightened beneath my ribs.

"It is," I said again, more sincerely this time. "The food is amazing."

"But..."

"But I'd rather eat amazing steak somewhere I don't have to keep checking over my shoulder."

For the first time that evening...

Holland's expression faltered.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that I caught it.

A tiny exhale.

The slightest drop of his shoulders.

His fingers lingered around the base of his glass. He looked down at the untouched steak on my plate before lifting his eyes to mine again.

"That's fair," he admitted at last, quieter than before. "I guess I got so caught up thinking about the food that I forgot where we actually were."

The silence that settled between us wasn't uncomfortable.

It was simply... thoughtful.

Around us, Papa Jo's carried on as though the world outside its windows didn't exist. Waiters glided between tables with practiced ease, balancing heavy trays on one hand. Cutlery chimed softly against porcelain. Somewhere near the kitchen, someone let out a burst of laughter before it disappeared beneath the mellow hum of jazz drifting lazily from hidden speakers.

The restaurant had a peculiar gift.

It convinced people they were safe.

Maybe that was why it remained full every evening.

Or maybe everyone who came here understood an unspoken rule: once you stepped through Papa Jo's doors, whatever waited outside could wait a little longer.

I wished I shared that confidence.

My gaze drifted toward the front windows again.

A light snow had begun to fall.

Not enough to settle.

Just enough for white flakes to catch in the glow of the streetlamps before dissolving against the damp pavement. A man stood smoking beneath one of those lamps, shoulders hunched inside a heavy coat. Across the street, two motorcycles rolled slowly past before disappearing around the corner.

Nothing happened.

Yet my pulse refused to settle.

Holland followed my line of sight.

"You know," he said after a while, resting both forearms lightly on the edge of the table, "if I didn't know you better, I'd think you were expecting an assassin to climb through the window."

I tore my attention away from the street and shot him a look.

"That's not funny."

"I wasn't joking."

"That makes it worse."

His lips twitched—not into a smile this time, but into the expression he wore whenever he realised he'd chosen the wrong joke at the wrong moment.

"Sorry."

He reached across the table slowly, leaving me plenty of time to pull away if I wanted.

Instead, his hand settled lightly over mine.

His palm was warm.

Mine, I realised, had gone cold.

"You don't have to pretend with me," he said quietly. "I know when you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"No?"

"No." I hesitated before adding more honestly, "...I'm uneasy."

"There it is."

His thumb brushed absentmindedly over my knuckles, grounding rather than possessive.

"I can work with uneasy."

I looked down at our joined hands.

"I don't like feeling like this."

"I know."

"I keep thinking..." My words trailed off as another car crawled past outside.

"What?"

"That something bad is waiting."

His eyes searched my face for a long moment.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer than before.

"Saffron..."

"I know how it sounds."

"No." He shook his head once. "Actually, I don't think I do."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He leaned back slightly, choosing his words with the same care he seemed to choose everything else. "Fear usually comes from somewhere."

"It does."

"So where's yours coming from?"