Shadows Between Us
1415 Words
Asher was gone by the time Willow opened the door. The hallway beyond was empty, silent, as if he’d vanished into the walls themselves. Only Arthur remained—standing at the far end of the corridor, dressed in his usual immaculate black suit, arms folded behind his back like a man surveying his empire.
She hadn’t even heard him knock.
“Is everything alright, Willow?” he asked, voice smooth and clipped.
Her lips parted, words caught in her throat. Did he know?
As if sensing her thoughts, Arthur gave a faint smile. “I came to speak with Asher. It doesn’t concern you.”
Willow stepped aside, unsure whether she was relieved or disappointed.
Arthur’s gaze lingered on her for one breath too long.
Then he turned and walked away.
---
The next morning passed in a daze. Willow’s thoughts were a constant whirl—of the locket, of Celeste, of Asher’s kiss. Every moment with him felt carved into her skin now, impossible to scrub clean.
She skipped breakfast and spent the early hours tucked away in the east conservatory—a glass-walled room that overlooked the cliffs. Ivy curled along the panes. The sea roared below, but inside, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
She needed distraction. Something to root her to the present.
So she did what she always did when the world spun too fast.
She drew.
With a sketchbook she’d found in the manor’s abandoned art studio and a charcoal pencil tucked behind her ear, Willow let her hands take over. The lines came quickly—eyes, lips, hair tumbling across a narrow frame. She didn’t need to think.
She was drawing him.
Asher’s face took shape on the page before she could stop it. Not soft. Not romantic. He looked intense, almost cruel, like the force of him couldn’t be dulled even by paper.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then, with trembling fingers, she turned to a new page and drew Celeste.
Her face was easier—delicate, hollow-eyed, weighed down by a sadness that lingered in the mouth and eyes.
But the more Willow drew her, the more she felt like she was drawing herself.
That chilled her more than the sea wind ever could.
---
Asher found her hours later, just as the sun began to fall behind the sea. He said nothing at first, only stood in the doorway and watched.
She could feel his eyes on her back.
“I wasn’t hiding,” she said, closing the sketchbook.
“Didn’t say you were.”
She turned to him. “What did Arthur want last night?”
Asher ran a hand through his hair. “Control. He always wants control.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He walked in slowly, the light hitting his cheekbones and shadowing his eyes. “He thinks I’m distracted. That you’re a problem.”
Willow’s stomach turned. “Did he say that?”
“He didn’t have to. My father speaks in silences.”
She crossed her arms. “And what did you say?”
Asher’s gaze darkened. “That I handle my own problems.”
Her chest tightened. “Is that all I am to you?”
He stepped closer. “No. That’s the problem.”
Willow looked away.
The air between them was so full, it felt suffocating.
“You’re not like the others,” he said softly. “You don’t try to fit into this place. You question things. You see things.”
“I don’t want to become like them.”
“You won’t.”
She met his eyes again. “How do you know?”
He hesitated, then brushed a knuckle along her cheekbone. “Because even this house can’t crush fire. And you, Willow Hayes, are pure flame.”
The words lit something inside her that both thrilled and terrified her.
She wanted to kiss him again.
But instead, she whispered, “What are we doing?”
Asher’s jaw clenched. “Crossing lines we’ll never come back from.”
---
That night, dinner was even more suffocating than usual. Arthur sat at the head of the table like a king preparing for war. Anna smiled and made polite conversation, but her eyes flicked nervously between her husband and stepson.
Willow kept her head down.
Asher didn’t speak once.
After dessert, Arthur set his fork down with deliberate care.
“I’ve scheduled a family portrait for Friday.”
Willow blinked. “A portrait?”
“It’s tradition,” he said simply. “Every generation of Blackwoods has one. Yours will hang in the Portrait Room.”
Her stomach dropped.
She remembered Celeste’s hollow eyes. Her forced smile.
“I don’t want my face in that room,” she said before she could stop herself.
Arthur raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
Willow sat up straighter. “I just mean… it feels wrong. I barely belong here.”
Arthur leaned back in his chair. “Whether you like it or not, you do belong here now. The Blackwood name has expectations. Appearances matter.”
“Even if they’re lies?”
Anna placed a hand on Willow’s arm, her grip tight. “Sweetheart, just—let it go.”
Arthur didn’t look angry.
Worse—he looked pleased.
“Spirited,” he said, swirling his wine. “Just like Celeste.”
Willow’s blood ran cold.
He knew.
Not everything. But something.
“Portrait is at ten sharp,” he said. “Wear something appropriate.”
He stood, kissed Anna’s cheek, and left the room.
Asher didn’t move. His jaw ticked, knuckles white around his glass.
Willow met his eyes across the table.
Neither of them said it, but they were both thinking the same thing.
Something was coming.
And it was already too late to stop it.
---
Later, in the quiet of her room, Willow lay awake.
The locket sat on her nightstand, closed and cold.
She stared at the ceiling.
She didn’t feel like herself anymore. Or maybe she felt too much like herself—more exposed, more raw, more real than she’d ever allowed.
The walls felt tighter tonight. The silence heavier.
She needed air.
She crept out of her room barefoot, wrapped in a long cardigan, and padded down the hallway toward the back staircase.
She didn’t expect to find Asher there—leaning against the banister, dressed in black, his eyes already waiting for hers.
“You can’t sleep either?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I dreamed of her.”
“Celeste?”
He nodded.
“What did she do?”
Asher stared past her, voice low. “She was drowning.”
Willow stepped closer. “In the sea?”
“No,” he said. “In this house.”
---
They walked the halls together.
No destination. Just movement.
Sometimes that was enough.
They ended up in the gallery again. The Portrait Room. It smelled of dust and varnish, of silence and things no one wanted to name.
Willow stopped in front of Celeste’s painting again.
“I think she was in love,” she whispered.
“With Elijah?”
She nodded. “The way he looked at her in the photo… it wasn’t brotherly. It was fierce. Desperate.”
Asher studied the portrait. “And that kind of love is dangerous.”
“So is pretending it doesn’t exist.”
He looked at her then.
And this time, he didn’t hesitate.
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her like he was claiming something—her breath, her body, her defiance.
And she let him.
Because it felt like the first real thing in a house built on lies.
His mouth moved to her neck, his hands to her hips, and she clutched his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring her.
“You’re not my sister,” he murmured against her skin.
“Not by blood,” she breathed.
His hands slid under her cardigan, up her back. “Say it again.”
“I’m not your sister.”
The words cracked something in her chest.
She didn’t know if it was wrong. Or if it was the only thing that had ever been right.
And then—
A sharp knock at the door.
Again.
Asher cursed softly under his breath and pulled away, his chest rising and falling fast.
Willow turned, breathless.
Arthur stood in the doorway.
Only this time, he didn’t hide the suspicion in his eyes.
- Writer
