Chapter 114: Whispers in the Gallery

The moment she crossed the threshold, she stopped dead in her tracks, a soft whistle escaping her lips. Since she had arrived in a state of sheer exhaustion the night before, she hadn’t properly absorbed the architecture of the guest bath.

It was roughly the size of her entire old bedroom back home. Gleaming white marble covered the walls from floor to ceiling, the oversized vanity mirrors were crystal-clear, and the walk-in glass shower enclosure possessed enough square footage to host a small, highly luxurious cocktail party.

And tucked away beneath a wide, arched window overlooking the sprawling emerald gardens of the estate was a deep, clawfoot soaking tub that looked like something out of a Victorian palace.

Zoey stared at the tub, then shifted her gaze to the shower, and finally back to the tub.

“These people are genuinely unhinged,” she muttered under her breath, a wide grin spreading across her face.

Deciding that wasting such prime real estate would be a cardinal sin, she set her cosmetics down, cranked the handles on the glass shower, and stepped beneath the warm, cascading spray.

For the first few minutes, she simply stood motionless, letting the hot water sluice over her shoulders while her mind wandered back through the surreal kaleidoscope of the previous evening.

The sheer terror of the initial confrontation. The impossible revelations about Lycans versus werewolves. And the sheer, staggering irony that she had once risked her personal safety to sneak onto this exact property with a pocket flashlight, only to be upgraded to an invited, pampered houseguest protected by private security.

If her past, hyper-fixated self could see her right now, she would probably demand an immediate, detailed manual on how to infiltrate ancient supernatural dynasties without getting mauled.

Zoey shook her head with a light laugh, reaching for the expensive botanical shampoo lining the marble shelf.

Whatever else lay ahead, she had quietly resolved herself to two immovable rules.

Rule number one: she was going to milk these ridiculously high-end estate amenities for every single ounce of comfort they were worth.

And rule number two: if she was going to be trapped inside a billionaire Lycan’s fortress, she was going to explore every square inch of it properly.

No more creeping through muddy perimeter bushes, dodging high-definition cameras, or panicking at the sound of approaching footsteps. This time, she had an official all-access pass. And she intended to squeeze every drop of entertainment out of it.

By the time she finished drying off, wrapping her hair in a towel turban and dressing in a casual, comfortable sweater and jeans, Zoey felt remarkably human again. She grabbed her phone from the bed, checking for any missed notifications or frantic pings from Iris.

Still nothing.

She frowned slightly at the blank screen. Well, considering Alexander had practically swept Iris off her feet and spirited her away to his private master quarters the night before, her friend was likely indisposed. Or, more accurately, thoroughly occupied navigating the terrifying, intoxicating waters of an immortal mating bond.

Deciding it was best to give them privacy, she slipped her phone into her pocket and pulled the heavy guest suite door open.

The wide stone corridor outside was bathed in a gorgeous, tranquil wash of late-morning sunlight streaming through tall, arched windows, illuminating the pale polished floorboards. Farther down the hall, she could catch the faint, muffled cadence of estate staff moving with quiet, disciplined efficiency.

Zoey stepped across the threshold, lingering for a moment to appreciate the sheer historical gravity of the architecture.

The Blackthorne Estate bore no resemblance to modern, sterile billionaire compounds. Everything about the interior felt curated to remind visitors of an ancient, unbroken lineage—a dynasty that had quietly accumulated wealth, power, and secrets over centuries while human empires rose and crumbled.

Yet, beneath the polished mahogany and heavy tapestries, there was an unmistakable aura of timelessness. The heavy timber frames, the intricate hand-carved stonework along the baseboards, and the oil paintings of solemn, unsmiling ancestors all pointed toward a profound history that mere money could never replicate.

Zoey had studied the exterior contours during her brief, disastrous reconnaissance mission, but she had never laid eyes on the interior galleries.

Now, the entire place was her oyster.

A slow, mischievous smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Well… since I have been formally invited to the party, it would be terribly rude not to sightsee.”

She took two steps down the corridor, then abruptly halted.

A security operative dressed in a sharp, dark suit was standing quietly at the far end of the hallway, stationed near an intersecting archway.

He didn’t make a sound, but his gaze shifted instantly, locking onto her with absolute, laser-focused precision.

Zoey froze dead in her tracks, a sudden wave of old conditioning making her want to duck behind a pillar.

Instead, the guard simply inclined his head in a smooth, respectful bow.

“Good morning, Miss Brooks.”

Zoey blinked, momentarily thrown off by the utter lack of hostility. She quickly recovered, offering a bright, cheerful wave.

“Good morning!”

The operative gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment and returned his attention to his perimeter scan without missing a beat.

Zoey exhaled a long, shaky breath, her shoulders dropping. “Right,” she whispered to herself, smoothing down her sweater. “No sneaking. No dodging cameras. No sweating through my clothes like a criminal.”

She squared her shoulders and resumed her stroll down the hall. “Just an innocent, highly pampered guest enjoying a leisurely morning stroll.”

As she rounded a wide, sweeping archway lined with heavy crimson velvet drapes, a massive oil painting hanging against the stone wall caught her eye, causing her steps to grind to a sudden halt.

The canvas depicted three formidable men standing proudly before the grand stone facade of the estate, their postures rigid and commanding, dressed in heavy, high-collared wool coats that belonged to a distinctly Victorian era.

Zoey’s breath hitched. It was the exact digitalized glass-plate photograph she had unearthed during her dark-web archival dive—the very image that had sparked her entire crazy obsession with the Blackthorne name.

She took three steps closer, her eyes scanning the faces.

At the center stood Alexander. Even rendered in century-old oil paints, there was zero mistaking those striking, angular features, the broad set of his shoulders, and the cold, unyielding authority in his posture.

She leaned in closer, studying the two men flanking him. One possessed a sharp, aristocratic beauty with pale skin and an expression of haughty, dangerous indifference; the other carried a darker, more volatile aura, his dark eyes shadowed beneath a heavy brow as if he were spoiling for a fight.

The legendary Blackthorne brothers. Lucien and Damien.

Zoey let out a low, appreciative whistle, shaking her head. “Three thousand years old, fighting through the centuries, and yet somehow they all look like they walked straight off a high-fashion runway. It’s honestly offensive to regular mortals.”

“Are you planning to interrogate the portrait, Miss Brooks, or have you finally decided to honor us with your presence downstairs for breakfast?”

The rich, cultured voice materialized directly behind her right shoulder, so smooth and silent that Zoey physically jumped, letting out a startled yelp as she spun around.

Standing a few feet away was Derrick Williams. The tech titan and Alpha Gamma was impeccably dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, his hair neatly groomed, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with undeniable, silent amusement.

Zoey pressed a trembling hand against her chest, glaring at him through narrowed eyes. “Do you people take an elective course at werewolf academy called Stealthy Heart Attacks 101? Because I am going to need a written warning every time one of you decides to materialize out of thin air.”

Derrick offered a smooth, polite smile, completely unfayed by her accusation. “My apologies, Miss Brooks. Though, given that you were openly conversing with a two-hundred-year-old canvas, I assumed your situational awareness might be slightly occupied.”

Zoey crossed her arms over her chest, trying to recover her dignity. “I wasn’t conversing with it. I was merely performing a critical aesthetic critique.”

“Of course,” Derrick murmured, his lips twitching upward into a wry grin. “Allow me to assure you that Lord Lucien and Lord Damien appreciate the feedback, wherever they currently happen to be causing geopolitical headaches.”

Zoey’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh, so they actually exist outside of historical oil paint?”

“They exist,” Derrick confirmed, his tone turning dry. “And trust me when I tell you that canvas captures them at their absolute most peaceful.” He gestured gracefully down the wide corridor toward the grand staircase.

“Now, if your aesthetic critique has concluded, Oliver has ensured that the conservatory is stocked with a proper breakfast. And more importantly… your friend Miss Carter is already waiting for you down there.”

Hearing Iris’s name instantly pushed all of Zoey’s playful banter aside. Her posture straightened. “Iris is awake?”

“She has been for a short while,” Derrick replied, turning to lead the way down the hall at an easy, measured pace. “She and Alexander are currently reviewing the estate grounds. But Oliver intercepted her briefly to ensure she was settled before you emerged.”

Zoey fell into step beside the billionaire, her mind racing with a hundred questions she was suddenly desperate to ask. As they approached the sweeping marble staircase, she glanced sideways at the formidable man guiding her.

If Derrick Williams was willing to chat, she was definitely going to see just how many estate secrets she could extract before breakfast…